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.

Thank You and Goodbye: A Farewell to my Childhood Home

by Cathy

FOR  RENT

Never did two words affect me as deeply as these did the other day; they were plastered across the living room window of the house on Mozart Street where I spent my childhood. Those same windows where I eagerly awaited the daily return of my father from work and that same living room where I would undoubtedly wait and "surprise" him every evening when he walked in the front door. I wasn't expecting to see that sign - I merely drove by the building to reminisce, to see how different it felt now that my parents had officially moved out after 36 years. I was not expecting to see that sign.

Like a bullet ricocheting through my insides, those two words left my eyes, processed through to my brain, dropped down to my heart and shot right back up to my eyes in the form of waves of sobs - all within seconds. I wasn't ready for that reaction yet I knew that selling our childhood home would be like grieving the loss of loved one.

As I drove away in a bleary-eyed mess, I remembered how I was seven years-old when we moved in and I thought that beautiful structure was a castle, with its clear, diamond-shaped doorknobs, its stained-glass windows and its regal architecture gracing the facade's roof line. That castle, which  now holds all of my memories, my secrets, my dreams, my past, my life, will now be filled with others' lives, although I don't see how there will be any room left for them.

 It was the place I grew from a child, to a teenager, to a college student, to a married woman. I know too well that spot on the floor in my room where I would spend hours on the phone with boys or girlfriends. Those rounded cement decorations flanking our front door which we used as an intercom when we were playing Charlie's Angels. The front stoop, where we spent countless, carefree summer nights playing, gossiping, hanging out, choreographing dances to Queen and REO Speedwagon for our neighborhood talent show. The garage where we spent wonderfully simple Easters with our grandparents roasting lambs, and where we kept our first dog, Ginger, who ate the bicycle seat of my favorite pink bike. Where I learned how to ride a bike. The family birthday parties in the back yard. The back alley where I first learned how to drive with my dad in our white Plymouth Valiant. The familiar path to Virginia Park, where we walked or rode our bikes with our grandfather. All now distant, yet still vibrant memories.

Just last week, after 36 years of living there, my parents left their brick-and-mortar child behind. They not only sold my childhood home, but in a sense, they sold my childhood - and that of my sister's. That place that was filled with countless memories - sad, funny, memorable, devastating, fun - and every single one of those memories, relevant threads that tightly bind the fabric of our youth and ultimately, who we became as adults. The places we used to hide, the places we used to hide stuff, the doors and door frames we've written on, the places on the walls we made those dents and the stories that went with them, the hidden places in the furnace room and cubbies where we sharpied our names into the walls, the cement patch behind the garage where my grandfather, God rest his soul, carved out his initials.

The move was bittersweet in the sense that my parents had to move due to familial riffs and other extenuating circumstances, which had become more unbearable the past five years. For this reason, it was more of a relief for them to leave. For my sister and I, however, it was heartbreaking. We moved from Mozart Street on good terms, full of nothing but great memories that will always resonate into strings of stories that will forever weave the webs of our lives as we pass these down to our children. That is how we prefer to think of that building - the house that will forever be our home.

Seeing this home with moving boxes filled with our past, is something I never thought I would see.

Even worse, is seeing it completely empty.

But I didn't get to see that due to the timing of the move. My sister, on the other hand, did. I was jealous of her for having that closure, for allowing herself to grieve the loss of our childhood home in a way I didn't. She told me that after she walked through it, she stood in the foyer and said aloud, "Thank you and goodbye. I hope the next people treat you as good as we did."

I felt devastated that I didn't get my turn in saying goodbye and seeing it empty. On the other hand, I don't know if that was necessarily the best thing to do to myself. I am now content with remembering it full of life, memories and our things.

My mother told me if she was able to wrap her arms around the building and hug it tightly, she would. She put as much blood, sweat, tears and TLC into maintaining that building as she did in raising her children. That pride in ownership is what she will miss the most. No matter what the circumstances for leaving that place, the fact remains that these bricks and glass and wood that formed our childhood home will always be a part of who we are.

Just like the soul of a person gives us life, spirit and individuality, I believe the soul of a home are the people that reside within it. We give it life, we give it love, we give it spirit and memories. Whether we remain in that structure's shell or not, our soul will always resonate within it. Our history will remain fused with that brick and mortar of our past.

If home is where the heart is, then my home will always be that two-flat on Mozart Street where I grew up.

Thank you...and goodbye.

Ain't Got Time for Memories

by Cathy & Patti

Our loyal readers may have noticed a trend recently in regard to our posting on this blog: it just ain't happening with as much frequency.

Aside from nurturing this blog as a way to vent and share our experiences as mothers, daughters, (working) women, wives and the million other hats we wear, we do it for posterity. How amazing is it that as our daughters get older, they can at first scoff, bristle at and be embarrassed by our posts, then later not only be able to forever cherish and relate to, but through our stories, also get to know their mothers as human - as women, pure and simple. This is something invaluable that we aim to pass down to them.

Lately, it seems, the harried pace of life doesn't allow us to revel in its memories long enough for them to be documented. Ideas for posts still come as life experiences hand them to us. Notes are taken, either physically or mentally, the latter of which can be smothered by more important to-do lists and lost forever within the confines of our overworked, overstressed minds.

Cathy
Evidence of how I'm lagging in this department became painfully evident to me recently. As we were all indulging in a rare evening of relaxation in front of the television recently - homework, baths, dishes and cleaning all done - my youngest daughter, Ari, who really can't sit still long enough to watch anything unless it's a Disney movie she hasn't seen before, enters the living room with her photo album in hand. I felt a surge of panic rise up inside of me.
"Honey, what are you doing with your album?" I asked carefully.
"Where are my baby pictures?" she answers my question with a question.
Uh oh. Did she just ignore me? Is she mad?

Well, she should be. She is the second child, which means, not everything was done with her the way it was meticulously done with my firstborn. This is universal. We all freak with our first child - make sure to wash the pacifier every single time it falls on the kitchen floor before we give it back to them; make sure to pack everything but the kitchen sink when go out for a stroll, just in case!; make sure to handle them extra gently because they may break; make sure to bathe them every night, etc.

Part of this for me was keeping photo albums journaling Bella's (my older daughter) growth, milestones, etc. In fact, I think I have three neatly arranged, chronologically ordered, beautiful photo albums for Bella. But for Ari? The one she was holding in her hands was it. I got as far as stamping her cute 'lil hand and foot on the cover and filling up the first few pages. That's it.

Overshadowed

"Um...why do you ask?" I tested her.
"Because I want to put them in my album. Bella has all of hers in her books and I want mine in my book."

 Knife...meet heart. I don't think I possibly could have felt more awful as a mother. (Well, there are other scenarios but this one loomed large at the moment.)

"Here," I offered, getting my ass up off the couch and heading towards our hallway closet, the keeper of the memories. "I'll get them for you and help you."
"No, that's okay. I can do it myself."
I felt that knife twisting.
"But you have to put them in order, like from when you are a baby and up. I can help you do that."
My stubborn Leo zodiac of a child insisted. "No, I'll just do it, okay?"
So I threw my guilty mom hands up and let her have at it.

In my defense, the technological revolution between when my two children were born (they have a five-year age difference) was extreme. I used a regular Cyber-shot camera while Bella was growing up, but with Ari, I've been using my smartphone for the most part. And who develops those? I sure haven't. But it's now something I have put at the top of my priority list, because who wants their child getting gypped of their memories simply because we don't find the time to document them? We need to find time to document those memories.

by Patti
My butt has been burning for months. This burning sends electrical shooting pains down my legs and into my feet. Various Dr. Google searches have allowed me to diagnose myself with a really, really bad case of Piriformis syndrome or maybe even a slipped disc. Either way, I know I need to have a non-Dr. Google officially diagnose me, but the thing is: I haven't had time to make an appointment. And even if I did - I don't have the time to actually honor an appointment. Between a full-time job, traveling for work, and ballet lessons coming out of my burning ass, I am time-starved.

