It's a Life Sentence

I Remember...

2012-10-01T14:21:00.002-07:00

I have not written in a while.

Okaaay, six months. (Seven???)

It's pathetic, considering how much better I feel when I do write. But I have a really good excuse, which is, that I've been lazy and unmotivated.

Actually, that's not entirely true, I actually have been writing a lot. At night. IN MY HEAD. I just haven't found the energy to put pen to paper (finger/keyboard) and get anything down. I sit in bed, unable to sleep, but more unable to get myself out of bed and in front of the computer and type. And so my thoughts swirl around inside my brain scrambling to get themselves into some order, while the other part of my brain promises me that I absolutely WILL NOT forget any of these great, amazing, life-changing thoughts I'm having...this time. (My brain is a LIAR.)

And so I drift off to sleep, relying stupidly on my totally unreliable mental "save" button, which of course.... as usual, fails to work. And by morning I've permanently deleted all my ideas. The turns-of-phrases that I just knew at 2 AM would revolutionize writing -- GONE.

But while I can't remember any of the half-assed eloquent ways in which I wanted to say anything, I do sort of remember some of the things I wanted to write about.

I remember that I was going to write about the end of the school year because like most of life's big events, it almost killed me. My first baby was leaving first grade. And my baby baby was leaving nursery school. And of course I. Couldn't. Take. It. Despite the fact that every single day felt like it lasted for 14,000 hours, the year still, somehow, managed to FLY by. When did those seemingly endless days actually end? Where did the time, that was dragging on oh so slowly, GO?

I was able to hold it together a smidgen more than I had when my first baby graduated from kindergarten the year before, but not by much. My little boys are growing up. It's my fault of course, because I do things like feed them and water them and love them and talk to them. I help them grow. I give them the tools they need to grow. Because some (most) days I really NEED them to finally grow the f!*@# up and stop needing me to do every single little thing for them -- like cook. And smile.

But when they actually start getting bigger and doing these things for themselves I start to wither a little (lot) bit because they are my babies and I don't want them to grow up. I want them to stay small and sweet and cuddly forever. I need them to need me because if they don't need me to do things for them then what do I do?

And so they graduated from yet another year of school and got bigger and smarter and more independent, and I loved it and hated it all at the same moment. It was almost enough to call off the vasectomy and try just one more time. (Calm down mom, I didn't.)

I remember that I was going to write about teaching my youngest son to ride his bike without training wheels. And how proud I was of him (and me) until I realized that he could fall and get hurt. And I remember that I was thankful that we lived within walking distance from a Menards and that I could literally run out and go buy some bubble wrap and just wrap him in it for a few years and keep him safe in our basement until his bones were harder and his skin thicker. And then I remember thinking, no.

I remember that I was going to write about my apparent brain freeze when it came to planning for summer. How I bravely (foolishly, wonderfully) shrugged off any and all ideas of (a structured!!, creative!!, engaging!!, entertaining!! TIME CONSUMING!!!!!) camp and decided that just joining a pool and doing nothing really, would be just what we needed. I somehow failed to realize that this plan was GOING TO ADD an extra 18,000 hours onto my days which were already, as I mentioned, 14,000 long.

I remember that I was going to write about the fear and the panic and the anxiety I had when I realized what I had done by not planning a summer. And about the small stroke I had when I realized that this wonderful pool that I had joined didn't actually open until 1 PM every day and so what were we going to do with our mornings???????????

I remember that I was going to write about how I decided that I'd use my mornings wisely. I'd home school my children until it was time to swim. Yes, that's it, we'd be productive! I'd turn off Facebook and the computer and close my book. I'd patiently and lovingly show my youngest son that to make a proper "G" you don't start at the bottom of the page and end up six inches above the paper on the wood table. We'd learn to stay between the lines. I'd work on my oldest sons' "out loud" reading. They'd be reading Shakespeare and writing soliloquies in Latin by end of summer. We'd fill up our notebooks and our minds. And we did. Well, one morning, anyway. (Please, I don't know Latin. I don't even know the French I spent a decade studying.)

I remember that I was going to write about our first day at the pool and how my youngest son CLUNG to my neck like a leaden albatross, while my oldest son yelled at me from the side that he wanted to go on the high dive RIGHT NOW!! And how I realized then that my little guy had to learn how to swim IMMEDIATELY or I'd be declared certifiable by July. And so, I taught my youngest how to swim on his own... on my own.
*** Actually here I have to give most of the credit to Michael Phelps who mesmerized my boys for two weeks straight. Despite the fact that he wasn't actually in the water with my son, I know that it was he who really got him swimming.

I remember that I was going to write about my oldest son going off the diving boards for the first time. How he walked to the end of that nine-meter high board and stood there holding his nose and looking down in terror. How, after 10 minutes, he bravely stepped off and....let himself drop. How in my mind, his form looked just like Greg Lougainis'. (Yes, I know there is someone more current, but I didn't really watch Olympic diving, so I DON'T KNOW.) Then, how he poked his head out of the well and screamed, "IT'S AWESOME!" for everyone between here and Russia to hear. I'd show you the video but it might give you a seizure because I was jumping crazily up and down while holding the camera.

I remember that I was going to write about how he tried to coax me into doing it next. Um, NO.

I remember that I was going to write about my surprise and happiness when, as it turned out, just joining a pool ended up being the perfect thing for both me and my boys. I was thrilled (surprised) by how much fun it was and how much fun they had every day just swimming and how I loved it -- DESPITE the fact that I sometimes (daily) complained about the lack of structure and ultimately wanted to string us all up from the ceiling fans by 5 PM every night because when your pool doesn't open until 1 PM, that means you can't leave the pool until around 4 PM, if you actually want to have time to swim, and when you live in Chicago that means TRAFFIC. Mind-boggling, aneurysm-inducing TRAFFIC.

I remember how I woke up one day and realized out of the blue (okay, when my husband pointed it out to me) that the boys are getting older and this might be one of the last summers that we can actually spend doing nothing because soon they will want to be in a camp (or worse, overnight camp!) with their friends and I will not be one of these friends they'll want to spend their days with and so I better enjoy it now.

I remember that I was going to write about my youngest son learning to read. Reading is my absolute most favorite thing in the whole world, so for me this is like, The Best Thing Ever. I remember how thrilled and ecstatic and PROUD I was. Until. The day he picked up a (still-unread!) book up off the coffee table and asked loudly, "Mommy, what is Fifty-Shades of Grey?"

I remember that I was going to write about the fact that every other kid on this planet started going back to school in August, but we didn't start until, like, March (September 10th) and how unfair that was. I was panicking that this summer was NEVER GOING TO END and I bemoaned this fact to anyone and everyone who would listen...until the CPS strike happened and I shut up and realized that I was so very lucky that my kids were in school on September 10th. How I understand that my boys are ridiculously fortunate to be in the amazing, awesome, school that they are in. Even if it does have a six-month summer break.

I remember VERY, VERY RECENTLY wanting to write about some big news in my family (not MY "my family" but "my family") but being told that NO, this was NOT going to be a social-media event. That it was, in fact, being handled the way a wonderful and special thing SHOULD be handled, i.e, tastefully -- and not tweeted all over twitter. And so I've been literally sitting on my hands to respect these wishes and not write about it. Even here. But I don't know how long I can keep that promise.

I remember that there were about a million other things I wanted to write about. My youngest son getting glasses. (Adorable.) My oldest son showing me his three new wiggly teeth. (Sad.) My baby showing me HIS three loose teeth which is DEFINITELY going to make me call off the vasectomy.

And lastly, I remember laying in bed and swearing to myself that I wouldn't forget about all the things I wanted to write about...tomorrow...when I wasn't so tired. And I swore that I'd get it all down in the morning.

And of course I forgot.

And the next time I put off writing, I need to remember that.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

BFF

2012-04-30T10:23:00.000-07:00

My youngest son has a best friend. I'll call him Sam.

Well, at least he and Sam were best friends on Thursday. Today is Monday, sooooo....it could have changed.

Their friendship has been an evolution, as they often are. It began last year, in Nursery 3. They hit it off immediately. Young male bonding over Magna-Tiles. They were sweet together. Holding hands on the way into school and sometimes in car line on the way out. They had in-depth discussions about the benefits and pitfalls being the class line leader or milk helper.

They had differences too. Sam was a healthy eater, devouring his fruit-and-veggie filled lunches while my son basically threw up in his mouth if you even mentioned the word "green."

Still, they were good together. At home, my son worked his friend's name into every conversation every two seconds. Mommy, do you know what Sam said today that was so funny? Mommy, can Sam and I have a play date? Mommy, Sam and I are going to go to high school/college/basketball school/work together. Mommy, I'm going to marry Sam.

Forget Jesus or Elijah. There has never been a more powerful presence at a dinner table than Sam has been at ours.

Then, in the middle of Nursery 3 Sam's family went on a sabbatical for six months. When you are five-years-old, six months feels like an eternity. Our son was devastated by this and spent every second of the entire six months talking about Sam, dreaming about Sam, making plans for when Sam came back.

But when Sam returned, their friendship had shifted. They weren't as close as they had been. My son had made new friends.

And then a few weeks ago we learned that Sam is moving to the East Coast for good. I broke the news to him gently. And he was crushed. Sam's impending departure catapulted him to the top of my son's BFF list once again. Obviously in denial, he began to discuss Sam's presence at his future birthday parties, play dates and sleepovers.

Anyone who heard Sam was moving offered our son a little smile and said something like: "Oh that's too bad. But he's so young. He'll make new friends."

And he will. Of course. He already has.

But the insinuation is always there that it's okay that his friend is moving because somehow this young friendship is expected to dissolve at some point. You can't actually think two little five-year-olds would remain friends forever. That's insane. I mean, they're too immature, too young.

And that sentiment, although well-intended, really annoys me. (Add it too the list, I know.)

Trust me, I realize that my son is just five. I share bathrooms with him for God's sakes. But I don't think it's fair to dismiss or discount young friendships just because they are, well, young. And in this field I consider myself a Jedi Master Ninjago Expert.

I met my best friends when I was just three years old. Or two-and-a-half. The age changes depending on which one of us you ask. Either way, at 42, that makes this friendship a remarkable 39-years old, give or take a few months.

Thirty-nine years.

We met in nursery school. We didn't have Magna-Tiles, true. But we did have the super soft, pink or blue napkins at lunchtime at Child Development, and let me tell you, NOTHING bonds little girls together (or tears them apart) like the great pink or blue napkin debate.

My mom doesn't remember who asked for the first play date. But from that moment on we were inseparable. And by inseparable I mean I don't think we spent more than two minutes apart for the next TEN YEARS.

It wasn't always easy. Friendships that begin that early have to endure a lot. Who sleeps next to who on sleepovers. Who is better friends with whom. Who collects more "beads" on the playground. Whose hair feathers better? (Well, clearly NOT mine.) If one of us started spending too much time at school with other people, it was war.

We did everything together. Everything. I had other friends, yes, but throughout grade school my eggs were primarily in the twins' basket. We called each other every morning to discuss our outfits for the day. We compared our moms' mac and cheese preparations. We liked the same boys. The younger twin (by 5 minutes) and I skated together for years. We went to camp together. We planning our weddings together. (I'm pretty sure that at one point or another we all planned to marry the same boy, and all live in the same house happily together....presumably in the Utah dessert.)

