Leaving California and other States of Mind

A Fifth Dimension

2016-07-20T15:41:00.000-07:00

The Professor and First Born Prince left this morning for the Fab 48 basketball tournament in Las Vegas. They already hit the Bacchanal buffet at Caesar’s Palace and are getting ready for some serious high school basketball. Charming Baby is at sleep-away mountain camp in northern California.

I am wildly excited about being on my own for a few days. I suddenly have enough time and space to get everything I want to done! With no distractions or demands, I can focus. It's eerie, a sense of weightlessness and endless possibility. Except last week when I was gifted two days like this, I ended up binge watching Ray Donovan and living on rosé and tortilla chips.

You are only wondering why I can’t get to the things I want to when my family is around if you are a man or a Bionic Woman. There are plenty of to-do's we mothers wish we could accomplish but let go unattended as we are too preoccupied managing active, upwardly mobile people's secular and religious educations, sports and team commitments, nutrition and dining needs, social calendars and physical and mental health programs.

This week I am committing my top ten to-do's to paper so maybe I’ll arrive at Saturday morning with more than tight jeans and edema.

1. Start at-home yoga practice.

2. Read articles pulled from top news journals: ISIS, Brexit, Turkey, RNC/DNC, Pokemon Go.

3. Purge office files and shred all documents with sensitive or personal information (in case Professor reads this).

4. Start Marie Kondo–ing the house.

5. Returns to stores with time-sensitive return policies.

6. Meet with admissions officer to help them better understand why people make the choices in schools that they do. This appointment cannot be over the phone because their consultant needs to see my body language and facial expressions. (I offered to text emojis.)

7. Investigate denied Aetna claims.

8. Investigate Aetna for denying claims.

9. Get blood drawn.

10. Deal with jury summons.

Wish me luck. Namasté.

Holiday Drinking Game

2015-11-22T09:10:00.000-08:00

Who are those people with reindeer antlers on their car? Where do they even get them? I have never seen them anywhere in the pop-up ads on my news feeds or in stores, not even in the holiday section at Vons. Don’t laugh, they had life-sized witches for $89.99 at Halloween and I contemplated tossing one in to my cart along with the six-pack of chardonnay.

Whether you are extra jolly or beyond stressed out this time of year, I can promise you, you are not alone. We have reasons we are sad or worked up but, thankfully, plenty of reasons to be happy and rejoice. Let’s not forget Saturday Night Live had more material this year than they knew what to do with. May we all find the humor in Donald and Hillary.

I love the holidays: a) blood oranges are in season, b) blood orange margaritas are my favorite and c) holiday parties, gift exchanges and long visits with family are a great excuse for a drinking game.

Whether you are traveling or entertaining, raising the bar, or lowering it, your celebrations with friends or family or co-workers may need a little loosening up. To get things rolling, try the Holiday Drinking Game. Squeeze some blood oranges, or grab a bottle from your six-pack and sit your most stressed-out relative or friend down:

Drink if you know someone who has reindeer antlers on their car.

Drink again if it’s you.

Drink if you do Elf on the Shelf.

Drink again if it is a perverted elf.

Drink if you have given in the past, or are thinking of giving this year, a preteen Beats by Dr. Dre.

Drink again if they are wireless.

Drink if you bought the Trader Joe’s Advent calendar already.

Drink again if you ate some of it and had to buy another one.

Drink if you have adopted a family-in-need this holiday season.

Drink again if you have spent time or money on this family while your own family is overdue for any of the following: haircut, dog wash, oil change, teeth cleaning, or mammogram.

Drink if you are traveling for the holidays.

Drink again if traveling by economy-class airplane.

Drink a third time if traveling for the holidays by economy-class airplane with a blood relative over the age of 85 or under the age of three.

If traveling for the holidays by economy-class airplane with a blood relative over the age of 85 or under the age of three through O’Hare, Dulles or Denver, drain the bottle.

Drink if you fill Xmas stockings for adults.

Drink again if you fill your own Xmas stocking.

Drink if you wrap any of the gifts for any of the stockings.

Drink again if you wrap all the gifts for all the stockings.

If you fill Xmas stockings for adults, and fill your own stocking and wrap all of the gifts for all of the stockings, see above.

Pro-Tip: Drink a glass of water between each challenge.

Sending love and good cheer. I'm hosting Thanksgiving this year. Wish me luck!

It’s Yom Kippur Somewhere

2015-09-23T15:02:00.002-07:00

I used to get dressed up and attend formal services for the High Holidays at our temple. I love temples, I love rabbis, I love most Jewish people, but about five years ago, I started staying home instead. I can’t quiet my mind in a formal congregation. I can’t stop thinking about how much my dress shoes are killing me and that I paid extra for that pain. I can't stop thinking about the kids who take an inappropriate amount of Challah when we gather with everyone to say the motzi in the foyer of the temple. And I definitely can't stop thinking about what to say to the man next to me who is the same man I cut off on the way into the parking lot.

The High Holy Days are about contemplation. We are commanded to think about the year behind us, the year ahead of us. Set goals. Forgive ourselves. Atone for our sins. So the Professor and boys go without me, and I use the gift of quiet time to think and write, and sometimes cook, depending on who is hosting the holiday dinner.