Time starvation means certain things have to give. This blog has been one of them. It's not as if though there are millions of people waiting in line with bated breath for my next post - this I know - it's just that the day-after-day of blank space where a by Patti should be serves to remind me that, despite the time starvation, I need to find a way to carve out a few minutes a day to observe, absorb, and reflect.

Not too long ago, S had to do a school project that required family pictures. Although I am pretty good at taking pictures with my phone, and keeping my Instagram account fat with photos, what I am not good at is taking family pictures. The three of us are rarely in one place at one time in a photo-ready mode, and, well, pictures of my dog's flat-faced, shadowy profile or of my backyard heaped with snow then treated with Instagram's "Amaro" effect don't exactly make for school-ready photos. I scoured my photo drawer for pictures from the "olden" days - the days when, like Cathy, I used a real camera and actually had photos developed - but none of them seemed apropos. And even the few pictures I had saved on my computer that could be deemed as worthy of this school project were held hostage on my hard drive by the fact my printer had run out of ink and I hadn't time to buy ink. My butt is on fire and you expect me to have time for INK? So, yeah....no. No pictures. "I ain't got time for no memories!" I lamented to Cathy over the phone.  And it's true. And sadly so.

This weekend we head out on our annual Michigan trip with four moms, seven daughters, and two dogs. The snow will probably have melted, making sledding impossible; the tubing park will have closed; the ice skating rink a degree too warm. With seven screaming tweens and two pouncing dogs, it will be chaotic, no doubt. But I will be unplugged from "harried", and plugged into the present, and damn it: I'm gonna make some memories.

Snapshot: Working Girl from Then

by Patti

College straight out of high school seemed extremy unappealing to me. I mean, I had been in school for a bajillion years already - in a row. Couldn't a girl catch a break? So I decided to take a year off and escape to San Francisco, and completely corrupt my best friend in the process by forcing her to cancel her enrollment into college and come with me. And she did. Because that's what friends are for.

But before we could execute our escape plan, we needed money. My friend snagged a coveted job as "traffic and smile director" at a TCBY yogurt shop at the mall. A job at the mall gave me the shivers, so instead, I decided to audition for a job as a singing telegram girl. And I got it! My career in entertainment was off to a great start! While my friend toiled away at the mall, doling out yogurt, directions and smiles, I drove from office to office and restaurant to restaurant, dressed as a crazy "bag lady", a belly dancer, Polly Darton, the hotpink-clad country singer, and my singing telegram company's version of Mae West - Red Hot Mama. My mom or dad would often come with me - after all, there I was, crossing into foreign territorities dressed like an idiot on a daily basis. Somebody had to protect me - from myself.

Potential dangers aside, I couldn't believe the money I was earning by simply making a fool out of myself. The possibilities were endless! It was even tempting to cancel my escape plan altogether, and just stay in Oregon and sing telegrams the rest of my life, but alas, a plan was a plan, and also: I kind of made my best friend quit college, so I had to see it through. Armed with our hard-earned dough and a truckload of boxes, my parents drove my best friend and I over the border to California, and across the Golden Gate Bridge right into our dreams. We stayed the year we promised ourselves, and sick of Top Ramen and waking steep hills, I came home after that year.

I enrolled into a local college and got a job at a record store - you know, back when they STILL SOLD RECORDS. For those of you post-vinyl, they look something like this:

It was during my tenure as the Best Record Salesgirl on the Planet that CDs were becoming really popular. I still remember the buzz of awe in the store when customers came in to browse those crazy, newfangled, space-agey things called Compact Discs. I was in charge of unboxing them and would lovingly whip up creative displays to showcase new releases. I LOVED THAT JOB. But it was a local business and, well, it tanked. So, then, did I.

And that is when I went straight back to the singing telegram company to ask for my job back. By then, it had transferred to a new owner. She was a cool, young girl who lived in a huge, industrial loft in a gritty, artsy part of town. She operated the company right out of her loft, and I would often hang out with her during the day in between "appointments" just to feel immersed in her coolness. All of this made me feel even closer to my dream of being "an Artist".

During this time, I met M, and he would often accompany me on my singing telegrams ventures. Smitten by my gumption, he was happy to be my assistant, blowing up the balloons for me and serving as my "bodyguard" while I delivered my telegrams and made people laugh. He started becoming concerned by some of my appointments; the ones that had me venturing into bars late at night in the middle of hell, and always did his best to accompany me so that my chances of being murdered were somewhat lessened by his evil stare - something for which my parents were grateful. After running out of gas not once but twice while dressed as a belly dancer, he suggested I either get responsible about filling up my tank, or find another job. But nobody put baby in corner, and even though I risked my life walking down the expressway alone dressed like Jasmine from Aladdin, I refused to heed his practical advice.

One night, in the middle of a telegram, the man that I was singing to suddenly grabbed me and lifted me in the air, and started spinning me around, drunkenly singing out of tune right along with me. My company had a strict policy against customers groping us, and my boyfriend? An even stricter policy.  Except this time, M was in the car waiting for me, so I didn 't have his handy evil stare to drive away such madness. When I came out and told him the story, his eyes grew intense and his mouth became a line. He didn't have to say it again. My heart knew he was right. I had been thisclose to danger one too many times already, and I sadly had to admit to myself the end of an era had come: It was time to hang up my feather boa.

You and me, kid? The girl from then who dared to dare? We had a good run.

Miche-again!

by Patti and Cathy

This weekend, we are headed to Michigan for what has become an annual tradition. We crash our friend Michelle’s vacation house, pile on the daughters, and celebrate a weekend of estrogen, both new and used, with s’mores, fires, sledding, guitars, and wine. Oh, and whine!

 The first time we went three years ago, our daughters were set loose into Miche’s beautiful vacation home, and promptly began to run in circles, screaming at decibels so high, all of the neighboring states’ dogs came a-callin. Miche has a loft that overlooks the living room, and it wasn’t long before various dolls, stuffed animals, and other kid paraphernalia came soaring over the loft and onto the living room floor below. Some of these dolls came scaling down the wall of the loft on rope, while others, not as lucky, were simply flung to their dolly deaths.

In the past couple of years, our girls have calmed down a bit, and have now started gathering, slumber party-style, in the upstairs loft to tell secrets, watch movies, or play games. This gives us times to gather in our own slumber party-style downstairs, cozy on the couches, wine in hand, the fireplace crackling, to share our own secrets, to play music, to laugh that crazy silent, shoulder-shaking laugh, and sometimes, to cry.

Of course, these weekends can never be without some sort of drama. After all, it’s all estrogen, all the time, and anytime one sleeps away from home - especially with others - there are adjustments to make, sleeping styles to harmonize with, and general chaos that is always a promise away...

Patti
Have you ever heard a bed chirp? Yes, you may have heard one creak or bounce or boing, but chirp?

Well, I have. And the culprit was poor Cathy, tossing and turning all night long with a sleep mask slapped on her face, and a useless bottle of Nyquil mocking her from her nightstand. I was in the twin bed across from her, saddled with a migraine I'd had since the day before, and trying to ignore the “Chirp! Chirp!” that emanated from her bed each and every time she dared to even breathe. And this is how it went all. night. long, until the morning came and I glanced over to see Cathy, all bleary-eyed and gray from exhaustion, staring up at the ceiling, the bed chirping each time she blinked. "I couldn’t sleep at ALL!” she lamented.

“Me neither,” I commiserated."There is something wrong with your bed. It....chirps!"

"I know! I heard it all night!"

The bed chirped again, giving us its middle finger, and we broke out into the kind of delirious laughter that only completey exhausted people can summon up, then we dragged our asses out of bed and got ready for the day. We were vacationing at Miche's house - Miche and our other friend, Enza, were downstairs having breakfast, probably fully-rested and ready to seize the day, and we joined them, our eyes glazed and glassy from lack of sleep. But once we got coffee in, and realized with mounting glee that this time we had come WITHOUT THE KIDS WITHOUT THE KIDS WITHOUT THE KIDS, we were wide awake. The whole day languished before us, and in it there was to be wine tasting, the beach, going to a fancy restaurant that served cocktails, shopping... oh, the FREEDOM!