They remember my brother being born, my mom's hair twirling and my dad. We played and learned and laughed and fought and forgave and trick-or-treated and watched who shot JR together. My childhood was inextricably tied to them.

Until.

One night on the way home from yet another weekend away skating, they dropped the bomb on me.

"We have to tell you something," one of them said. "We're moving."

I didn't buy it. I mean, there's NO WAY they'd ever leave me. I blew it off. "Moving? Uh huh. Sure."

"No really, we are."

I challenged them. "Oh yeah? Where?"

"To Cornell."

Cornell? What the hell was Cornell? I had never heard of Cornell.

I shook my head. Nope. I told them it wasn't true. t told them that it wasn't funny.

They insisted it was true.

I got upset. Then angry. I am pretty sure I called them liars.

When we stopped for gas I did what I still do best when I'm upset. I called my mom.

"Mom," I whined. "The twins are being mean. They are telling me that they are moving. Can I put them on and will you tell them to stop?"

There was a long pause. And then my mom's voice: "They wanted to tell you themselves."

The earth shifted. I don't know that anyone else felt it which was really odd considering it registered a 974 PLUS on my personal Richter Scale. The rest of the car ride home was miserable. I don't know that we spoke. I'm sure I cried.

The following few weeks were rough too. (HUGE downplay.) I remember completely and utterly losing my cool and calling their house and berating them on the phone for what seemed like hours. I said our friendship had been lie. A farce. I screamed. I yelled. I cried. We all cried. And their mom got on the phone and told me that "that was enough." And she was right. It was. I hung up feeling even worse. My parents tried to comfort me, but come on. I mean, how do you make a 13-year-old feel better about losing a limb?

In the end, they didn't move to Cornell. They moved to Texas. Which also might as well have been somewhere off the coast of Australia.

On the day they moved, our parents took a gazillion pictures of us. On the couch. In the yard. In front of the (embarrassing reveal here) 1,700 posters of Michael Jackson that decorated every square inch of my room. "Smile!" they'd encourage as we sat there simply trying not to aspirate and die.

I found these pictures recently and they are THE MOST depressing pictures EVER TAKEN IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD. Or at least in Central Illinois. Or at least on our old street. They are also painfully honest and telling. Three sad teenage girls with bad haircuts trying to smile beyond the pain of a very lonely future. It sounds melodramatic now, but that day it was truly ALL THAT. At least it was for me.

That day I followed them to school where they said their last goodbyes at lunchtime. I trailed pathetically along behind them throughout the cafeteria feeling jealous that they were actually wasting time saying goodbye to all these other "friends" who couldn't possibly care as much as I did.

And then my family piled into our car and followed their family to the highway, where we all pulled off on the shoulder and had hugged one last time. We all cried. Again. And they drove off taking a piece of my soul with them.

Luckily my paralyzing fear of flying hadn't yet begun. And so my parents got me a plane ticket and put me on a plane to visit them -- probably BEFORE they'd even made it out of the state themselves.

Unbelievably, the friendship endured. Thrived even. Which is remarkable considering we had EVERYTHING working against us. First, it was the 80s. There was no iPhone. No email. No texting. No Facebook. No Skype. Long Distance calls were expensive and monitored and held over your head as a reward for not suffocating your sibling or passing math. But perhaps the biggest obstacle we faced wasn't the distance. It was the fact that we were teenage girls. You know, the species that delights in changing best friends every hour on the hour.

But we had pen and paper and a persistent will. And that trumps everything. Yes, even the iPhone.

And so, here we are, 39 years later. I've gotten over the devastation of the move. Sort of.

The younger twin and I still talk all at least once a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Sometimes three times a day. We've had periods where we didn't talk over the years, but it never mattered. We always picked up right where we left off. She was the first phone call I made when my dad died. I got one of the first gut-wrenching calls from her when she suffered the unthinkable. She introduced me to my husband. My boys know her. They know her boys. I can still taste their mom's mac and cheese.

The older twin and I don't talk on the phone nearly enough. But she is still an unremovable piece of me. After all, she was the one who told me in kindergarten that yes, I DID have to wear underwear to school, even if I was wearing a (oh so pretty) long, thick, quilted, patchwork dress.

Some bonds are simply unbreakable.

And so. My point is that often the youngest friendships can be the most enduring and most important. Because as you grow up you begin to create yourself. Your appearance. Your character. And there are fewer and fewer people out there, besides your family, who actually knew YOU before you became YOU. Those friends need to be treasured and saved and preserved.

I don't know what the future holds for my son and Sam. They've only had two years together. Maybe not a strong enough foundation to survive time and distance. But you never know. And so I will certainly not discount it.

I have told my son, that if they have the will, they will also find a way.

LYLAS.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!

A Positive Shot

2012-04-25T10:52:00.000-07:00

The nurse stood at the glass partition that separated my son's room in the ER from the hallway and beckoned me outside.

"Mom," she said sweetly. "Can I talk to you?"

The panic that I had somehow kept from boiling over for the past two hours, when starting at 12:30 AM our son woke up us screaming hysterically about his throat, started to rise again. I couldn't breathe. I knew it.....the little lymph node that my husband had felt in my son's throat wasn't just a lymph node.

"Sure," I said. But I didn't move. I just sat there trying not to throw up. I mean, if she needed to talk to me behind the glass door, well, that just wasn't good.

I looked at my son who was clutching the iPad and in the process of converting to the religion that is Plants vs. Zombies. Well, he may have looked like he wasn't listening but I knew he was paying attention to everything. We'd been here before after all. All this dodging beheaded zombies was just a cover.

The nurse cocked her finger at me. Let's go mom. I hopped off the bed as lightly as I could, gave my son a quick peck and walked toward the door feigning a positive attitude that would make a D-list actress proud. I even managed what I thought was a pretty convincing smile in her direction as I approached her. Whatever the news, I was going to be strong. Resilient. I would be the poster-child of moms who pretend to hold it together in the face on impending doom.

Easy enough to say. The three-step walk to the door almost killed me. I was sure I was going to cry. Or scream. Or collapse. At best. A monstrous tidal wave of panic was sweeping through me and I felt like I was drowning. Again.

When I reached the nurse she put her hand on my arm, bracing me. I moved my face into some unattractive shape, trying unsuccessfully, to keep the tears in check.

"It's strep," she said.

I paused.

Wait...what?

"Strep?" I repeated.

She nodded. "Yes, I'm sorry to say but it's definite. The strip turned pink immediately. He'll need antibiotics."

A huge, inappropriate smile began to spread over my face.

Strep! YEEEEESSSS! Oh. Thank. GOD.

At that moment she couldn't have said anything that would have made me happier. I almost did a fist-pump.

She frowned at me.

"You're familiar with strep," she repeated emphasizing the word to remind me that what we were discussing was a highly contagious bacteria, which didn't warrant a smile, much less the circus act I was about to perform.

I nodded, still smiling. Yes. I was familiar.

I had strep as a teenager. Once. And it was awful. Kind of. I mean, I was physically miserable, BUT it got me out of a huge geometry test, which in my mind made it a MUCH bigger blessing than a curse. But my best friend growing up seemed to contract strep throat every other Tuesday, and so, yes, I do know that it's not fun.

Yet I was thrilled for my son.

The disapproving look the nurse was giving me was well-deserved. I mean, what mom in their right mind is happy at hearing this news?

Well...me.

Because upon entering a hospital, there is nothing better than hearing: "We did a test. We found the problem. And now, we can fix it. No problemo! We'll just give you this medicine real quick and off you go! Problem solved."

And that is because as a parent there is nothing worse than being told: "We have done every test there is. We can't find anything. (Or, God forbid, we've found the worst possible thing.) And despite our best efforts, we don't know what it is or how to make him better."

THAT was the answer we received last year, around this same time, when our same son began complaining of throat pain. He had stopped eating. He had been clutching his throat and saying it felt like something was stuck in there. He was saying he couldn't breathe. We had rushed him into the ER and had him x-rayed and probed and examined. I was sure there was a fish bone there. No. Maybe a hair? No. Okay, a piece of chicken then? Still no. Okay, how about a scratch or wound from his sledding accident the week before? NO???? Despite his obvious discomfort, he checked out fine, and we were sent home with no diagnoses or treatment.

And then he got worse.

Another throat-clutching incident 24-hours later and he was back in the OR sedated and being scoped repeatedly. Then admitted to the hospital where for three days he endured a battery of tests, X-rays, swallowing tests, IVs, shots, morphine. And pain. He had lain in the hospital bed in complete distress begging for us, the doctors, someone, to help him get this "object" out of this throat. This object that the doctors couldn't find. They were three of the scariest days of my life, (matched only by the three weeks my youngest son spent in the hospital when he was born with two life-threatening illnesses, but that's another story.)

The doctors didn't doubt that my son was in agony. That much was clear to everyone within a three-mile radius with ears. But they couldn't find any cause or do anything to fix it. And these were some of the best pediatric doctors on planet earth. They tried. Diligently. But still, nothing.

And so we waited. And tested. And waited more. And it was unbearable. My husband held it together as only someone who has spent his life training how to handle this exact thing can do. I crumbled. To say I was a complete disaster would be putting a very positive spin on it. I don't handle stress well in general. My body absorbs it like a dehydrated sponge and then goes off looking for yet another hit.

There were moments where I didn't think I could survive this not knowing. Not knowing what was causing him so much pain. Not knowing when it would get better. Not knowing IF it would ever get better.

After three days we still knew nothing. The doctors, who had been so kind and so devoted to his care, said there was nothing else they could do at this point. They surmised that he must have suffered some minor throat trauma during his sledding accident the he could feel, but that they just couldn't see. And so my son was sent home. Still no diagnoses. And no improvement. Take him home and watch him. And wait. Those were our instructions. "Panic" was not listed on the discharge sheet, but I certainly would do that in spades as well. Waiting and Panicking are a package deal with me. An agonizing two-fer.

Thankfully, he did get better. Albiet slowly. He stopped eating. And talking. At five years old we reverted to an all liquid diet and baby foods just to get some nutrition in him. We communicated in nods and notes. It took at least a month before he started getting back to his normal, happy, playful self. We all exhaled the first time he lunged at his younger brother and started screaming at him with without having to manipulate his voice box to do so.

As a parent, those moments never leave your mind. Yet, you somehow move forward, which we did.

Until this weekend, when the throat-clutching began again.

But this time, when we walked in that same ER, with my son almost as hysterical as he had been a year ago, they quickly identified the problem. They told us they could fix it. No problemo! And given our recent history this made me happy on a level I couldn't really put into words. So I just smiled stupidly and tried not to fist-pump.

We were given two options. A shot of Penicillin and then treatment was over and done. Or a 10-day course of antibiotics. Option two would spare him the needle, but require me to be on top of his antibiotics. Being pathologically Type A you'd think this would be a suitable job for me -- but no. I am very organized and meticulous unless it requires medicating and then I am hopeless. At least for myself. My house is filled with near-empty bottles of my own antibiotics. I routinely leave the last 2 or 3 pills in every bottle. And I believe this is okay, despite the fact that I know it's really not.

We opted for the one-and-done option.

When he heard about the shot, my son went berserk and I don't blame him. My husband and I had STUPIDLY promised him that he wouldn't need a shot before we left the house. WHY we said that I don't know. But I will never make that mistake again. In fact, just to be safe, from this moment on I will cover my butt by telling him the he may need a shot wherever he is going... the hospital, the dentist, the aquarium...