In between the two holiest days of the year, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (eleven days in between), we are commanded to reach out to people we have hurt or wronged and at least attempt to make things right. I like to keep my accounts current so I am pretty busy all year long texting and calling people, quoting my therapist, trying really hard to not make excuses for my gross behavior, and hopefully, sincerely, squaring up with everyone along the way. I believe I am up to date with all of you. If not, you are invited to call me on my B.S., please. We have until sundown.

L'Chaim

PLEASE DO NOT SEND PACKAGES CONTAINING CANDY, FOOD OR GUM

2015-07-12T10:24:00.000-07:00

Charming Baby is away for two weeks at an overnight mountain camp. I am sure he is having the time of his life, but I wouldn’t know for sure because I haven’t received even so much as a postcard. If I had a girl, I would have three newsy letters by now, complete with details like the names of all cabin mates and a hand-drawn diagram of the bunks and who sleeps where.

I had originally presented the idea as a one-week trip, but the Professor talked me into two. Not because he wanted to recreate the lazy BK (before kids) summers of our twenties with afternoon naps and entire days spent trolling around movie theaters, eating as much popcorn and Red Vines as we wished, but because he said it takes a week to get over homesickness and then you really start to have fun.

The Professor, like many east coast kids, grew up going to camp for six or eight-weeks every summer. (He recalls six weeks, his brother recalls eight. They both remember starting at age nine.) When First Born Prince turned nine, the Professor asked about sending him. You might as well have asked me if I would cut out my heart, throw it on the ground and do the Mexican hat dance on it.

When FBP turned 13, we tried a few of those three-day sports camps hosted at universities where the kids play their sport all day long and sleep in the college dorms and eat in the campus cafeterias. I didn’t like the fact the kids had unlimited access to their electronic devices, pizza, Coca Cola and candy bars. He adored the freedom, the long days of lacrosse and making new friends from all over.

Eventually we were turned on to a family-run weeklong lacrosse camp in the Adirondacks. NO electronics, no candy, no staying up late playing Fooze-ball in the game room, high on partially hydrogenated oil and high-fructose corn syrup. Just home-cooked meals, lacrosse in the morning, traditional mountain camp activities in the afternoon and enforced lights out. Even though FBP liked the local university three-day benders better, the Professor and I felt the more traditional mountain camp experience was the way to go and so paved the way for his younger brother to try something similar.

I wasn’t sure about sending CB at age 11. Yes, younger siblings mature faster but it surprised me that he agreed to two weeks. Granted, he was going with one of his closest friends, but this is the kid who still refers to the day camp I sent him to when he was five as “Baby Jail.” A mother’s guilt, fear and shame have no limits.

Thank God I watched the camp’s webinar Parents' Overview last spring. They told us what to pack, how to pack (Label everything! Involve the camper!). The most depressing rule was that campers couldn’t receive food in care packages. Not even gum. The most helpful tip for me was about letter writing to our campers -- to just send news about what's going on at home and not dwell on how much we missed them. I would have written “I LOVE YOU AND MISS YOU SO MUCH!!!! I CAN’T WAIT UNTIL YOU GET HOME!!!!” I was forced to be a fake, Chatty Cathy. I did sneak in a few xoxo's, but I was strong, I even signed off, "Love, Mom" instead of "Mama" which is what he calls me when he's feeling like my baby.

Perhaps one of his experienced bunkmates is up there coaching him right now. “Don’t write home, it will just make your mom cry. Make her think you are having so much fun you forgot to write.” Maybe that’s what he’s thinking and we can just tell each other the dirty, stinky, bug-bitten truth. When he gets home. To his mama. Next Saturday.

Back-to-School Drinking Game for Moms

2014-09-12T14:31:00.000-07:00

I was at a volunteer meeting the other morning and my friend who just dropped her son off at his first year of college told me a hilarious new term she learned. I'm sure you have already heard of the helicopter parent. Yes, our generation is guilty of that. Even though we were raised by parents who vaguely remembered which grade we were in or where the school was located, we somehow have become masters of our children's universes, volunteering, organizing and filling out forms until our fingers bleed.

The guidance counselor at the freshman orientation told the parents, "This is where the helicopter lands, people." She then went on to explain how critical it was for parents to let go. Lest you become a SNOW PLOW parent. You know who you are. Plowing the way ahead for your child. Making sure the path is clear, tidy and free of nasty rocks that could trip them. I am definitely in danger of transforming my helicopter into a snow plow. Thankfully, I get by with a little help from my friends. They keep me in check, they tell me to let go, they remind me that real men use shovels.

So, in honor of all of us hard-working helicopters and snow plows, I came up with a way to unwind this weekend. It's Friday, let the games begin!

Back-to-School Drinking Game for Moms

Grab a friend and a bottle.

Drink if…

• You went to more than one Staples to find the right sized notebooks. Drink again if you went to more than two.

• Drink if you received a text from your child during the school day this week. Drink again if this required immediate action on your part.