So we hit the winding Michigan roads and flirted with the Wine Boy (who said he was really a comedian sommelier-ing for cash, but somehow, we were the ones making him laugh. Or maybe he was laughing at us?) at the first vineyard, and got tipsy off samples. Maybe a little too tipsy, because while Miche and Enza sampled it up in proper grown-up style, Cathy and I were huddled face-to-face laughing so hard we literally almost peed out all that wine. And if I told you what were laughing at us you might just cluck your tongue sympathetically at us and pat our heads with a "there, there" normally reserved for the truly insane. After annoying every single person in the place, we headed to another vineyard and were served by a hot-but-not-hot Jersey Shore reject. The buff-armed buttah face gave us sample after sample, and by the time we left the place, full of wine and giggles, we were ready for a nap on the beach.

We spent the rest of the day lounging on the beach, sipping more wine from some klassy plastic cups, and planning the night ahead of us. And how glorious it was to take our time putting on make-up, hoochin' up our hair, and slippin' on our skinny jeans, without having to open up a juice box, tell a kid to get dressed, or force a brush through a daughter's rat's nest.

That night was magical, but the magic didn't begin at the restaurant or at any club (because they must not believe in dancing in New Buffalo, Michigan) -- it all began after we got home, washed off our make-up, and threw on our sweats. We sat on the back deck and made s'mores, drank champagne, and laughed so hard it hurt for days. And on the drive home we got a little nostalgic for what had just passed, because we realized, next time we came back it wouldn't be the same. No, not at all. Because next time, as they did every time before, the daughters would descend....

Cathy
And descending upon Michigan is what we are doing this weekend. It's time once again for our annual mother/daughter trip up to Tallgrass Cottage, like we've been doing for the last three years now. Every year, our daughters' anticipation mounts as we get closer to our planned outing but the incessant questions about the timing and details of this trip begin with the season's first snowfall.

Since that first uproarious trip up there three years ago, armed with a trunk full of sleds in every size and shape imaginable and the promising backdrop of a fluffy yet thickly packed layer of snow gripped firmly to the ground, we look forward to sledding the weekend away like they do in those heart-tugging Michigan commercials. However, last year, there was only a sprinkling of snow to be had, so instead of woo-hooing! our way down a steep, slippery hill, red-faced, arms stretched to the sky and our souls satiated with fun and laughter, we found ourselves catching the 4:15pm showing of Justin Beiber: Never Say Never...in 3D.

With the girls seated comfortably two rows in front of us, we four women plopped our tired, disappointed asses in the back row, slipped on our thankfully dark 3D shades, and settled in for a nice, long nap. But there was no napping to be had. Dare I say the movie was...interesting? Enjoyable, even? By the very end of the movie, after we cheered, fist-pumped, sang, clapped and did some pretty top-notch swirly seat dancing, we sang Never Say Never at the top of our lungs while sporting our shades and dishing out some pretty dang good arm dancing/seat bumpin' choreography. Needless to say, our daughters had practically crawled under their seats. What can we say? We're just good at finding the fun. 

There is nary a speck of snow to be found on the ground this weekend and no Justin Beiber movie on the silver screen radar. At first we were stressing about what to do. How will the girls keep occupied and not hound us with constant kidterruptions of every variety? (Mom! We're hungry! Mom! Watch this! Mom! Do we have any movies? Mom! I'm not tired! Mom! We're bored! Can we go somewhere? Can we go shopping? Can we make s'mores? Can you play Apples to Apples with Then we remembered that the house is big enough for each group to play separately and strong enough to handle the estrogen that will be bulging at the cedar siding seams and that no matter what, we will find the fun. Again. Because that's what we do. Even though we swore we would never lock ourselves in a house for the weekend with a bunch of pre-hormonal tween girls and their post-hormonal, R&R-seeking mothers with no solid gameplan on tap.  

But as they say, never say never.

Niagra Fails

by Patti


I was new in town, and to make matters more awkward, new in the town's high school. I was pleasantly surprised when, after a mere two weeks as a new face at the school, a group of kids invited me over to one of their houses to "hang out" on a Saturday night. I arrived, feeling surprisingly shy, but was made to feel welcome and at ease within minutes. I felt like maybe I had fallen into a black hole and landed in the 50's, because the kids were wholesome and white-toothed, and wanted to play charades. Charades! On a Saturday night! But I went for it, and found I was actually having the best time.

At one point, I had to "use the facilities", and quietly asked the hostess where the nearest bathroom was. She pointed me to small half-bath around the corner, and I went in, my feet surprised to find shaggy carpet. I did my thing, waving my hand around a bit to hopefully ward off any odors (because the New Kid in Town did not have smelly poop), and flushed. And then flushed again. My poop floated defiantly, refusing to be swallowed up. I flushed once more, and that's when it happened. My poop, more defiant than ever, began to rise in horrific slow motion, carried by a building tidal wave of toilet water, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I waved my arms over the toilet bowl frantically, desperately willing it to stop, but it kept coming, triumphant in its rise to the top until, in a victorious slosh, it was carried over the toilet seat and directly onto the shaggy carpet.

Mortified, I tried to stop the disaster from worsening, but the toilet water, not to be outdone by my poop, followed suit, and it was if the entire sewer system's worth of water in the whole town decided to make its appearance right then, right now. The water gysered and gysered, carrying with it toilet paper and more poop, right onto the carpet.

Finally, it stopped. The bathroom was silent except for my pounding heart, and in the distance I heard my new friends laughing. I looked around for a window, a trap door, anything to save me from having to go back out there. Alas, I had no choice. I wadded up some toilet paper and picked up what I could, and flung it back into the toilet. After scrubbing my hands like a surgeon, I opened the door and poked my head out and around the corner to call the hostess. She came to me, smiling and unaware, and I whispered the news to her, my voice croaking with embarrassment. What did she do? She HUGGED me and told me it was all right, nobody had to know. Then she shut the door, and that was that. I was alternately grateful beyond belief, and a little disgusted.

We went back out into her living room, my own personal natural disaster left behind closed doors, my poker face in place, and we got right back into the game, as if my poop hadn't just covered this girl's shaggy carpet, and I hadn't just flung that poop with my own hands. I called out phrases, and acted some out, and laughed a little too maniacally. Mostly, I made sure my secret stayed safely tucked in my pocket, and in the little half-bath around the corner.

Sheepy

by Patti


When S was born, my father gave her a little stuffed sheep. That little sheep sat perched on her dresser, stitched black eyes steady and unblinking, until she was old enough to start actually appreciating her stuffed animals. Ever since that day, that sheep, who became "Sheepy", has been S's best friend.

Sheepy went with S to her first day of preschool, safely clutched in S's scared little hands to safeguard her, and then he accompanied her every day thereafter, all the way through kindergarten, through every snack time, play time, and most importantly, nap time, and he never let her down.

We were always careful with Sheepy, ensuring he was tucked into bed with S every night, and, unless we were on a trip away from home, that he only went to school with her and then right back home. We could never risk losing Sheepy, after all; he was S's universe, and losing him would tear that universe apart.

When S was 7 years old, we took a family trip to Costa Rica, and of course, Sheepy came along with us. At the airport in Chicago, S was feeling sleepy, and whenever she feels sleepy, she needs to hold Sheepy. I warned S that maybe it wasn't such a good idea to take Sheepy out of her little carry-on; after all, what if something happened to him? But she insisted she would NEVER let ANYTHING happen to Sheepy, so out he came. There was a last minute gate change, and we all scrambled to get our things together and raced through the aiport to find our new gate and get on the plane.