The needle was huge and my son was a mess. But I did my job. I sat on his bed, I comforted him. I held him (which was NOT easy as he was doing his best impression of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.) I told him over and over that it would all be okay. Everything would be okay.

The whole time hiding my face from him as I smiled deliriously to myself because this time I actually knew it would be.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook

Best Reference Letter. Ever.

2012-04-16T18:17:00.000-07:00

And then there are those moments when there is no fighting over the iPhone or who is the fastest runner. And being a mom is the most heart-warming job in the whole entire world.
Yes, even better than being asked to join the E Street Band.

"I love you mommy so much you are the best mommy ever I love you infinity and beyond."

Surviving the Happiest Place on Earth

2012-04-15T08:54:00.010-07:00

This year my husband had a conference in Orlando during spring break. We jumped at the chance to turn this into a special Disney trip that the boys would cherish forever.

Almost 7, my oldest is onto the fact that there is some poor soul sweating unhappily inside that Mouse costume. But my five-year-old still believes. Or at least, he wants to believe. Ask him if that oversized, awkward-moving Winnie The Pooh is real and he will give you a definitive "yes" with a sad, wistful look in his eyes.

And so we made our plan. (And when I say "we made our plan" I mean, my husband and I agreed we needed a plan. Then he went off to work and I alone sat down and made a plan.) I tackled Disney the way I did any assignment from Ogilvy back in the day. I stockpiled pens and papers and folders and sat around with my feet on a coffee table, computer on my lap, and panicked.

I had forgotten how big Disney was. Or maybe it wasn't that big back then. We didn't have Buzz Lightyear and Monsters Inc. or a thousand of the other rides and parks and places that are there now. Legoland didn't exist three decades ago and therefore didn't present parents with a massive problem: To go to Legoland or not to go and have the boys hear about it at school and forever remind you that their first trip to the Happiest Place on Earth was marred by this blatant oversight.

(We chose not to go. I'm still waiting for that shoe to drop.)

And so. I talked to countless people about the parks, the rides and these fast passes, which also didn't exist the last time I was there. I read books, reviews and websites. I downloaded touring plans and made reservations. I researched. I prepped. I asked pertinent questions. (Should I bring a stroller since my son starts to whine after walking five steps, or will he be so filled with shock and awe by the magical surroundings that he'll just suck it up and joyfully skip through the park?) I whittled my stomach lining down to nothing with anxiety.

And when the day came, I was ready. I had a folder filled with the best rides for kids and the must-eat-at restaurants. My iPhone was loaded with apps that would tell me at any given time exactly how long the line was for the Mad Tea Party.

We were going to take on The Happiest Place On Earth and we were going to have FUN dammit. Easy, relaxed, well-planned and militant-organized FUN.

And we did. Kind of. Actually it depends on who you ask. If you ask my husband, he'll say it went great. Yes, it was busy and non-stop and hectic, (he was after all, there to work). But we did a lot and saw a lot and somehow managed to cram almost everything in. Sure, we had to adjust and adapt our expectations and schedules at the last minute and more or less go with the flow, but it worked.

Sadly, that's where things begin to fall apart for me. Unfortunately, "go with the flow" is something I don't know how to do whatsoever. I was born a planner. I pretty sure I came into the world clutching a to-do list of the things I needed to accomplish on Day 1. My body physically rebels against any attempt to "play things by ear."

Let me be more clear about this. Deviating from plans at all throws me into a tailspin. In public places when this happens, I try and maintain a modicum of composure for appearance's sake, but inside, I actually start to suffer a series of small strokes. What are we going to DO if we're not sticking to The Plan? How will we get everything DONE? How will we have FUN? Because as you can clearly see, FUN is scheduled, right here, in the right-hand margin, between 10-11 AM. I've even highlighted it to emphasize its importance. If we skip that, we're screwed!

Still, thanks to my husband, I am often dragged, kicking and screaming toward a more chill approach to things. I may shrug my shoulders and appear to the outside world to be the poster-child for adaptability, but rest-assured I am internally shutting down and mentally clinging to the lists I've meticulously hand-written on flash cards and then retyped in Word. I simply don't know how to let go of the schedule I've mapped out in my head or the notes I've made and highlighted in the margins of my mind.

But I digress.

If you ask ME how the trip went I'll also say "great." But we've been home for a few weeks now. I have a fantastic prescription for hindsight which usually helps me see that, yes, everything in fact DID go really well. Despite.

In fact, I have completely forgotten how upset I was that we ended up canceling all of our super important Character Dinners that I agonized over FOR WEEKS. What? We're NOT going to stay at the park until midnight and instead come back to the hotel at 2 PM for some fun pool time? I forgot about that seconds ago. I barely remember that we didn't go on Peter Pan on Day One at Magic Kingdom when we were ALREADY ON that side of the park and therefore had to make a mad dash there on Day Two so that we could get it out of the way and return back to the other side of the park and get on Splash Mountain.

See? Under the bridge.

And the boys? Well, they loved it. Especially the unscheduled pool time. And I don't know for sure, but I'm not sure they even realized that the Starbucks bagel we shoved down their throats Friday morning so we could get to The Magic Kindgom before the rest of America was NOT even on my PhDisney schedule.

Still. Despite the trip's success, I don't know that we'll be racing back next year. Or the year after.

It's not that I don't get Disney, because I do. Much to my embarrassment, I actually stood in line alone to ride It's A Small World because I had to relive the memory. My three boys bailed on me and so I, for nostalgia's sake, sat through what felt like three hours of spinning dolls and that song. (I actually do like the song, it would be inhumane not to like it, BUT perhaps a short 25-second snipped on iTunes would have sufficed.) I also insisted on the Peter Pan and Snow White rides. Simply because somewhere deep down inside of me I have never forgotten how exhilarating it felt to lift off over London Bridge or how scared I was of the Evil Queen and her botched manicure.

But the next time I go, (down the road, with my grandchildren) I'm going to plan a little differently. In fact, I've already started my list:

BRING THE STROLLER: Unless your child is pushing 80 and wheelchair bound, bring the damn stroller. In fact, make it a double.

PLAN AHEAD: There is A LOT of ground to cover there and the park charges about $10,000 per step. If you want to get your money's worth, you're going to want to do a fair number of things each day. Go online. Research. Talk to people. Make a plan. Then be prepared to have all these plans unmaliciously yet, most definitely, tossed out the window by the people you loving created them for.

PUT A CHIP IN YOUR CHILD: I realize this isn't legal, or maybe even humane, and I really don't understand why the hell not. We ID our pets. We don't want to risk losing our pets. But our children? We'll take the chance. And the parks are SO crowded. Miserably crowded. Especially around 2 PM. If your child is too old for one of those kiddie leashes, (i.e., over 30) then I recommend writing their names, hotel info and you and your spouses' cell phone numbers on a piece of paper and putting it in their shoe. Don't forget to tell your kids it's in there. Make sure they know that if they get lost, they need to take out this piece of paper and to give it to an adult, preferably someone holding a magic wand, who has been screened and found to NOT be a known child molester. I'm assuming that somewhere in all those layers of tulle they have a pocket with a cell-phone in case of emergency.

TALK ABOUT SEX: If you plan to have more than one child, make sure that they are the same sex. Otherwise you will be forced to separate from your spouse and their same-sex child most of the time you are at the park. You will not see them again until you are checking in at the airport gate. Because one will want to go plunging down the five-story vertical Splash Mountain drop while the other will want to spend THREE HOURS IN LINE waiting to meet Rapunzel.

RAPUNZEL: I so badly wanted to talk to the poor girl beneath the hair and make-up and just ask her how she was really doing. But I wasn't willing to stand in that damn line.

FAST PASSES: Besides your health, these are the most important things on earth. Be aware that they can sell-out by mid-day and then you are really and truly screwed.

GO ON THE RIDES WITH YOUR KIDS: Don't wimp out. Even if you know they will make you sick. Remarkably, there will be a grown-up in the bathroom who handled the Star Tours simulator ride worse than you. I promise.

COMMUNICATE: Talk to your spouse about WHICH of the six million nearby stroller parking lots you're parking your stroller in. Or make a note in your iPhone. This helps if you have an iPhone.

DON'T LOSE YOUR iPHONE: God, whatever you do -- do not let it out of your sight when your plane touches down in Orlando, OR when you're using the restroom after the flight OR in the rental car line. Chain it to your body, glue it to the palm of your hand, but just DO NOT LOSE IT.

HAVE FUN AND ENJOY THE RIDE: Don't worry if it doesn't all go according to plan. Because it won't. And it will still be fine - and fun. And if you figure out how to do this, please let me know.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Party time

2011-10-14T11:13:00.000-07:00

My youngest son is having a party. Yes, he's turning five in a few weeks, but that's not the party he's focused on right now. He's thinking ahead about a HUGE party he's planning. He announced this last week on the way home from school. And I'm psyched. Granted I'll be in my 70s when it happens but from what I hear, it's going to be a blast.

First, he's going to invite his four best friends from school. And these guys are weally, weally funny. Think about the funniest people you know. Then multiply that by infinity billion. That's how funny these guys are. Oh, and I'm invited too. And daddy. He's not sure about his six-year old brother yet but he's thinking about it. It hinges largely on whether or not his brother helps him find his missing Lego Star Wars Droid before then. Right now it's not looking so good.

His last birthday party was at Pump-it-Up. But that was so 2010. For this party they are going to THE BEST PLACE ON EARTH. Which, according to my son, is New York. Or California. Or Utah. Or Santa Fe. Or Central Illinois. But most likely it'll be New York. Or California. Or Utah. Or Santa Fe. Or Central Illinois.

And even though he's not quite five yet, my son realizes that in life, it's all about the journey. And so he's decided he and his friends are going to this party in style. No cross-country road trip for them. No, they are going to get a plane. (Legally I assume, but he wasn't clear on that.) And they are going to have so much fun on the plane. Everyone gets a window seat. Unless you don't want one, then you don't have to sit in a window seat. But you should because it's super cool to see out the window. There are going to be snacks. Lots of snacks and not just those stupid twisty pretzels. There's going to be Pirate Booty. The white kind with the cheese. And chocolate. And juice boxes. I know this because I am responsible for packing and holding it all.

But that's just the beginning. When they get to New York, or California, or Utah, or Santa Fe, or Central Illinois, they are going to go into a hotel...and....this is the best part according to my son....drink beer. Lots of beer. Probably six whole beers.

And of course there will be cake. White and chocolate.

But perhaps the most enticing part is that (and I know you're going to be envious now) everyone is going to share a room.

AND a bathroom.

Can't wait? Well, you have to. This party is for his 41st birthday. Which is in 36 years and 20 days.

Still, it doesn't hurt to plan ahead and so I asked if I could bring a few friends of my own. I got an emphatic no. Followed by a yes. I was told I could bring Lucy, our cat. Now, math isn't my strong suit but by my basic calculations, I am pretty sure that Lucy, who is 10 now, will be the ripe old age of dead by then, so I'm not going to turn in her RSVP just yet.

When I pointed out that my plus-one may not be in great travel form in three decades, I was told I could invite our close friends Matt and Cheryl. I was then told that aside from myself and his grandmas, no girls are allowed. (So my apologies Cheryl, but I now have to revoke your invite.)

Four guys sharing six beers and one bathroom in New York. Or California. Or Utah. Or Santa Fe. Or Central Illinois. With their aging parents. It's clearly going to be the party of the century.