Once we were all settled in on the plane, S proceeded to build her "nest": 2 blankets - Pooh and Bunny - and Sheepy, who would be cozily wrapped in Pooh while Bunny covered S. She began digging through her carry-on, and looked up at me, pale. "Mommy, I can't find Sheepy!"
"Are you sure?" I helped her dig through the bag, my stomach flipping just a little. Sure enough, Sheepy was nowhere to be found. I looked up at S, helpless. She could see by my expression that Sheepy was not on the plane with us. Her lip began to quiver, her eyes watering, and within seconds, she began to wail. Her cry twisted my heart violently; I had never seen her so devastated. I pulled her to me. "Oh, my baby... I'm so sorry!"

M kept looking through S's bag to see if he could somehow magically rustle up Sheepy by sheer will alone, and she was crying so loudly that the flight attendant actually came over to see what was going on. I explained to her that she had lost her beloved "sleeping buddy", and she must have been a mom, because she gave me such a look of understanding, I felt like I needed for her to hug me.

Then my mom was standing there, pulled from 15 rows away by her granddaughter's cry. "What is wrong?"she asked, panicked. S was wrapped around me, sobbing, and I mouthed the tragedy to her over S's sweaty, heartbroken little head. Suddenly my father was there, too. My father could never stand to hear S cry, not even for a single second, and seeing his "cookie-cookie" like this was almost more than he could bear. My mom looked at my dad and told him, and he bent into our row, practically climbing over M, desperate to take away her sadness. Alas, the plane was about to take off, and my parents were ushered back to their seats, leaving us with the loss of Sheepy in our laps.

S cried for a good hour, eventually falling asleep, shuttering and exhausted with grief. She slept on my lap most of the flight, and I stroked her hair, I myself devastated. It felt like the end of so much, and I was just as sad as S. We finally landed, and S woke, somber. We gathered our bags, took a shuttle to the car rental place, and all settled into the car, ready for our Costa Rican adventure. Before we took off in the car, I wanted to grab something from my bag, and reached into the cargo space to dig through it. I unzipped my bag, and out popped a furry little leg. I quickly unzipped it the rest of the way, and laying there, a patient look on his round little face, was Sheepy! I pulled him from my bag and held him up in the air, yelling out jubilantly to the car, "SHEEPY! I FOUND SHEEPY! HERE IS SHEEPY! SHEEPY IS HERE!" S lunged for Sheepy, pulling him from my hands to her chest, rocking back and forth with gratitude and excitement.  My parents broke out in a joyous chorus of cheers, and M turned to me,  his eyes wide.
"WHERE WAS HE?"
"IN MY BAG!"
"IN YOUR BAG?"
"YES! IN MY BAG!"
Yes, we were shouting, we were that hysterical. To think he had been IN MY BAG THE WHOLE TIME, through all of S's miserable cries, throughout the entire 6-hour flight. To think of how much sorrow we could have avoided if ONLY I had checked MY bag, and not just hers.  My mind spun back to the airport, and suddenly, there I was, grabbing Sheepy hastily and shoving him in my bag. How had I not remembered this?

Today, nearly 4 years later, Sheepy is still with us. He is dirty, matted, old, and absolutely loved. S still sleeps with him every night, his worn little body tucked safely under her chin. Sheepy forgave us that near-miss, continuing to guard over S and her swiftly dwindling childhood, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Oh, hello there...

by Patti


...it's been a while.

You see, I was in a car for 539583950342 hours, which was not necessarily conducive to blogging. But I loved every torturous second, and now I can blog all about it in endless prose! Lucky you!

There is no better way to start off a fresh, new year then to get in a car and just drive. And that is exactly what we did. Literally. On January 1st, M, S, and I all piled into the fully loaded car, put it in "Drive", and, well, drove. All the way to Texas! Yee-haw!

The plan was to visit my cousin in Houston. But first! We had to make a few requisite stops at Middle of Nowhere gas stations, and let me tell you: the first day of 2012 in Illinois was WIN. DY.  You don't believe me? You think I'm being dramatic? ME? DRAMATIC?!?!?!? Behold the PROOF:

Once I screwed my head back onto my neck, we had to make a very special pit-stop as we continued our way down Illinois. Remember my post a couple of weeks ago about Homie? Well, I was right. AS USUAL. Homie worked his magic on M's heart, and, after a visit to see this....

....we will no longer be dog-less as of February 12th. That's right, our very own version of Homie, who shall be named Gaucho, will be peeing on our floors, and farting in our family room, and snoring loudly yet cozily in our laps very, VERY soon! I swear, S shivered her way across the rest of Illinois, Missouri, Arkansas and Texas, she was that excited. She IS that excited. Road trips with special pit-stops are magical like that.

After that life-changing pit-stop, which ended up being so not a pit-stop but a 2.5 hour visit that included chasing dogs, petting ponies, and holding newborn puppies - what kind of Heaven all wrapped up in one place is that for a kid? - we continued our way down Illinois in utter darkness. It felt like we had just started our trip - I mean, we were still in the same STATE for crying out loud - yet...we were already tired. And STARVING. And the number of restaurants and that were available for us to choose from to satiate that starvation was exactly zero. So we drove, and drove, and drove, and ended up in Missouri and still drove, until I finally spotted a familiar site: DENNY'S! Oh, Savior of Road Trips!

We wearily pulled into the parking lot, S still vibrating with excitement, and literally shuffled our way into the saddest Denny's I've ever been in. The customers all looked on the brink of death, on crack, or severely suicidal, and there was apparently only one waitress working the joint. But we were desperate and starving and No Way in Hell were going to keep driving, so we grabbed one of the booths and waited what seemed a thousand years to place our order. M jokingly asked the waitress if the food he ordered was going to like the picture? She cocked her head and smiled vacantly. Our food finally came - and it actually did look like the picture! -  and we scarfed it down in 3.5 seconds, paid and bolted to the beyond. We drove for another zillion years and finally found a hotel that wasn't run by Norman Bates, and proceeded to sleep like....shit. There was some weird dripping outside the window all. night. long. And people kept walking by our door all. night. long. And some man on another floor was snoring and we could actually HEAR HIM snoring all. night. long, and ohmygod it was a total nightmare.

But the next day dawned fresh and beautiful, and though we missed the "free, hot breakfast!" because we finally fell asleep only a few hours before the end of the breakfast deadline, we still felt excited, despite the lack of sleep. Since we missed breakfast, and worrying we'd hit another stretch of food desert, we took advantage of the McDonald's that was right next to the hotel and hit the drive-thru. Here was our order, and pay close attention, because it's critical to this absolutely compelling story I am telling you:
Egg McMuffin
2 Coffees
1 Large Orange Juice
Fruit & Yogurt Parfait

Got it? Good. We pulled up to the window to pay and get our stuff, and the woman handed us one bag and 1 coffee. "Y'all have a nice day!"  Call me gifted, but I somehow knew the other coffee and the juice were not in the bag. "We ordered TWO coffees, and a juice..."
"Oh! Sorry 'bout that!" Oh, those Missourians. Missourans?  She disappeared for a minute and then handed us another coffee and a juice. I peeked inside the bag and noticed the Fruit & Yogurt parfait was also missing. "The yogurt?" I asked.
"....OH! Oh, sorry 'bout that!" She once again disappeared, but this time? It was FOR. EH. VER. I'm not even kidding when I tell you that a full five minutes - which, come on, let's face it, in drive-thru time is forever - passed before she came back and popped her head out to give us an update. "She's still workin' on it, sorry!"

Working on it? What is there to work on? It's a Fruit & Yogurt Parfait not an art project. We looked behind us and noticed that a line of cars was starting to build. All because of a Fruit & Freakin' Yogurt Parfait! She finally came back and stuck her head out the window, but M's head was blocking my view and I couldn't see anything. I heard him exclaim, "THAT'S HUGE!" Since I couldn't see anything, I could only imagine that it actually  MUST have been a work of art, a HUGE work of art that was worth all the time we had been made to wait. And that is when he turned towards S and I with this in his hands:

I'm not sure I can effectively show you with this picture just how TINY this Fruit & Yogurt Parfait was. I mean, it must have come off the Shrunken Munchkin Menu, because it was microfuckingscopic, and it most certainly did NOT look like the picture, and I could not believe that we had waited THAT LONG for this. And that she had given us UPDATES on its progress. Oh, but how we laughed. And laughed. And laughed pretty  much all the way through Missouri up to the Arkansas state line.