I hope you all get an invite.

But don't hold your breath.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Brain freeze

2011-09-29T17:10:00.000-07:00

How is it possible that my four-year-old can correctly, and without pause, remember the score of the Capitals/Blackhawks game from last March, but cannot recollect what happened in school three minutes after dismissal?

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

What I learned this week

2011-09-28T17:52:00.000-07:00

That Sharkey attends Bug Language School (taught by an Octopus of course) during the day. He takes a "coo" (school) bus there and home, which is impressive considering Sharkey is made up entirely of synthetic fibers, has two glass eyes, no legs, and we have not yet given him a house key.

That the Octopus teacher can crush the sharks because it's the king of the class.

That an Electric Sono Dragon and an Electro Sonic Dragon are two completely different things. Or maybe not. (Or that maybe we need speech therapy.)

That my son has a medium-sized army of jumping jack ants living under his bed. They sleep with cozy blankets and pillows, are very happy and consider my son their daddy.

That if the Blackhawks versed Dernard Robinson, Dernard Robinson would win, even though he probably can't skate, because he is weally, weally fast.

That birthday cakes have to come with both chocolate and white cake in the middle because people like both and need to eat both at the same time to be happy. People don't want to have to chose. People shouldn't have to choose. People are upset when they have to choose. Specifically the two smallest people living in my house.

That a water spider is faster than a Lambroghini. It can travel 400 miles an hour. Even faster on a hardware floor in socks.

That my four year old visited a science lab at the university this week where a special germ was planted into his hand and will grow. Into what, I am not exactly sure.

That the second-best profession ever in the whole world (right behind being a fire-breathing dragon) is becoming a member of "The Great Eight."

That "The Great Eight" has something to do with hockey.

That every now and then, when I'm having a particularly good day, I am capable of making the almost perfect cup of hot chocolate. But also...

That I forgot to buy tiny marshmallows.

That my youngest son really, really loves watermelon. He promises. Really. The fact that he refuses to eat it and can't control his gag reflex when he does means nothing.

That paper beats rock. Rock beats scissors. Scissors beats paper. Hot lava beats rock. Kriptonite beats hot lava. Magic beats T-Rex (sometimes). Open window beats centipede. Tornado beats hot lava.

That I have a lot to learn.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Nighttime Vows

2011-09-14T11:30:00.000-07:00

Bedtime had come and gone hours before. So at 9:20 PM there was really no excuse for snuggling in bed with my boys and discussing deep topics such as how long I'm going to live, or exactly when I'm going to die. But sometimes that's just what organically happens when you're talking about Star Wars with kids. And before going to sleep both my boys wanted written confirmation that I'd live to be no less that 100 years old.

As gently as possible I tried to tell them know that I couldn't promise them how long I'd live, but that I hoped to live for many, many, many, years so that I could see them both grow up, graduate from their schools, turn into men, get married and have babies of their own.

At which point my four-and-three-quarter year old son asked me if everyone had to get married. I said no, not all all. Some people want to, and some don't. And you can decide what you want to do when you grow up. To which he announced that he was not ever going to get married. I asked why not.

"I just don't want to," he said.
"But don't you have a reason?" I asked.
"I don't like to dance," he said.
"You don't have to dance just because you get married."*** (See footnote)
He paused. "Well, what happens when you get married?"
"What do you mean, what happens?" I asked.
"Do you have to go into a room and do something?" he asked.
I paused, not sure exactly what X-Rated things he had heard on the playground. You know, in nursery school....
I pressed my luck.
"What kind of room? What kinds of things would we do?" I asked.
"With another man?" he asked.
Okay, enough.
"Yes," I said. "Actually there was another man at our wedding. He was a Rabbi and he was the man who married me and daddy. And if you get married then you will have a Rabbi, or someone else, who can marry you and your wife."
"I don't want a wife," he said.
"Who do you want to marry?" I asked.
"You."
"Okay, but say you can't marry me because I'm already married to daddy and I don't want to go to jail. Who's your next choice?"
"Lucy," he said. (Our cat.)
"Okay, fine," I say.
"Can I marry Lucy?" he asked.
"No," I said. "But let's worry about that later. You love her and that's what's most important. So here's what happens. The Rabbi will stand in front of you and your wife..."
"No, in front of me and Lucy!" he said.
"Yeah, right," I said. "You and Lucy. And you will promise each other that you will love each other forever, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, till death do you part. Meaning you'll love each other until you die no matter what happens. Isn't that sweet?"
"Yeah," he said. "But I don't think I want to do that. Not even with you or Lucy. But maybe just with you. But I'm not sure yet."
"But I didn't get to the best part," I said.
"What's the best part?" he asked.
"After that part is over you get to have a big party with all your friends and family celebrating getting married. There is music and dancing..."
"I said I don't want to dance!" he said.
"Okay no dancing," I said. "You can all just stand around and eat cake."
"I like cake," he said.
"I know," I said.
"Can I have two pieces since it's going to be my party?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "We can arrange that."
"But only I get two pieces. He (pointing to his brother's top bunk) only gets one piece."
"I think there will be plenty of cake for everyone," I said.
"No I don't think so," he said. "Anyway, he (again point toward his big brother) might not be invited."
"Oh he'll be there," I said. "Everyone who loves you will be there."
"Can I invite my whole class?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "Your whole nursery school class can come."
"Can I invite Oliver?" (Best friend from school)
"Of course. I'm sure Oliver would be very excited to come."
"Okay, then I want to do that."
"Good," I said. "Then we've got half the plans set. We just need to find you a wife. Just remember, no babies until you have a wife."
"I don't want babies," he said.
"You don't want to be a daddy?"
"Not really," he said. "Unless you're the mommy. Can you still be the mommy? You're a good mommy. Sometimes. Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm happy with you. Because tonight I ate my raspberries and you still didn't give me a treat. And that's not fair."
"No I can't be the mommy of your baby," I said. "You need to find another girl to be your wife and the mommy. But not for 20 years."
"What if my wife doesn't have a baby?" he asked. "What if a cat comes out of her tummy instead? Can that happen? How can I get the cat into the mommy's tummy?"

I check the clock. 9:45. I give my littlest guy a kiss on the cheek and a big hug and say goodnight.
And I promise to address that topic in another few years.

FOOTNOTE: ***No. My husband and I do not dance regularly, or even irregularly, at home. I have no clue where he got this idea.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

The Rules of the Game

2011-08-26T19:18:00.000-07:00

I've never really played soccer so I admit I don't know all the rules of the game. But I know some. I know that you are supposed to kick the ball into the other team's net. And you can't use your hands. But my six-year-old son has taken several soccer classes now and knows a bit more than me. So yesterday when we went to the park I deferred to him.

Me: Okay, we need teams and there are only three of us so I can just watch and referee.

Older son: No. You two (pointing to me and my youngest son) are on different teams. I'm the judge.

Me: It's referee, not judge.

Son: Mommy, listen....

Me: Okay, okay go on.

Son: We can't use a soccer ball. We're using my Bakugan ball because it will explode and a regular soccer ball won't. At level two you both have to play and when one of you gets frozen then the other has to score quickly unless the ball is also frozen, which can happen in this game -- it really can -- and it might happen if you're not fast enough. So you have to be fast. Are you going to be fast.?

Me: (Looking at my flip-flops) Maybe...

Son: So you have to tag the other person, but not if you're frozen or if the ball has exploded because you got the bad guy half.

Me: What bad guy?

Son: Just listen....I'm telling you!

Me: Okay.

Son: Okay, I'm not sure who is the bad guy yet. But you can also punch. But there is a code over there (pointing to trees that back up to Metra tracks) but you have to unlock the code before it explodes...

Me: Before what explodes?

Son: (clearly exhasperated with my ignorance) The ball....

Me: Of course. Go on.

Son: Okay, so mommy, you're it. You're frozen though for 10 minutes and cannot move. He (pointing to little brother) has the ball. And also, I'm going to be frozen too and the only way to unfreeze me is to crawl between my legs. But remember that the ball is fine. Until it explodes. You have to throw the ball at me but you can't hit my head or my legs and if I get back to base first before it explodes or the lock is opened then I'm not it anymore. But you have to let me have a head-start and then only try and get me. But remember I can't be frozen. Okay?

Younger son: What if I get thirsty?

Son: There are no water breaks allowed. (Pause) Mommy? Where is our water?

Me: Right here....

Son: Is it still cold? Can I have some?

Me: Sure....

Son: Okay, so I'm the captain but only until you free me. Or open the lock. Don't forget about the lock.

Me: Okay, fine. What else?

Son: No squeezing.

Me: No squeezing what?

Son: No squeezing necks.

Me: Yes, that's a good idea.

Younger son: I don't wanna play.

Me: No, this is good. Let's play. What else do we need to know?

Son: That's it. That's the game.

Me: Really, that's it?

Son: Yes. Well, that's level two. Levels three and four get much harder.

Me: Wait, what's level one?

Son: Regular soccer.

Game on.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Tucked out

2011-08-01T09:55:00.000-07:00

Endings upset me. I'm not picky, it doesn't matter what kind of an ending it is. A book ending, a relationship ending, a favorite TV show...they all make me sad. Even the endings I've been looking forward to (leaving our old home) tend to upset me because it's change and I struggle with change.

So it is probably a good thing that I wasn't aware that the last night I snuggled with my six-year-old in his bed would be the last night I would really be able to do so.

When we moved into our new home a few weeks ago we set their beds up as bunk beds. My oldest son couldn't wait to sleep up on top. And my little guy couldn't wait for his older brother to sleep up on top. Until he realized that meant he couldn't see his brother when he was talking to him. Then he decided it was a horrible idea. He stopped speaking to me for seven minutes in protest.

But still, we did it.

A guy came to set them up. When he was finished he asked how we liked it. We all agreed that it was great. He grabbed his tools and left. I didn't realize at that moment that he was also taking a piece of my oldest son's childhood with him when shut the door behind him.

Within minutes both boys were scrambling up the ladder to see how cool the top bunk really was. One thing lead to another and within seconds I was screaming at them to stop shoving and pushing on the ladder, that there was to be no wresting -- EVER -- on that top bunk, or leaning over the side, or jumping up and down, or even breathing too heavily for fear of it collapsing or I would take it apart with my own two hands and they would have to sleep side by side again and then they wouldn't have room for the Lego table in their room anymore.

My younger son pouted as he crawled down. My older son ignored me. Or maybe he just couldn't hear me all the way up there.

So I climbed the ladder to make sure he knew the rules about sleeping in the top bunk. He was already giving it a test run, nestled under his Spider Man blanket surrounded by his favorite animals. I called out his name once. Twice.

Nothing.

I shook his leg.

He told me to leave him alone, he was practicing sleeping.

I took another step up to climb in bed with him and stopped. I realized that the top bunk probably was not meant to hold a 40+-pound boy, his mommy and all of his dolls. Or maybe it was, but with my younger son pouting in his bed directly beneath me I didn't want to take the chance. So I climbed down. And with every step on the ladder I felt my older son drifting farther and farther away.

I'm being melodramatic of course. I excel at that. But I was sad because I realized in that moment that my days of snuggling with my first baby were essentially over. Sure I'd have that chance on vacations or any place were they weren't in bunk beds. But at home those moments were gone. And by the time they were tired of bunk beds, or too big for them, they'd certainly be too big for mommy to lay in bed with them, scratching their backs and asking about their day.

Instead, from now on I'd be kissing him goodnight before sending him up the ladder into his bed. Any snuggles that he'd get would be in his small chair on the floor. Any nighttime stories would have to be told, not cuddled in bed, but sitting on the floor or in his brother's bottom bunk with his brother complaining that he didn't have enough room with all three of us in there and that "Baby Ankylosaurus" was getting squished, which in this house is akin to crimes against humanity.

I know not everyone believes it's good to get in bed with your kids. Independent sleep is important. No one knows that better than this mom who's first child began boycotting sleep just as all of his peers were realizing 10+ hours was a good thing. So we never let the kids sleep in our bed with us. We wanted them comfortable in their own room, in their own beds. Happily independent. But still, no matter how spent we were at day's end, we crawled into theirs every night for a few minutes. And the snuggles were as much for us as for them. Faced with the horribly unfair realization that their day was over, they suddenly remembered all the information they had "forgotten" right after school or camp or a play date that they wanted to share with us. Nothing like the threat of sleep to spur a six-year-old's memory.

It was often the best part of my day. Partially because it meant I would finally have some of that elusive "me" time, and partially because in their cozy dinosaur pajamas, under their Spider Man comforters, they were sweeter, happier, more loving and less likely to launch a Matchbox Car at my head.

We'd check on them periodically throughout the night and make sure their bodies weren't hanging sideways off the bed, their covers were up around their chins, and their dollies were easily reachable when they woke up. I'd marvel at how these same faces, peaceful, innocent and angelic, were the same ones that were trying to mutilate each other just hours earlier.

Now, I can no longer even see my son sleeping all the way up in his bunk, beneath his covers. I can't put my finger under his nose or on his chest to confirm breath. Instead I now comfort myself by feeling around under the blankets to find a warm ankle or toe. A little tickle to the foot followed by a small kick tells me everything's okay. I'm adapting.

The week before we moved into our new home we stayed at my aunt and uncle's house. The last night there I crawled into their twin, non-bunk bed beds and snuggled with them. We talked about our old house and the new one we were moving into the next morning. We discussed where we'd put things (no the litter box wasn't going next to mommy's side of the bed.) After half-an-hour I kissed them goodnight and got up. My older son asked me to stay longer but I said no. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. They needed to get to sleep. And I left.

Had I realized that that was one of the last nights to snuggle with him in bed I would have stayed there longer.

Not much longer. Just another 12 years or so.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Hangman with a four-year-old

2011-07-10T21:24:00.001-07:00

It's a Life Sentence on facebook.

20 Questions

2011-07-08T20:47:00.000-07:00

We commute. Therefore we play twenty questions in the car. A lot. In the beginning it was just silly. Our six-year-old always chose T-Rex. Our four-year-old, Spiderman. And I mean Every. Single. Time. It would have been horrendously boring if it wasn't such a riot.

But now, a year or two later, their minds have expanded they have a whole new wealth of ideas. Now that they're no longer limited to web slinging superheroes and carnivores it's actually gotten tricky.

Today's game with my four-year-old was one for the records.

Son: Okaaaay. I got it!
Me: Is it alive?
Son: Uh, no. I mean yes. Okay, no. No it's definitely not alive. I don't think.
Me: Did it used to be alive?
Son: No.
Me: Is it a toy?
Son:( LONG PAUSE) No.
Me: Is it a place?
Son: No. Do you want me to tell you what it is?
Me: No.
Me: Is it a thing?
Son: Yes. But it's not alive. It is NOT a bird.
Me: Okay. Thanks. Have you seen one before?
Son: Yes.
Me: Here in Chicago.
Son: No. It's not in Chicago.
Me: Is it in another state?
Son: Yes. Do you want a hint?
Me: Sure.
Son: It's red.
Me: Red. Hm, okay. Did we see it in Utah?
Son: Yes. Actually, no. Actually, I'm not so sure about that.
Me: Did we see it in Florida?
Son: Yes.
Me: On Spring Break?
Son: (EXCITED) Yesssss....do you want me to tell you what it is?
Me: No.
Me: Is it a swimming pool?
Son. Nooo. Pools aren't red mommy. Do you want another hint?
Me: No. Not yet.
OLDER SON INTERRUPTING: IT WOULD BE RED IF A SHARK SWAM INTO THE POOL AND ATE EVERYONE IN IT. IT WOULD BE RED BECAUSE THERE WOULD BE BLOOD.
Me: Okay, stop. He already said it's not a pool.
Son. Okay. Do you want a hint?
Me: Yes.
Son: It's a crescent shape.
OLDER SON INTERRUPTING: IS IT THE MOON?
Son: Stop talking to me you can't play cheater! Only mommy can play!!!!
Me: Is it the moon?
Son: No.
Me: Okay, so it's red and it's a crescent.
Son: NOOOOO. I said it's kinda red and it is also kinda a crescent shape.
Me: And it's not a toy?
Son: No.
Me: Was it in Key West?
Son: Let me think.
(REALLY LONG PAUSE)
Son: I'm not sure. Ask me something else.
Me: Is it stone crabs?
Son. No. How many questions do you have left?
Me: Nineteen.
Son. Okay. Ask more. But I can't tell you what other color it is because then you'll weally, weally know what it is!
Me: Oh, it's not just red?
Son: No, but I can't tell you that. You have to guess!
Me: Okay, is it another color than red?
Son: (PAUSE) Yes.
Me: Is it purple?
Son: No.
Me: And it's not in Chicago?
Son: It IS in Chicago. It's in every city. Every state in the whole wide world.
Me. Oh...you said it was not in Chicago.
Son. Yes it IS. It's everywhere.
Son: Do you want me to tell you what it is?
Me: No. Not ye...
Son. It's a WATERMELON!!!!!
Me: Ohhhh. Watermelon. That's a good one.
OLDER SON SCREAMING: WATERMELONS AREN'T CRESCENTS UNLESS YOU TAKE A BITE! YOU SHOULD HAVE PICKED THE MOON! THAT IS CRAZY! MY TURN!

Older Son: Okay, I got it!
Me: Is it alive?

And I thought Hangman was fun.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Toy Story

2011-06-27T09:35:00.000-07:00

I can't count how much money we've spent at Toy's R Us, Legoland, Target and Amazon in the past six years. Let's just say we could have fed, housed and put a small country through the Ivy Leagues for the same amount.

We are happy to do it. The way our boys' faces light up when they open up a gift they have been "wanting for years and years and years" (despite the fact they are only six and four-and-a-half) makes it worth it.

Or it did until last week.

This summer, like last, we are spending four weeks at my mom's house in central Illinois so the kids can go to the same swim camp that I went to at their age. It's small town living and a nice, necessary, break from the city. The boys absolutely love it. Nothing is far here and we get around much "quicklier" than we do in the city. They can run around in a backyard for eight hours straight (in tennis shoes, not sandals because they are city kids and they don't like the feel of grass on their skin.) Spend lazy afternoons hunting and analyzing all kinds of bugs we just don't have in the city (thank god!) And ultimately make me realize that my husband and I, and all our relations, may have wasted a small fortune on toys for them.

The other day when they came home from camp they walked in the front door of the house, straight through the house and right back outside the back door. They spent the next hour punishing each other with Super Soaker Water Guns. I mentally patted myself on the back for thinking of this gift and actually remembering to tell my husband before he went toy shopping last week. (It was a birthday week, we don't have weekly toy-shopping trips.) However, the smugness was fleeting.

Soaking wet and tired of pulling the trigger, my oldest (now six) tossed the gun aside and pulled out the garden hose and a small plastic bucket that looked like it had been made at the turn of the century – and not this most recent century. He filled the bucket with water and a little dirt and then "sat" down next to it in that crouched squat that only very young kids and hard-core Yogis can do for extended periods of time. He stared into the murky waters, one arm protectively curled around the edge of the bucket, the other gripping a bug-catcher we picked up from Walgreens last summer.

I didn't pay much attention to what he was doing....for the first 15 minutes, that is. But after 45 minutes, when he was still squatting and staring into the bucket I became curious and asked what he was up to. He was too absorbed with whatever was happening inside that bucket to answer and waved me away. He didn't even look up.

Another 30 minutes passed. He barely moved a muscle. He got up once to check out an ant his brother was inspecting and then he went right back to squat central. Another hour passed.

Any and all attempts I made to ask what he was doing were waved away. I took some pictures, which annoyed him, but didn't distract him enough to move. He spent the rest of the afternoon squatting down in front of that old bucket filled with muddy, grassy water. Just staring into its depths and occasionally poking at it with his bug catcher.

I looked from him into my mom's living room, where it looked like Toys' R Us had projectile vomited all over the floor. It was littered with Legos, Matchbox cars, 1,000 Kapla Blocks (I had my mom get as a 6th birthday present), tiny plastic animals, crayons and coloring pads. Hundreds of dollars of entertainment. And my son was spending hours squatting over an old bucket filled with water.

I took another picture of him and sent it to my husband letting him know that we were no longer going to buy more toys. All we needed was a hose, bucket and some dirt.

The next day was a repeat. Toys were glanced at but largely ignored en route from the front door to the back door which my oldest son slammed open and shut before refilling another bucket with some mud and water. He added a few ants, grabbed his bug catcher and crouched down again to sit and watch. This time his little brother joined in the fun, making "Icky Chocolate Poop Soup" with basically the same ingredients: an old bucket, water, dirt, grass and bugs. Sand shovels were used as whisks as my little prep cook stirred and stared. Another afternoon passed.

I cleaned up the toys inside, taking apart the elaborate block structure I had been told to leave alone five days earlier. But I was tired of stepping over it. Half-finished Legos were set aside. Cars extracted from under the couch. I expected full blown rage over the dismantled block structure. I shouldn't have worried. They didn't notice.

I'll admit that at first I was a little annoyed that they weren't playing with all the toys I had brought down for them. I had driven myself somewhat crazy trying to make sure that I had filled my car with anything and everything they might want to do while we were downstate.

Turns out it wasn't necessary. The only thing I really needed to do was call my mom and make sure there was no drought prohibiting people from turning on the water.

Seeing my boys so mesmerized with something so simple actually made me happy. It took me back to my own childhood. Not that I was content with just a stick and a ball, please I'm not that old. We had toys and dolls and Star Wars action figures and Legos and, well, you name it, we had it. We just didn't have as much stuff as my boys have today.

But the thing is, I don't really remember the toys. Aside from the stuff my mom kept and pulls out for my own boys today, I just don't remember playing with toys that much, although I know I did. What I remember is the time I spent outside at home and at my own grandpa's house in Alabama. Kicking open huge ant houses and watching the millions of little critters scurry around dizzingly trying to regroup. Discovering the bunny rabbits who had babies by the garden. Watching the fish swim in their pond. Worms covering the sidewalks after it rained. The simple things. That is what left an indelible mark on my memory. It has nothing to do with toys or stuff.

Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled that my husband and I can give our kids so much. But the reality is that none of it really matters. None of these things will be what they carry with them in their minds when they grow up. It's the memories they make with the odd shovel and pail of water that really count. And money can't buy that.

We live in the city and so I sometimes worry that my boys won't have the chance to make those same memories. Sure, we are surrounded by parks and playgrounds and big grassy areas for our boys to run and play in. But they all require an "Outing." Bags are packed up, water bottles are filled and nerves are tested being out of bathroom range. Being able to spend hours squatting over a muddy bucket just doesn't happen at home because Mommy has to get home to make dinner.