We finally  made it to Houston, and entering the city was a little surreal. You see, I left the city 27 years ago for the great green pastures of Oregon, and I had not been back since. We had a nice, albeit bionic, visit with my cousin. We ate Texas Bar-B-Q and Southwestern Mexican food, and best of all? I got to visit my old neighborhood house, the one in front of which I was kissed by my first "Great Love". And as we passed the front porch I could almost see myself there, standing on tiptoes, being kissed. I showed S my old high school - the one I went to for 2 years before leaving for good, and she practically blew my ear drums out with her "OHMYGOD IT'S HUMONGOUS!" And you know what? It was. I thought it would look smaller now that I'm all bitter and jaded, but it looked even bigger than I remembered it to be. And it was pretty neat to share a piece of my past with S like that.

After we left Houston, we impulsively decided to take the "long way home", and swung through New Orleans. We arrived just in time for dinner, and feasted on some gumbo and crusty french  bread and Cajun beer right in the heart of the French Quarter. We drove through the streets a while, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the adorable houses that were all adorned with flickering hanging lanterns for porch lights, drove past countless bars with jazz bands playing in the open windows, saw a man doing clap push-ups on the sidewalk, and then deemed ourselves to have "seen New Orleans".

The next day, we detoured through Memphis to visit Graceland. We didn't really have time to tour the mansion and all its tacky glory, but we were able to see the grounds and even sign our names on the giant stone wall that surrounds the mansion. I whipped out a red marker and we added our greetings to the millions of others. We even saw one woman crying. Oh, how she had loved Elvis Aaron Presley.

And then, just like that, it was time to head home. Sure, there are more bad hotel stories to tell, and a few "Mo-OM! I'm BORED!" moments that made M and I want to throw S out the window of our speeding car. But I won't torture you with those details. Because the truth is, all those many miles of road, and those bad hotels, and yes, even those "Mo-OM! I'm BORED"s all add up to the three of us simply making memories together.

And there's nothing better than that.

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.

The Night Justin Timberlake Crashed Our Playdate

by Cathy & Patti


Before our babies are even born, we wonder about their futures: Will they be happy, will they be successful, will they get married, will they have friends? Indeed, worrying about their social lives is a surprisingly heavy concern. Of course we want our kids to be liked, to have friends - so the moment they are capable of acknowledging there is another human being in the room, we start hooking them up on play dates.

At first those play dates are accompanied by us, which can sometimes be torturous when your kid's new friend has a mother with the personality of a plant. But as they grow older and more self-sufficient, the playdates become of the "dump and run" variety, and we take advantage of that sudden glorious free-time while our kids develop friendships. Win-win!

But once in a while, you hit the social jackpot: Not only is your kid making a new friend, you also happen to really like that friend's mom. Suddenly, these play dates become a total 2-for-1! The kids play with the kids! The moms play with the .... wait. That sounds a bit porny and Moms Gone Wild.

But you know what? Moms sometimes DO go wild.

Patti:
When S was about seven years old, her friendship with Bella, Cathy's daughter and S's bestie, was in full bloom. We had recently started a fun Friday night play date tradition, which entailed pizza and the girls playing "school" and "fashion show", and other various girly games, while Cathy and I would catch up on our respective weeks and swig wine. Yes, we drink wine. IN FRONT OF OUR CHILDREN, CALL THE POLICE. These Friday night play dates (FNPD) usually began around 6 pm, and would end around 10 pm. But as the Friday nights came and went, our FNPDs began to go later and later. We figured, "Eh. She's Greek. She's Latin. It's what we do." And so we did.

One night, Cathy and I got into a discussion about music. Cathy is a very B96 kind of girl. Me? Give me a guitar and I'll sing you some songs I wrote. So we got into a bit of a debate about Justin Timberlake, who, at the time, I considered to be strictly B96 material. As the girls ran screaming up and down the long hallway in Cathy's condo, and circled the couch chasing each other in poofy, sparkly princess things, we discussed the pros and cons of Justin Timberlake.
"I just think he is sexy..." Cathy sighed.
"Eeeew, no. He is... just not. Plus: I hate his music."
"You HATE his MUSIC?" Cathy looked at me, horrified, reconsidering our friendship. "You can't hate his music..."
Seeing my unmoving face, Cathy popped up from the couch. "Okay, look, I'm gonna show you something of his that there is no way you can not like!" She turned on the television as the girls, spent from running around, flung themselves onto Cathy's futon. She searched through her DVR'd shows, and came upon a frozen-on-the-screen Justin Timberlake, wearing a fedora and all decked out in white. "Look. At. THIS." She pressed play, and Justin began to gyrate ever-so-slightly. He seemed to look right at me and sang, "Hey girl, is he everything you wanted in a man? You know I gave you my world. You had me in the palm of your hand..."

Although turned off by the "palm of your hand" lyric - even Cathy knows my aversion to all things cliche -  I found myself strangely turned ON by the haunting melody and Justin's sure gaze. I moved closer to the edge of the couch and, against my very will, suddenly found myself standing up, dancing along to Justin's words, "Don't want to talk about it. Don't want to think about it. I'm just so sick about it." What was WRONG with me? Did everything I ever held to be true suddenly blow up?

As soon as the song ended, I felt something inside of me had shifted. But Cathy didn't stop her immersion-to-conversion therapy there, no. She pulled out her iPod and some headphones, stuck one bud into her ear, and the other into mine, and suddenly Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" was caressing my ear. I looked at Cathy and she smiled slyly at me; she knew her plan was working. The next thing we knew, we were bumping hips and gyrating, our arms in the air, singing out loud as Justin Timberlake seduced each one of us, together and separately, song by song.

That is, until I saw it. Or, should I say, them. We had totally forgotten about our kids. Our exhausted, up-since 7am-and-gone-to-school kids. There they were, both face-planted into the futon, completely knocked out. I looked at the clock. It was 1 o'clock in the morning! Who has play dates that last until 1 o'clock in the morning?!?

Thanks to Justin, we did.

Cathy:
Oooh, those FNPDs. Like Patti mentioned, it was the best of both worlds; girls occupied and playing, moms having a girls night out (GNO) in the comfort of their own home. We often cranked up the iTunes on my Mac, conveniently located in the kitchen, where all the creature comforts of a GNO would be - food and wine.

And when ABBA's Mamma Mia soundtrack came on - look out! The girls would run in squealing and whirling while Patti and I spun them and swung them, all of us singing at the top of our lungs (much to the chagrin of my neighbors) while Patti videotaped the whole lively fiasco on her phone.  So when the party moved into the living room and J.T. was singing and swaying right to us through the television (I had his Madison Square Gardens concert recorded live on cable! Hours and hours of entertainment!), the party was taken to a whole other level. Well, for us big girls, at least.

Our daughters, (Ari was three at the time) would be running in and out of the living room, dodging and darting between us as Patti and I busted the clubbiest dance moves we could muster from our back-in-the-day nights. Our legs were sore for days afterward.

In the midst of all this hoopla but before the kids tumbled over all around us in a heap of exhaustion, my husband came home. His look - a combination of intrigue, laughter, shock and bewilderment - said it all. After the obligatory greetings and questions were exchanged, before he knew it, he got over the fact that the kids weren't in bed and since he couldn't beat us, he decided to join us. He grabbed a glass of wine and crashed our J.T. play date.

Perhaps the most memorable scenario of the night - as if what was ensuing was not memorable enough - was when Ari decided she wanted some of what us big people were drinking. So without any warning and quick as lightning, she stuck her little finger in Joe's glass and darted it back into her mouth. I lunged towards Joe. "Don't let her have any of that! She's on antibiotics!" Really?