And so it's rare that the boys can experience the simple pleasure of just running around in a backyard, chasing "flierflies"until they can't even see each other anymore through the dark. And so down here, this summer, their joy is evident. And contagious.

I realize that by bringing my boys down to a small town for the summer I'm actually able to give them the biggest gifts of all. Nature. Freedom. And space.

And, of course, bugs.

So perhaps for the next three months our investment in all the toys we've bought will not payoff. But I don't care. Come January we will see huge returns as temperatures once again plunge into the "Wait, Why Don't We Live in Southern California?" zone.

Until then, it's a loss I'm happy to take.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Doggone it.

2011-06-11T17:56:00.000-07:00

You know you are the only female in the house when everyone – except you – leaves the dinner table in the middle of eating to go see "a poop that's shaped like a hot dog."

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Say Cheese

2011-06-03T18:18:00.000-07:00

After eating about a dozen mini soy corn dogs and a bowl of peas and corn (to ease my guilt about the corn dogs), my boys announced that they were starving and wanted to know what they could have for a snack.

I asked what they wanted.

It was unanimous. Cheese.

So I pulled out a wedge of cheese I had just bought from Trader Joe's. Spanish Manchego.

They'd never had it so I gave each boy a cautious slice.

My oldest boy shoved the whole thing in his mouth and starting moaning immediately.

"Mommy, this is soooooooo good. Mmmmmm. Mmm. Mmm. Mmm!!"

My little one was more tentative. He watched his big brother to make sure he didn't keel over or start frothing at the mouth.

Then he took a bite roughly the size of a fraction of an atom – a pretty generous bite for him. He cautiously moved it around on his tongue looking skeptical.

Then he made his decision.

"Mommy, I LOVE it. I love, love, love, love it SO much! This is my most favorite cheese ever! Thank you for buying this for us! I love it so much I can eat the whole thing, and I won't even share with anyone because I'm so hungry for this cheese. I can eat every single bite and then still want more and do you know what? I am sad there are only three more days of school because do you know what mommy? I want this in my lunchbox every day. Promise me okay? Every day until school is done. And do you know what? I bet that mousies would even like this cheese - don't you think this is what mousies would like? Because I do. I like it so much, so much mommy. Do you know what? I know I like it more than you because I love cheese the mostest of all my favorite foods! (of which there are approximately two) Can I have more mommy please because do you know what? This is the best cheese I've ever had and, wait...who has more cheese me or J because he doesn't like it as much as me and so I should have more – I should always, always have more of the things I love – like this cheese. And treats. Do you know what? I want you to buy some more tomorrow. Okay? Will you mommy? Will you? Mommy, stop, is that next piece for me? Make that next piece be for me, okay? I weally, weally hope it's for me because I am so hungry for more of this cheese..."

He paused to take a breath and another nibble.

While he chewed I said "Well, I'm really glad you like it so much."

He looked at me and nodded and then slid off his chair leaving a huge pile of "The Best Cheese Ever" on the table.

"Yeah," he said. "But not that much."

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Radio Heads

2011-05-29T06:09:00.000-07:00

After listening to Take it Easy, Moonshadow and Ring of Fire almost every day for the past two years, I decided it's time my boys discovered The Radio. They needed variety and I needed something to keep me from driving into a telephone pole.

The concept of The Radio has been difficult for them to grasp. Not being able to listen to exactly what they want exactly when they want does not mesh with the iGeneration. Their faces scrunch up at every song they don't recognize, which is almost every song ever written aside from the three I've listed above.

The radio DJs also perplex them. They assume that "these people" are obviously within earshot and can hear us. "Mommy," they plead. "Tell those people to stop talking. Tell them you want The Eagles."

I am thankful "those people" in The Radio can't hear us. Because I don't want the Eagles. Ever again. I want Springsteen, Willie Nile and CCR. And admittedly some country.

And so through The Radio my guys have discovered a wealth of new music. Namely Taylor Swift. They've heard her songs a few times and now ask for her every morning when we get in the car, when we get on The Drive, when we pass Soldier Field and as we pull into the school lot. And every three seconds in between.

I was starting to think The Radio was a bad idea after all when I stumbled upon 100.3's Rewind. Of course I've listened to it before, but that was decades ago before I completely succumbed to my Bruce addiction.

Rewind 100.3 is all about the 80s, which as far as my boys know, happened a few million years before the Mesozic era. T-Rex roamed the earth in a Pet Shop Boys t-shirt.

Granted, I've heard these songs more times that I've heard myself exhale. And yes, some (most) of them might cause seizures. But a lot of them are still great. And all of them, good, bad and just irritating, take me straight back to my teens. It doesn't matter that I haven't heard these songs in 20 years. Music isn't like math – it actually sticks in your brain. (Especially the songs you want to forget.) And so without missing a beat I'm singing every single word to every single song as if it was only yesterday that I was sitting in my room with my cassette player positioned perfectly in front of my radio, impatiently waiting for Holding out for a Hero to come on so I could record it and then play it over and over until I knew ever single word by heart and my parents were considering putting me up for adoption.

Needless to say boys were impressed with my wealth of lyrical knowledge.

The Bangles. OMD. Bryan Adams. Journey. Rick Springfield. Even Corey Hart (sad, I know). And of course, REO Speedwagon. I remember it all. This week, Take it on the Run came on and I almost got into a wreck I was so excited. As the band from my hometown began singing "Heard it from a friend whoooo..." I cranked the volume way up – much louder than anyone should legally be allowed to play REO Speedwagon.

Next, in a stroke of luck, Toni Basil's Hey Mickey came on. I hadn't heard that song since 7th grade. (And to be honest I couldn't care less if I ever hear it again.) But the fact that my boys got to hear it....just that once....was fantastic.

Rewind played all the songs I'd loved. And the ones I hated (The Clash).

My boys were mesmerized by the synthesizers, the techo-beats and those distinctly 80-style drums that are solely responsible the success of Tylenol.

They listened silently, soaking up the songs from my past. Little heads bobbing rhythmically with approval.

Without saying a word they told me they liked these brand new songs that I grew up on decades ago. And I was thrilled. Because I realized this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I have no doubt that in another few years I won't be able to effectively sell them on how great Jack & Diane is...much less Meatloaf. So I'm enjoying their enthusiasm while it lasts.

And because it is all on The Radio, I simply can not play the same songs over and over and over and over and over and over again. No matter how much they beg or or scream at "those people" hidden in my dashboard.

The best part? They momentarily stopped harassing me about Taylor Swift and Don Henley.

And that really was music to my ears.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Lions and tigers and terrorists, oh my.

2011-05-14T05:20:00.000-07:00

Since I've turned into my mother I listen to a lot of talk radio. Actually, I have become an AM fanatic. Confused Springsteen CDs lay unused in cases on the floor of my car. (Unplayed yes, but not forgotten.)

These past few weeks there's been a lot of talk on the radio about how to discuss - or more accurately avoid discussing - bin Laden's untimely demise (as in a decade late) with very young kids. Some people firmly believe you should shield kids from it. And on one level I get this concern. September 11th was horrific and not nearly as fun to talk about at dinner as say the ever-changing rules of Freeze Tag. And so we've sidestepped this topic in our house for now.

But when it comes to talking about the monster behind 9/11, or any other "bad guy" I don't see the point in shying away from it. I simply don't believe it's too much for little kids to grasp. In fact, I believe they inherently understand the concept of good vs. evil. They are exposed to it everywhere.

Some examples:

Batman = good. Joker = evil.

Superman = good. Lex Luthor = evil.

Dorothy = good. Wicked Witch = evil.

72 and sunny = good. Blizzard = evil.

The Eagles "Take it Easy" = good. The Eagles "Take it Easy" for the 50,000,000th time = evil.

The nurse who gently gave you your first bath after delivery = good. The mohel who circumcised you eight days later = necessary evil.

Mommy giving you fruit = good. Daddy giving you jelly beans which rip the sealants off your teeth even after the dentist made it perfectly clear umpteen thousand times that you absolutely cannot eat tacky, chewy foods and treats = well, you get my point.

And so do kids.

When public enemy #1 was killed last week it was the only topic on every station in the world – except maybe the BBC which was still busy debating the royal nail polish. Our kids got wind of this news and naturally had questions. Well, okay, just one question. But to be fair, they were in the middle of an intense game of some kind involving Matchbox cars and our couch cushions so they had a lot on their plate. Still, I think my husband handled it brilliantly.

Boys: "How bad was he (bin Laden)?"

Husband: "Well, you know Lex Luthor?"

Kids: "Uh huh."

Husband: "Well he was way worse than Lex Luthor."

(Silence as the kids tried to comprehend this. You could see the shock on their faces followed quickly by doubt. No way anyone could be worse than Lex Luthor. I mean, he wanted to knock part of California into the ocean so he could get more coastline property. And that's just mean.)

Kids: "For real?"

Husband: "For real."

That satisfied them for the time being and that's fine. But if they had wanted to know more, I would have told them.

When talking about these "bad guys" I opt for full disclosure. I tell them almost everything. Of course I tell our boys that most people are inherently good. But because of the bad ones out there, I want them to be ever vigilant. And to be vigilant they have to first be aware. And to be aware they must first listen. Which means I have to squeeze these conversations into the car rides to and from school when they are literally strapped down and I know they can hear me even if their tiny hands are pressed firmly over their ears.

I know some people will disagree with this tactic and that's fine. Still, this is one thing I simply don't struggle with. (And believe me I struggle with everything.) But here I have my reasons.

When I was seven I was thisclose (actually probably closer than that) to being snatched from my front yard by a dark-haired man with black mustache, black cap, black gloves, black leather jacket and blue convertible with a black top. I was waiting outside my house for my ride to a public session at the ice rink (because skating every morning before school, after school, weekends and summers apparently wasn't enough) when this Hannibal Lecter-type pulled up to our curb and asked if I wanted a ride. I firmly said no, which was, according to him, the wrong answer. So he got out of the car and chased me from the curb to my front door. He was literally about to grab my arm and whisk me away when my mom heard me screaming and pounding on the door and stepped outside. Hannibal turned and ran. The cops came. I never knew if he was caught or just found another victim. But I do know that a second later and I'd have been a goner. Because even though I didn't ask him, I'm pretty certain he never intended to drive me to the rink.

For those who can't stand the suspense, I never made it skating that day.

I remember every single detail about that moment. It left me with the most permanent scar I have from my childhood. (And I wiped out on the ice a lot.)

And so when I talk to my kids about safety, I don't have the most gentle approach. I go beyond just drilling them to never talk to strangers. I make sure they realize that if they ever get into a car with anyone they will never, ever, ever see mommy or daddy again. I've talked explicitly about what has happened to me and to kids who weren't as lucky as I was. I describe evil.

And it affects them. They get quiet and they get scared. But despite the emotions this brings up, I can see them processing the information and storing it away for that "just-in-case" moment that we all hope never comes.

The result is that they know what to do should someone approach them on a playground and say they have a cute puppy, candy (yes, even cotton candy) or the real Batman hidden in their car. They know it's okay to be rude to strangers. To kick a man (no not your brother) in his groin if he grabbed their arm. They know they are not EVER allowed to get into a car with anyone, even a friend's parent who they know well, unless I have explicitly alerted them, their teachers, the entire Parent's Association, Obama, all higher-ups in the CIA and the UN about this change in pick-up and branded it onto their tiny foreheads just to be sure.

I've drilled this in so well that I worry the boys might put up a fight should my husband pick them up as a surprise one day.

Yes it's a fear tactic. No it's not for everyone. But it does work. Maybe a little too well, I admit. My kids are not wallflowers by any means. They are very outgoing and social. But there are times when I'm introducing them to someone new and I can tell they are struggling with whether or not it's okay to say hello. I don't know if it's shyness or fear.

I must admit, I hope it's fear. But I believe a healthy dose of fear and distrust can help keep your limbs intact.

Before anyone calls DCFS on me, let me say that I'm conscious of what I'm doing and concerned about protecting their fragile psyches. I don't tell them these stories at bedtime or even weekly. I don't make them sit and watch horror stories on Dateline. In fact, just the opposite. I turn off the TV the minute one of these stories airs. Because while I want them to know the reality of these bad guys, I want them to hear it from me. Not Matt Lauer, who I am pretty sure won't be there to comfort them in the middle of the night when they wake up screaming from a bad dream. (Which, by the way, they've never had after one of our talks.)

Am I permanently scarring them by being so direct? One hundred percent, positively, absolutely NOT.

I hope.

I mean sure their necks may be a tad sore from looking over their shoulders so much but otherwise I fully expect they will go on to lead productive - and safe - lives. Although they are still in their single digits and I have no doubt I'll be blamed for this and a multitude of other sins once puberty hits.

So my point is, should they ask more questions about bin Laden, I'll tell them.

And years from now should they attack me for scaring them this way, I'll know exactly what to do; Run screaming from the room yelling, "fire!"

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!

What a putz

2011-05-06T07:19:00.000-07:00

Me: "Come on boys. If you want to go to the zoo we have to leave right now."
R: "Okay mommy. I'm almost done putzing around."

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!

Bond. Mom Bond.

2011-05-02T18:19:00.000-07:00

One of my most valued possessions is my girlfriends. I consider myself lucky to have wonderful friends from so many facets of my life: school, college, work.

And I'm still very close to several from when I was in preschool and grade school. Distance and decades aside, they know me better than almost anyone.

These friendships were born of endless hours shared in a freezing cold ice rink at 5 AM, during recesses huddled in concrete tunnels on the playground discussing the cutest boys in fifth grade, (no, I'm not mentioning names) and countless hours sifting through gravel looking for "Indian Beads." The memories are indelibly etched in my brain and the people in them will always take up a huge space in my heart.

Then there are the friends you form through childbirth. The bond you instantly form with other new mothers is unlike anything else. It's not that the friendships are deeper or richer, just more intimate right off the bat.

Seriously, the discussions I've had with moms I've just met amazes me. I can't count the inappropriate topics I've covered with women before I've even gotten their name. But when you're operating on just three hours of sleep in eight weeks, pleasantries are a colossal waste of time and energy.

On some level I think mom friends are born out of desperation. After the first three hours of parenthood you realize that you need to find someone else who's new job description also includes sitting around the house half-naked and having milk squeezed from you by a machine. And unless you live on a diary farm, that means actually getting dressed and out of the house, which really, is no more difficult than defying gravity.

I wasn't able to do it alone. I joined a new mom's group through my hospital and six weeks after my oldest son was born had found a group of new moms to commiserate with. They each had the most important quality necessary in a great friend: they could spend days discussing nipple confusion. They were willing (happy even) to belabor this issue for hours on end and then go home and email about it for the rest of the night. My husband on the other hand, as wonderful as he is, felt that once in a blue moon I ought to be able to discuss something else. Like the high-pressure new job he had just started, our new home and the big city we'd just moved to.

Perhaps I was being a tad selfish. But in all honesty, I don't know that I was even aware we had moved or that he had started a new job. I only knew that my nipples hurt.

So these new mom friendships were lifesaving. When other people tried to get to me to focus my attention on something else for a split-second, these girls pulled me back down to earth and assured me that there was not, under any circumstance, anything more important going on in the world other than the fact that my son refused to nap unless he was strapped into his car seat, which was attached to the stroller, which was in our guest bathroom, which had the fan on, which emitted the perfect "white noise" to help him sleep while I endlessly rocked his stroller back and forth, making sure the front wheels bumped rhythmically over the bathmat...for 45 minutes...at which point I was convinced that he was FINALLY asleep and so I would stop – only to have his eyes pop wide open.

(I would like to point out that even after months of this insane behavior I decided not to leave my child on a street corner. This is how good mommy I am.)

But my point is this. Once you're actually out the house, connecting with other moms doesn't take much. These friendships don't require any dating, wooing or courtship. Actually, they don't even require a hello. All you need is to see another mom standing in a bathroom, holding her feces-covered baby in the air while trying to rip open a bag of wet wipes with her teeth, which also happen to be holding her cell phone and keys.

Instant attraction.

It's a medical fact that when a new mom sees another new mom struggling a chemical is released in her brain that's technically called, "Thank God It's Not Just Me." This chemical instantly bonds you to other moms who are wrestling with little people who leak massive amounts of excrement hourly.

Another great thing about meeting other new moms is that you don't measure each other up right away. (Unless the new mom is showered, her hair is styled better than Medusa's, and her shirt matches her pants, which somehow aren't sweatpants. Then a different chemical is released in the brain. It's called, "Get The Hell Away From Me Right Now.")

Actually, that's not entirely true. New moms absolutely do measure each other up. But that doesn't happen until MUCH later in the friendship. Say, after the first 90 seconds when they've already discussed leaky boobs, whether or not they had their private parts stitched up after delivery and the baby blues. (That's a nice term for "I'm seriously about to throw everyone out the window.")

Luckily this "mom-bond" doesn't end with your first baby. It continues on with moms you meet on the playground, in after-school activities, and at the grocery store as you both lunge for the last gallon of DHA approved, brain-enhancing organic milk to guarantee that your kid masters logarithms long before anyone else's kids do.

The other day in my son's martial arts class there was a mom sitting on the floor next to me holding her six-month-old baby. I smiled at them. She smiled back and introduced herself with, "He hasn't pooped in three days. I don't know what to do."

I nodded. I'd been there. I asked if she'd tried the Fleet Liquid Glycerin Suppositories. (My youngest son single-handedly kept that company afloat.) She hadn't. We spent the next hour discussing her son's bowel movements, or lack thereof. On the way out of class we exchanged names and said we'd see each other next week in class. A friendship born out of a child's inability to bear down. Amazing, right? And while it's true we may never see each other again, for that one moment we had each other.

Now that my boys are older I'm not as needy. I can proudly say I go to the grocery store without trying to catch the eye of other new moms in the aisle - hoping to discuss rectal thermometers or diaper rashes. I don't troll the Internet at night looking for chat rooms on Roseola. I can make it through the day without emailing someone about night terrors.

But I still marvel at the immediacy of mommy friendships. And at how the friendships between me and my own friends from decades ago has deepened with the birth of our own kids.

And I know it's just the beginning. My boys are just four-and-a-half and five-and-three-quarters years old. I've got decades of insta-bonding to look forward to as I meet the parents of their classmates, teammates and girlfriends.

Wait...girlfriends?

On second thought, my best friend may end up being a licensed psychotherapist.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!

Sob story

2011-04-26T10:07:00.000-07:00

Crying has always come easily to me. Like breathing or screwing up a chicken dish. And it's never taken much to turn that faucet on. A sappy commercial; any book about animals; high humidity.

However, despite this emotional instability, I used to be able to do certain things in life with a bit of composure. For instance, I used to be able to watch the news, take a walk, and exercise all without breaking into tears. Yes, I was affected by heartbreaking stories that were sometimes in the headlines, but I managed to get through them all with some poise.

Then I had kids.

The change was instant. It's almost as if just before exiting my body my oldest son reached his tiny arm up into my brain and flicked off the "Stability" switch nestled somewhere between Geometry and Yoga. (To be fair it had been flickering on and off for years.)

Suddenly everything changed. The simple things in life that I used to enjoy became emotional minefields.

I still watch TV and read obsessively, but I now have to be much more selective with my choices. I've had to avoid anything that focuses on, or even dances around topics like: children who are sick, children who are hungry, children who are poor, children who are sad, children who are abused, children who have disabilities, children who are tired, children who are overtired, children who like bugs, children who dance, children who don't like Grover and children who are scared of chick peas. You get my point.

In fact, I can only stomach stories about kids who are on a family vacation at Disney, eating cotton candy, being twirled around by their doting parents while clinging to a large stuffed animal and smiling crazily through their sticky teeth. And even then, I'm liable to lose it. Seriously, what's a bigger tear-jerker than a loving father swinging his little baby around in the air?

Also, anything about animals is completely off limits. I can say with certainty that I will never watch Bambi again. And while I love books about dogs, I know they're not a smart choice anymore unless I have a full week to recover in private. Seriously. "The Art of Racing in the Rain" (a simple, sweet novel about a race car driver and his dog) nearly landed me in therapy.

So how do I navigate through my days without breaking down? The news is easy enough to filter. I can mute Brian Williams. I can browse headlines on CNN.com and opt to read about Kate Middleton's hats instead of a young mother who drowns her children because she's mad at her baby daddy.

But try as I might to tune out these sad stories it's impossible to avoid them all.

Every day I go to the gym to try and "get away from it all." Unfortunately the gym has become the scene of some embarrassing breakdowns. Most days I run on the treadmill. I hate running and so getting though those miles requires a certain mindset that I can only achieve with mindless television. It sounds benign enough. Except. I watch Oprah.

I'm watching the 25th season religiously as I run. And it's killing me. One day she's giving away iPads and cars and making people cry with joy. Twenty-four hours later she's detailing the horrific abuse some poor child suffered at the hands of their unstable father who could be Charles Manson's less sane brother.

So there I am on bouncing around on the treadmill, wiping the tears away from my eyes and tying to make it look like I'm simply extracting a pesky eyelash - for 60 minutes.

I realize Oprah is simply doing her part to help society, (and CONSTANTLY reminding her audience about how she's doing her part to help society) but she's turning me into an emotional basket case one "Ah-ha!" moment at a time.

(Yes, I realize I could change the channel but that requires extra effort and I'm already channeling all of my energy into my legs at that moment.)

Walking down the street has also become risky. Again, it seems simple enough, unless you have given birth.

All I have to do is glance down and see a child's abandoned sock or shoe sitting in a muddy puddle. The fact that this child most likely manually ejected this piece of clothing from their own body because mommy wouldn't give them a third lollipop is irrelevant. I'm sure that this child is locked in the back of a windowless van, being carted away to a hopeless fate. In an instant my quick trip to CVS for Comet has become a heart-wrenching trek down a treacherous city street. I picture my own boys' socks sitting in that rainwater and again, my eyes are filling with tears. Luckily CVS has converted most of their stores to self-checkout counters so I really don't have to explain my inability to breathe in and out like a normal human being to anyone.

Listening to the radio is challenging as certain songs always manage to hijack a relatively calm mind set. "Teach Your Children Well" by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young sends me reeling. As do "Cat's in The Cradle," by Harry Chapin and "Photograph," by Nickelback. (Stop it Nickelback haters, it's a good song.) Also, anything by Elton John, Cat Stevens, and Coldplay. Even Megadeath probably has its risks. And I can't forget Les Miserables. No matter that I've heard the soundtrack hundreds of thousands of times. It gets me every single time. But here I'm lucky. I can mostly avoid these situations as I've turned into my mother and only listen to talk radio in the car.