That night - the night J.T. gave a private, command performance just for us Dancing Queens in my living room - was better than any concert or club we could have gone to. It was a spontaneous, memorable time that we got to share with our children and still talk and laugh about.
...........

Now, when we hear one of his songs play on the radio, we're immediately transported back to the night that Justin Timberlake crashed our daughters' play date. And then we smile and turn up the radio.

I'm Latin... It's Never Too Late!

by Patti

Although I was born in the United States, I was raised by immigrants from South America, and therefore brought up in a very Latin way. Spanish was my first language - I didn't really even learn to speak English until I started school. We spoke Spanish, we lived Spanish, we were... Spanish!

When we were little, while the neighbors had their children in bed by 7 pm, my brother and I would still be up at midnight, eating Cap'n Crunch and listening to music. It was the Latin way. As we grew older, although my brother's and my Spanish gave way to more and more English, the whole concept of the "American bedtime" never took hold of our household. Instead, my family's second wind would always kick in around 10 pm, and that is when we'd start a game of Yahtzee or start baking a cake.

I distinctly remember my mom mopping the floors at 11 pm on a weeknight, while my dad was making a burnt toast sandwich. That is when my brother got the the sudden craving for a chocolate cream Hostess pie. So, naturally, we would all pile into the car to go to the grocery store. It mattered not that it was now nearly midnight and we all had work and school the next day. Right now? At this moment? Was the perfect time to go the grocery store and get some pie. Of course, once we got to the store, my mother would remember that we needed milk. And eggs. And lettuce. And, oh! Look! These chips are on sale at 2 for 1! And then my dad would inevitably head off to buy a block of cheese and some salami while my brother and I gleefully threw a thousand Hostess pies into the cart. So, in essence, we were doing the groceries at midnight on a Wednesday. But hey, when your Latin, it's never too late!

Not only did we cook, clean, and play Yahtzee at unreasonable hours, we also ate dinner late. While our friends were sitting around the table passing around the roast and potatoes at 6 pm sharp, we'd be waking up from naps and eating a snack. Dinner? Was not until at least 10 pm. How can people eat at 6? You'll be STARVING by midnight! Because, of COURSE we'd still be up at midnight.

These Latinly habits were obviously passed on to me, and since I married a man from Argentina, where it is not uncommon to find a restaurant packed with families at 11 pm on a school night, we have only perpetuated these habits and are now passing them on to our daughter.

When S was born, structure existed only in "How To" books for us. We'd be up at 1 am watching movies with our baby by our side, or out dancing to a Merengue band, S held up high up in the air between us, then all sleep in until 1 pm the next day. Why not? She didn't have a job! Let her stay up; it's not too late!

Of course, once she started school, it was a complete and total nightmare getting on that "American" time clock - for ALL of us. We'd finally get her on a schedule - which felt like prison to us - and then we'd go to Argentina to visit family, only to have that worked-for schedule promptly fly out the Argentinean window. After all, summers in Argentina mean dinner at 11 pm and ice cream at 1 am. Kids stay up with the adults and participate in every aspect of what is going on. Too late for them to be up? Of course not! The only "too" in the Latin culture is "too early", "too quiet", and "too boring". But "too late"? It's never too late!

S is now 10 years old, and fully embracing the Latin ways. She is always mystified after coming home from a friend's house. "Mom, they ate dinner so EARLY." If I finally tell her to go to bed on a Friday night at midnight, she will look at me, shocked, "But Mom, it's FRIDAY. It's too early!"

Que puedo decir? We have created a monster, much like my parents created a monster in me, much like their parents created monsters in them. The Latin gene lives on, and frankly, I just don't think we are ever going to change. For that? It's too late.

Express Yourself

by Patti

I was getting ready for work and S wandered into the bathroom to ask me a question. I noticed she was still wearing her pajama pants and urged her to hurry up and get dressed. Her reponse? “I am dressed.”
“Honey, you’re wearing pajamas.”

“And?”
“And… they are PAJAMAS.”

“AND?”

These pajamas were festooned with flying monkeys.

“Honey. You cannot wear pajamas to school.”

“Why not? They are pants, aren’t they?”

She had a point.

So I let her go to school in flying monkey pajama pants.

It reminded me of the days I was all about “expressing myself”, and I wore a Glad trash bag to high school. I cut out a head hole and arm holes and slipped it over my 15-year old rebellious body, then I cinched it at the waist with a studded belt. My mother didn’t say a word. I’m sure she was DYING to, but she wisely zipped it. And off I went, proudly wearing a black garbage bag dress. Sure, I got lots of stares and snickers, but then again – wasn’t that what I was aiming for?

I admire that girl; the one who didn’t care about what other people thought, the one that wasn’t afraid to stand out, the one who was a free and bubbling spirit. Life with all its rules has tempered that a bit, and now that I think about it, it makes me kind of sad. I see S headed down that same path of jubilant self-expression, and though my job is to guide her and discipline her and set boundaries to keep her safe and sane, nowhere in my job description does it give me any right to stop her from being who she is.

And who she is just keeps getting better and better.

Proud Mary

by Cathy

Last Friday, I attended a memorial service of a woman whom I wasn't close to, but had made an impression on me so much so, that I maintained contact with her throughout the last 11 years. Everyone referred to her as Mary Kay. She was 88 years old.

Mary was the receptionist at the very first magazine I ever went to work for. The office had a colorful crew of employees to say the least. We always joked about how we should have written a sitcom television pilot about our office - and how it would be one of a kind. Mary was the office bulldog - the tough-as-nails yet always diplomatically composed woman you would get on the phone when you called our offices. She handled the chaotic, often crazy office antics with such eloquence and grace.

She was about 76 years old when I met her - of course I had to figure this out because she never revealed her age. There was never a day that you would catch Mary without her impeccable application of makeup, manicured nails and perfectly coiffed 'do. Her stylishly chic clothes were always spot on - a great fit and always pressed. Oftentimes - only if really necessary - she used a cane, but had it decorated with sumptuous scarves to jazz it up. And her voice. What can one say about Mary's voice. Her low, raspy yet smooth dulcet tones were as unique to our office as she was. One caller thought she was a bombshell divorcee that smoked two packs a day. She called everyone 'dear'. She never gossiped or had a bad thing to say about anyone. And when someone complained to her about another person, her answer would always be a simple, "It's in their nature, dear."

I had kept in touch with Mary every holiday season when I would mail her a holiday card with a picture of my girls (she was never married, nor had children) and I would always await that phone call a few days later. "Cathy, dear. I got your card and your girls look gorgeously divine. Straight out of a European film noir." She had the most uncanny ability to string together beautiful words about anything, on the spot. Her mind was razor sharp and she was very quick witted up until the day she died, from what I heard. 'A thriving mind in a place of diminished ones' was how her nursing home caretaker referred to her. She attended plays. She wrote poetry (you would always get one on your birthday) and screenplays. She never watched television yet knew everything that was going on. Up until a couple of years ago, she had me update her resume and was calling me to see if I knew of a job for her - she even wanted to take a computer class to 'be up with the times'. She was a determined, feisty hardballer who was fiercely independent.

I sat at her memorial service awestruck, taking in her early years from the collage of pictures pasted methodically on a large white posterboard. (Funny how one's life can fit neatly on a large posterboard.) She was gorgeous. She could have easily been a movie star - the epitome of glamour and sophistication at every turn - her hair blowing beautifully in the wind on the Eiffel Tower over Paris or climbing whitewashed steps in her caftan mini in France.

Two particular pictures caught my attention because they were positioned starkly next to each other: one of her and her two sisters in their 20s, she wearing an off-the-shoulder, black cocktail dress revealing her youthful decolletage and hair flowing like a black mane to one side, she struck an eerie resemblance to Greta Garbo; the other was a recent picture of her, of course primped to the nines, yet hunched over in a chair, lipsticked mouth ajar, veined hands decorated with large, fabulous accessories, reaching up towards her grand-nephew. The juxtaposition of these two pictures was startling; startling at how the vibrancy of youth is fleeting; a look at how we once were, and how we will become. However, I also knew that inside that body, ravaged by age and its side effects, laid the mind and heart of a 20-year old - in every sense of the word.