Commercials have the same effect. The old Nike spot "If you let me play sports" puts a semi-permanent lump in my throat. And that decades-old Coke commercial where people hold hands and walk over the hills singing? I choke up just thinking about it. A few years back when I was in advertising myself and trying to write commercials that would have one-tenth of the effect of those ads, I would watch them religiously with reverence. Now I watch them with a box of Kleenex.

My point? Having kids has turned me into a cry-baby. And it's just sad.

Yesterday I told my husband the topic of this blog.

Me: "It's about how I cry so much more easily over everything now that I have kids."
Husband: "Is that true?"
Me: "Is what true?"
Husband: "That you cry more?"
Me: "Seriously? You live with me. Yes. It's true."
Husband: "Hmm. You might want to rethink your blog."
Me: "Why???"
Husband: "Because people are going to think you're depressed."
Me: "That's it. I'm not sharing these blogs with you in advance anymore."

Yet, hours later I find myself rethinking this one. Maybe my husband is right. Maybe people will think I'm depressed – and I don't want that. Hormonal? 100%. But not depressed.

But deep down I believe that other women who have also generously donated their emotional stability to childbirth will get what I'm saying. At least to some degree. Or at the very, very least, maybe the part about the animals.

Having babies changes everything. But (abdominal muscles aside) I believe our minds take the hardest hit. Yes, I've become much more outspoken, patient (if you know me, don't laugh) and compassionate, but I've also become emotionally vulnerable in a way I never knew was possible.

CNN. Oprah. A pair of socks. They simply never had this affect on me before I had kids.

But my husband shouldn't worry too much. I don't need to check into a psych ward. (Yet.)

That said, I probably should rent out a room in a nearby plastic bubble.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!

What a square

2011-04-21T17:43:00.000-07:00

"STOP RUNNING AROUND IN CIRCLES!" I screamed as my boys repeatedly streaked across the living room. (Naked, of course.)
They stopped and looked at me like I was a complete idiot.
"We're not!" they said pointing to the obviously angular 8X10 rug. "We're running in rectangles."

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Look who's talking

2011-04-16T19:40:00.000-07:00

Thursday night my five-and-three-quarter-year-old son got mad at me. Probably because I got mad at him first.
In a huff he yelled, "THAT'S IT!! I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU EVER AGAIN!"
Me: "Hmm. Okay."
J: "I MEAN IT! I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU FOR TEN WHOLE DAYS!!!"
(Long pause)
J: "STARTING SATURDAY!"
J sat down on couch, arms folded across his chest, glaring at me with his best angry face.
Me to my other son: "Fine. So, R, how was school today?"
R: "Good."
Me: "What did you do?"
R: "I dunno."
Me: "Oh. Ok. Great."
J: "MOMMY....WHY AREN'T YOU TALKING TO ME??? (Said through clenched teeth assuming, I guess, that if he didn't really move his mouth it didn't really count as talking.)
Me: "I thought you weren't talking to me for ten days."
J: "NO! EIGHT DAYS! STARTING TOMORROW!"
Me: "Oh, okay."
J: "OH MY GOD! NOW I'M NOT TALKING FOR SEVEN DAYS - STARTING RIGHT NOW!"
Me: "Alright."
J: "I'M SERIOUS!!! I'M NOT TALKING FOR 150 HOURS."
Me: "Fifteen hours?"
J: "NO!!!! WHY AREN'T YOU LISTENING TO ME? I SAID 100 HOURS! BUT IT'S ALREADY BEEN 3 HOURS (five minutes) SO I'M NOT TALKING FOR ANOTHER 2 HOURS!!!
Me: "I'm sorry, when does the "no talking" start?"
J: " I TOLD YOU ALREADY IT STARTS SUNDAY!! SIX HOURS! STOP TALKING TO ME!!!"
(Several minutes of silence)
J: "MOMMEEEEEE.....WHY ARE YOU IGNORING MEEEEE???"
Me: "Oh, are we talking now?"
J: "NO!!!!!!!! I TOLD YOU I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU ANYMORE!!"
(Confused Pause.)
J: "BUT DON'T IGNORE ME!"
Me: "You can't have it both ways."
J: "OKAY - FINE! I WILL TALK TO YOU IN HALF AN HOUR!!
Me: "Sounds good. I'm looking forward to it."
(Long pause.)
J: "STARTING TUESDAY!!"

Thank god it's Saturday. I think.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!

Keeping it real

2011-04-14T10:36:00.001-07:00

J: "Mommy can I have another treat?"

Me: "No. Four is plenty."

J: "For real?"

Me: "Yes."

J: "Seriously? For real mommy?"

Me: "Seriously. No more treats tonight."

J: "For real?"

Me: "No. I mean yes. I mean no....no more treats."

J: "Then can I have a treat in my lunchbox tomorrow?"

Me: "We'll see."

J: "For real?"

Me: "Yes, for real."

J: "Can I have two treats in my lunchbox?"

Me: "J, if you don't stop asking for more treats you won't get any."

J: "For real? Not any?"

Me: "Yes, J, for real – if you don't stop asking."

J: "For real?"

Me: "J PLEASE stop....(SIGH) yes, for real."

J: "Mommy..."

Me: "J, I'm warning you."

J: "For real?"

Just the nightly dinner conversation at our house.

For real.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!

Inner Drive

2011-04-12T10:43:00.000-07:00

We live in the city and my boys go to school about 13 miles away. Not too far, but not too close either. I drive them there and back and it takes about two hours in the car each day. It's one of the prettiest commutes in the country along Chicago's famed Outer Drive.

Beauty aside, some people question my sanity when I tell them I do this. I've questioned it myself. I mean, I like Billy Joel, but there are only so many times a human being can listen to "Uptown Girl" before renting out a room in an asylum.

Aren't there other options, people ask? Yes. Several. Last year I had a carpool, which was great, I trusted the mom and adored her daughter. Unfortunately, circumstances made it difficult to carpool again this year. There is also a door-to-door van service some people use. And, of course, there is the traditional yellow school bus.

But my boys are just four and five-and-a-half (oops, five and three-quarters....you know how important that three-quarters is.) Much too young, in my opinion, to be schlepped across the city by a driver who may or may not have a meth lab in his basement or a "thing" for Dora and Diego. I know that most people who drive buses are very safe and incredibly nice. I know they are screened, tested and asked to turn over their social security number and a bucket of blood before they are given control of your kids' lives. But still. You never know for sure.

And when it comes to my kids, I like to be sure. At least as sure as possible. I know for a fact that I don't have a substance abuse problem (other than Tylenol – did I mention I have two boys?), I took Oprah's "no phone zone" pledge, I can read the posted speed limits, and my car has functional seat belts that were manufactured sometime AFTER I was born.

Don't get me wrong. Since its invention in 1827, and its last maintenance check in the early 1950s, (I can't help but picture a service guy lubing a bus up with the Tin Man's oil can) the school bus has been a lifesaver for millions of families who work or have six kids to manage. I have many friends myself who put their kids on them. They are all devoted, responsible parents who love their children. But for now, as much as my boys may enjoy the idea the communal commute, (honestly what kid doesn't like being tossed around like a sack of beans while doing 80 down a bumpy highway?) I know it's just not for me.

It's not entirely about the drivers' ability though. When my kids are old enough to fend for themselves in an emergency, and know how to properly use a cell phone, then I'll absolutely, hands-down maybe consider the bus. Because while my boys are very smart little guys, I question their ability to determine if there's an emergency that necessitates using the phone or if they just really, really need to play Angry Birds. As it stands, my youngest routinely dials 911 twice a week (on accident) so I doubt the police would respond anyway should he call them in a true emergency.

I chose to stay home with the boys, and I accept that being their chauffeur is part of my job description. When my position of Mom is up for review in 15 years, I may renegotiate this clause, but I'm pretty sure they have an iron-clad contract prohibiting me from any sort freedom for at least another half century.

But my point, which I hope to get to before I become an Octogenarian, is that I really, truly love driving the boys to and from school. I cherish the time I have with them in the car. Because I know that someday soon having mommy take them to school and pick them up will be as enjoyable as Irritable Bowel Syndrome. They will beg to take the bus or demand to be dropped off 12 blocks away. They won't want me to walk them into class...their friends will do that. And pick up? Well, if I'm allowed that honor, I'll probably get a guitar case shoved in my face instead of a smile.

They won't want to be with me. And I won't be able to stand it.

Not that I don't enjoy down time. Trust me, I spent the first three years of their lives pining for this moment. When they'd be in school and I would be free to read, write or just sit and stare at the walls without someone projectile vomiting on me. And now it's here. Sure, I could use that extra hour in the afternoon for something, but that's not what will make me happy.

Waiting for them in the car line every afternoon makes me happy. Letting them hang around the playground after school to squeeze in an extra hour of "Freeze Tag" makes me happy. Even listening to them talk over one another to the point where they are screaming bloody murder and trying to kill each other across the removable middle seat makes me happy (I keep the Tylenol in my purse).

And so I'm taking advantage of every minute I've got.

When we first interviewed at the school someone told me she'd done the same commute with her two boys every day and that she wouldn't have traded it for the world. Why not? Because, as she put it, "for 18 years I had a captive audience."

Two words jumped out at me. The first: "Captive."

This means that for at least one whole hour a day I can legally restrain and confine the boys without fear of being featured on Dateline or 20/20. In fact, if I don't keep them belted tightly in place with a five-point harness I could be thrown in jail. So for the better part of one hour they cannot move anything but their limbs, which are out of reach of my hair and each other. Once we get home it's WWF, so you have to understand, this is huge.

In my mind's eye I can picture the man who invented the five-point harness. He's tall, dark and handsome with piercing blue eyes. He has Christopher Reeves' bone structure and red cape. I do realize that this is ridiculous. It was obviously invented by a stay-at-home mom with two small boys.

The second word that got me was "Audience." For 26 miles my guys have to listen to me – and I to them. I control the music, the windows and the snacks. So if they want a Chocolate Chip Z Bar, they better cough up their entire day from 8 until 2. And they do talk. Some days more than others, but by the end of the ride I have a pretty good idea of what activities they did, who they played with, and that they were the only kids in school (probably the planet) whose mom made them wear a hat and mittens when it was a balmy 25 degrees out. I too learn valuable lessons, like the fact that I shouldn't even think about putting blueberries in their lunch boxes ever again.

When they're older these talks on the ride home will change. For example, they won't exist. The boys will be plugged into the latest and greatest iDevice. Hell, they'll probably be petitioning Honda to make passenger/driver dividers standard in every model.

In the end, everyone has to do what works for them. I'm not here to judge – although I do. (Oh please, show me a mom who doesn't.) And maybe I am a little nuts, but nuts works well for me.

So to answer peoples' question about why I do this drive I say this: Yes, carting my boys back and forth two times a day is a huge effort. It cuts two hours out of my day. It drains my gas tank and tests my sanity. But to me it's worth it. I'm on borrowed time and I know it. Sullen teen angst is just a few miles up the road. I can already see the signs.

Gas mileage be dammed. On my death bed (yes, that's how I think) I will never, ever question that I soaked up every single second of these wonderful, fleeting years.

My tank is full.

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