Rest in peace, dear Mary. Heaven is now surely a more fabulous place with you there.

Jesus to the Rescue

by Patti

S was four years old and had just finished her first year of preschool. She was attending a little Lutheran school in our neighborhood, and her favorite times during the school day were “Jesus Time”, during which they would sing fun songs about Jesus and recite sweet prayers.

Father’s Day was around the corner, and, because M had been particularly cranky of late, I thought it would cheer him up to receive a hand-picked card from S. I took her to Walgreen's, and she loved looking at all of options and taking her time to choose just the right one. She browsed for a bit, occasionally holding up one that caught her eye. Then she squealed in delight; apparently she’d found “the one”. I took it from her and saw that it was a glittery baptism card, covered with crosses and doves, and other religious symbols. “Oh honey, this is not for Father’s Day; this is for a baptism.”

“What is baptism?” she asked.

Struggling to find the answer she would understand, I told her, “Well, it’s when you go to church and get blessed by holy water so you can take Jesus into your heart.”

"Does it hurt?"

"Oh, no!" I reassured her, "It makes you happy!"

S looked at the card and then looked back up at me. "Let's get it. Papi's been really grouchy lately. He really needs some Jesus in his heart!"

The Plane is Falling! The Plane is Falling!

by Patti

When S was nearly 2, we were told she was psychic.

There we were, enjoying our little family vacation by the ocean, eating at an outdoor café in South Beach. S was babbling on about, oh, EVERYTHING, and in an attempt to prevent my eyes from glazing over, I subtly glanced around to see what else was going on.

That’s when I noticed an older man staring directly at S. Normally, when you see an older man – or ANY man, really, that you don’t know – staring at your kid, you get all creeped out and immediately rush in to move your kid into hiding. But this man didn’t give me any kind of creepy vibe; his stare was non-threatening. It was kind of, I don’t know, knowing.

I turned my eyes back to the babbling-a-thousand-miles-per-minute S, and tried to see what he saw. Suddenly, the man got up and started walking toward our table. Alarmed, I immediately scooted in closer to S and kind of nudged M, and then the man was there.

“Excuse me,” he said in Spanish, leaning into our table. He must’ve seen our bodies tense up, because he immediately reassured us, “It’s nothing bad; don’t be scared…” which of course is what a murderer tells you right before he buries you alive in a 9 ft hole. “I just wanted to tell you that your daughter is very special.” I was torn between parental pride and molester freak-out. He continued, “She’s psychic.” He said it just like that. Very plainly and simply. Very “that’s just the way it is”-ish.

And then he patted M on the back, as if to congratulate him, and walked away. M and I looked at each other, and at a totally oblivious S, and we started cracking up. We joked about how much money we were going to make with our Psychic! Kid! Oh, the places we’d go!

A few months later, we were in Argentina visiting family. It was the night before S and I were going to fly to Chile to visit my mom’s family, and I was chatting with M while packing a bag. S was snoozing away, when suddenly our conversation was interrupted by her calling something out in Spanish in her sleep. “Se cae! Se cae!” I looked at M, and his head was cocked in curiosity. She called out again, “Se cae! El avion se cae! It falls! It falls! The plane falls!” THE. PLANE. FALLS.

Who was going to get on a plane the next day? ME! With S! WHO WAS PSYCHIC? S!

I WAS FREAKING OUT. Even M, who so totally doesn’t believe in any of that ‘shit’, was freaked out.

Despite our total freaked-outedness, we got on the plane the next day. Our goodbye with M was especially poignant because, you know, we were going to die and all. It was to be a 2-hour flight, and after the first hour with no death, I finally started to relax. I laughed to myself: Psychic! I leaned back happily into my chair, relieved I wasn’t going to die after all. Oh! What a feeling! To know you are going to live! I glanced over at S; her face was pressed into the little circular window. I leaned over to give her a squeeze, and looked out to see that we were flying over the Andes Mountains. “Se cae! Se cae!” I froze mid-squeeze. S started frantically tapping her pudgy little hands against the window. “Se cae! Se cae! El avion se cae!”

The time had apparently come. And we would crash into the Andes. Such a movie-like death. “Se cae! Se cae!” She WOULDN’T. STOP. SAYING IT.

The sun coming through the little window lit up her curls, and she turned to me, gesturing to the mountains below. “Se cae!” I pulled her to me, silently said goodbye to M in my head, and waited.

And then we landed.

I am happy to be alive, but we don’t let S pick the lottery numbers, because her psychic skills? SUCK.

E.T. Phone Home. NOW!

by Patti

A few years ago, Cathy and I thought it would be fun to take the girls to a movie in the park. They were showing E.T., my all-time favorite movie when I was a kid. Do you know how much I cried at that movie when I was 11 years old? Like, A LOT. That poor little bug-eyed creature, all wrinkly and pneumonia-plagued, covered with an itchy blanket, just wanting to go home. Call me crazy, but I couldn’t wait to share the angst with S. I described the movie to her, and that we would be watching in the park, and she was rarin’ to go.

The day of the movie, I found Cathy and her family already at the park. Her in-laws, who lived in the high rise overlooking the park, had come, too. They were all gnawing on corn-on-the-cob and spread out all over the place; it was quite the site to behold. I found a patch of grass next to the corn-on-the-cob crew, and laid down my blanket. The screen, a huge blow-up number, was already set up, and kids were running around like maniacs in the dusk, killing time until the movie started. There was a summery breeze in the air, but in the distance I could see clouds gathering. Knowing S was more-than-terrified of storms, I did my best to block her view to the clouds. Nothing was going to ruin this night.

Finally, the sun began to sink and the movie started to flicker on the screen. We all settled in, getting cozy on top of one another. There was some whispering going on behind me, and I turned to see Cathy’s mother-in-law trying to pawn off the corn. She was offering corn-on-the-cob to everyone around her. There was some shuffling of corn, and then some shush-ing, and then FINALLY everybody got settled in. Because nothing was going to ruin this night.

The movie got into full-swing, and I squeezed S in anticipation. I couldn’t wait for her to see the hunk of cute that was E.T. And finally, there he was! As wrinkly and bug-eyed and just plain damned adorable as I remembered. I was 11 years old again, except this time I was with my own kid, happy to share it with her. I looked over to Cathy and her family, and I could see that Bella was looking at little... uncomfortable. “Is she okay?” I whispered to Cathy.

“She is afraid of E.T.”, Cathy whispered back, “She thinks he’s weird.”

I looked back at the screen, my E.T. staggering around the kitchen, drunk on beer. I looked down at S to see if she was afraid. She wasn’t even looking at the movie; she was looking at the SKY with a worried expression. “Mom…. It looks like it’s going to rain.” I looked up, too. Those clouds that had earlier been in the distance were now overhead, and they looked more swollen than ever. Suddenly the sky lit up in the distance. “Mom! It's going to rain!”

I looked over to Cathy and her family; they seemed oblivious to the lighting. Instead, Cathy was busy comforting Bella, who was now completely curled up against her. “E.T.?” I asked. Cathy nodded. All I heard for the next 10 minutes was an annoying combination of, “Mom! It’s going to rain!”, and “Mom! He’s weird, I’m scared!”, and “Do you want some corn?”

Suddenly, BOOM! There was a crack of thunder so intense, my teeth vibrated. Then the movie screen started to sway, looking as drunk as E.T. “MOM! MOM! MOM!” S frantically climbed into my lap. I looked over again to Cathy, and Bella's head was now under a blanket.

“Sorry, Patti. Bella is too scared of E.T.; we’re gonna go.” Her husband had gone to get the car, and Cathy started to gather up the blankets and picnic stuff. At that very moment, the sky opened up and from it fell the hardest rain I had ever felt. All around me people were scattering at bionic speeds, gathering kids and blankets and coolers. I looked up to ask Cathy if she would give me a ride to my car, which I had parked what now seemed a billion miles away. BUT SHE WAS ALREADY GONE, the ditcher.

I scooped up a wailing S into my arms, and began to run. It didn’t help that I was wearing thonged kitten heels. Who wears thonged kitten heels to a park? My feet slipped with each step, and S was screaming in my ear. “MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! I’m SCAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARED!” I ran and ran, dodging the bullets of rain, praying to not get struck by the lighting that was now flashing non-stop, gripping S with all my motherly might. Half-way to my car, I ducked into a building. The rain was so intense, it literally hurt when it hit my face. S was trembling, and refused to let me put her down. She was wrapped around me like seaweed, all soggy and tangled. Once I caught my breath and I could feel my face again, I started running again to my car. I finally spotted it in the distance, a beacon.

We finally made it, and we both got inside. Safe, at last! I turned to S; she was shaking, soaking wet, her face was red and puffy, her hair was matted against her head. “So, did you like the movie?”

Wipe Me!

by Patti


Potty training for S was a pretty non-existent affair. We basically bought one of those cute little training toilets, plopped it in the bathroom, and told her to use if she felt like it.

As a result, S wore diapers up until a few months after her 3rd birthday. One day, she just simply took it off and said, “I don’t wanna wear diapers anymore”, and that was that.

I don’t know if it’s because she wore diapers for longer than some, but it took her quite some time to catch on to the whole wiping situation. For years after she stopped wearing diapers, I would hear a “MO-OM! WIPE ME!” every time she was done doing her thing. And every time I heard her demanding little “WIPE ME!” I would almost always be in the middle of doing something completely and totally non-conducive to wiping somebody’s butt. But then again – what the hell is conducive to wiping somebody’s butt?

Each time I heard her command, I would enter to find her not on the toilet, but waiting for me in a literally teepee-like position, her hands flat on the ground, her pants around her ankles, her bare butt pointing straight up to the heavens. If her butt had its own choir it would have been shouting the Hallelujah Chorus.

S was never a convenient public bathroom-user. If we were in a restaurant, she would inevitably get the urge to poop the SECOND the plate I had been hungrily waiting for hit the table. It was as if the plate had a little alarm on its bottom that triggered S’s own bottom, because literally EVERY SINGLE TIME the plate touched the table, she would pipe up, “I have to caca!” And caca-ing for her was never an in-and-out deal; no, it was the kind of deal that would mean my getting back to the table when everybody was already leaned back with their pants unbuttoned and satisfied smiles on their faces.

At least at home I could leave her in the bathroom with a pile of books and let her take her sweet time doing her business. My only job was to swoop in and wipe on command.

One day, when she was already nearly 6 years old, we went shopping at the mall with Cathy and her girls. We were in the Gap trying on some clothes, and S needed to use the bathroom. Being that she was almost 6, I was trying to encourage her to be a little more independent in her bathroom duties (or is it doodies? Bad? Sorry!). The bathroom was one of those one-toilet bathrooms, so, seeing that it was just a few feet away from the dressing room, and figuring it would be another 11-hour pooping affair, I coaxed her to go in on her own while I took the opportunity to finish trying on some outfits. Cathy offered to stand by the door, and S reluctantly went in. I don’t know if it’s because S was in there all alone – because we all know how many monsters lurk inside toilets – but she hit a pooping speed world record, and before I could even zip up the pants I was trying on, I heard it: “MO-OM! WIPE ME!”

Cathy called out to me that she would handle it (only the best of friends offer to wipe the ass of a kid other than their own), and as I rushed to get back into my own clothes, I wondered why the hell my kid couldn’t poop this fast when my dinner was waiting, or the climax of the movie I’d been watching was finally happening, or I myself had to poop.

Suddenly I heard Cathy laugh out loud. I opened the dressing room door and looked down the little hallway towards the bathroom. Cathy had opened the door to help S, and from the dressing room, I had a perfect view straight to my daughter’s naked butt. There it was, vaulted to the flourecent light heavens, jubilantly singing the Hallelujah Chorus, patiently waiting to be wiped.

Lost in Translation

by Patti


When my dad first moved to this country from Argentina, he didn’t speak a word of English. But that didn’t stop him from trying to use the American “lingo”, getting a job, and snagging a wife.

When that wife, my mother, became pregnant with me, she had a few fainting spells. One morning before my dad had to go into work, he and my mom went to the grocery store, and my mom passed out. My dad immediately took her home and decided to stay with her, so he called into work. “I can’t come in today. My wife passed away."

My father’s boss gasped in horror and my father quickly assured him, “Oh it’s okay; she’s fine now!”

.............

Happy Birthday, Dad.

I miss you.

Tube Top Mystery

by Patti


The other night, I finally decided to attempt to make sense of the embarrassing disaster that is currently my closet. I folded the bunches of clothes that had somehow snowballed into one giant lump of fabric, began separating out the winter and summer clothes, and took a depressing inventory of my shoes, which, at this point, looked like rejects in the Salvation Army bin. During this process, I found an old tube top -- are they even CALLED that anymore - and my mind wandered back to what feels like a thousand years ago......

My friend Janie and I had just finished a singing gig at a hotel, and we had plans to meet up with M at Crobar - yes, it was that long ago - to go dancing. We were still in our jobbing cocktail wear, and we definitely wanted to hoochify it up to the club-level, but we had left our change of clothes in the car. It was winter, and at least 938 degrees below zero, and it was kind of blizzarding, so there was no way in hell we were going to shlep to the car, grab the goods, shlep back into the hotel to change, and THEN shlep once again BACK to the car. So, once we got out to the car, we decided to just crank up the heat and change in the parking lot. We each wrestled ourselves out of our respective clothes and wriggled into the hooch-wear, and hit the road.

Once there, I had to make sure I had all of my things together since, after the club, I was going to go home with M and Janie was going to go her way. I packed the red sparkly skirt I had worn, my high heels, and... "Hey! I can't find my tube top!"I frantically lifted myself off the seat to see if I had somehow sat on it. Not there. Janie turned on the light in the car and we both searched the backseat, under our seats, INSIDE the seats. Janie checked her bag to see if she had accidentally packed it, but it wasn't there. "What the hell?"

In the distance, I could see that M was already standing in front waiting for us, looking a little purple. The wind was blowing and the snow was flying everywhere, and he was hopping from foot to foot trying to stay warm. Torn between my love for my tube top and saving my husband from frost bite, I reluctantly chose my husband and sadly decided to end the search. "When you find it, just bring it to the next gig," I sighed. We got out of the car, Janie in her super-short mini-skirt, and me in my tight pleather dress with a zipper up the front, and begged our way into the club.

Once inside, my chest immediately felt the vibration of the Saturday night bass. BOOM-CH-BOOM-CH-BOOM-CH-BOOM-CH. The 3 of us made our way up the long stairs that led up to the second floor, and as we climbed, I noticed that my dress felt kind of... tight. "Weird," I thought. "It fit last week..." I ran my hands over my hips to try and smooth it down, and immediately felt the tire around my torso. Had I gained 30 lbs in one hour? I kept running my hands over my waist and hips, alternately mystified and horrified. Finally, no longer able to take it, I stuck my hands up my dress and groped myself. Suddenly, I felt something squishy, something... fabric-like. I grabbed hold of it and yanked it down and out and, just like that, I GAVE BIRTH TO A TUBE TOP ON THE STAIRS AT CROBAR!

I immediately doubled over in laughter. Janie and M were ahead of me and turned around when they heard my hysterics. I couldn't even talk; I just held up the tube top in all its glory. M looked more stumped than usual, but Janie totally lost it.

And there we were, laughing our assess off, the bass thumping in our hearts, my recovered tube top dancing wildly in my hand.