• You filled out a registration form by hand. Drink again if your child is in middle or high school.

• You signed up for yard duty. Drink again if you’re friends with the coordinator of yard duty.

• You’ve already input all dates for all upcoming fall events into your family calendar. Drink again if you are in charge of any of these events.

• You are on a first name basis with the principal. Drink again if you have his/her cell number programmed in your phone. Drink a third time if you have ever hugged this person.

• You have your child in more than one sport. Drink again if you have your child in more than one sport and one other extra-curricular activity. Drink a third time if you have more than three. Beyond that, empty the bottle.

• You have more than one volunteer position. Drink again if you are on the board of your child’s school or sport team. Drink a third time if you are on both. If you are on the board of more than one school, and at least one sport team, see above.

• Last, but not least, drink if you have to set your alarm tomorrow for a sports game. Drink again if you have to set it for SAT Prep courses. Drink a third time if you have to set it for both. If you have more than one child doing more than one of these, see above.

Mama's Boy

2014-08-12T14:35:00.000-07:00

When we first arrived at the courts near 85th and 5th in Central Park, a huge, muscular middle-aged black man wearing athletic shorts and no shirt was chasing and yelling at a scared looking, smaller 20-year old. A whole crowd of black guys in basketball gear gathered around what looked like was going to be a fight.

"You think you a man? I'm a man! He not a man! Punch me if you think you a man."

Lots of arguing and hollering, but no punching, thankfully, by any man, ensued.

Turns out the 20-year old had punched the big black guy's son (17 years old) in the face in self defense. The 17 year-old had put his hands around the 20-year-old's neck in some sort of fight earlier that evening. The kid called his dad, who showed up, pissed that a "man" punched a minor, no matter the reason.

Well, there I was, one of the only three white people at the courts (me, First Born Prince, and Charming Baby) in my J. Crew summer clothes and $3 bottle of chilled water. CB was next to me, driving his brand new remote control car from FAO Shwarz.

I typed "9-1-1" into my phone, my thumb hovering over the green call button, just in case, and went over to the benches where cooler-headed players were watching the game that was still going on. I asked what was happening which is how I got all the details.

FBP was horrified I was talking to them after I promised to just drop him off and then leave, so he went to the other side of the court and pretended he didn't know me. He kept texting, "Please leave."

I wanted to make sure everyone knew he was only 14 and confirm they weren’t hoods. None of them could believe First Born Prince was only 14. They wanted to know what I fed him, how big his father was, and if we were Catholic (that question had to do with the top NYC high school teams being St. Patrick’s and Bishop Loughlin). I chatted them up, suggesting they try FBP out, saying he wouldn't ask to play himself because he was shy, being only 14 and all. They ignored me on that.

I watched several games and started to relax when I saw the players didn’t argue unnecessarily and were making fair calls. It felt safe, safe enough to leave my baby.

I waited for him back at my in-law’s apartment, keeping an eye on my phone, waiting for the text saying he was on his way home. Finally, at dark, liked we agreed, I received, “On my way.” I exhaled a long, slow breath.

Expecting a jubilant son, I was surprised when his eyes flashed anger as he walked in the door.

“Mom, why did you hang out there for so long, talking to everyone? You ruined it for me!”

“I am sorry, but with that crazy fight going on, I had to make sure it was okay.”

“A whole hour, and why did you have to talk to them?”

“Oh, big deal, they were nice. They wanted to know what you ate. They wanted to know all about you. They were actually great conversationalists. I was making sure they were sane. Give me a break. Did you get to play?”

“They called me ‘Mama’s Boy’!”

“I am sure they were just joking around. You know, like you do with your friends.”

Dropping his shoulders, a grin appeared on his face. He sat down at the table, helping himself to a huge slice of pizza.

At first no one would give him the ball but when one guy had no other choice except pass it to him, the only open man, FBP immediately sunk a clean shot. The team got excited, “Mama’s Boy can shoot!” He got a little bit of action, mostly just supporting his new found team.

He went back, alone, the next night, making me promise I wouldn’t go watch. He stood court side patiently waiting for about 45 minutes until the self-appointed team captain finally made eye contact with him.

FBP asked, “Do you have 5?”

“Yeah, we got 5.”

FPB looked down, wondering how much longer he would have to wait.

The captain laughed, “You the 5^th, Mama’s Boy!”

He went back again several times. On Saturday, he was there from 2:00 until 7:30. A woman who knew one of the players brought a cooler full of sandwiches to the court. They offered one to FBP.

CB and I rode bikes by the courts later that same day and peeked through the bushes, making sure he couldn’t see us. He was the only white guy, playing a quiet game, not getting in anyone's face, but he hustled and got himself open and took plenty of shots. His team high-fived him when he made baskets.

I took a few photos with my iPhone and then pedaled off, pretending we didn’t know the smiling white boy on the court.

When we were getting ready to leave New York City, I asked him if he told the guys he had been playing with all week that he was leaving.

"Yeah, I told them."

"Well, what did they say?"

"They said, 'We expect you to be dunkin' next summer, Mama's Boy.'"

Wildfires

2014-05-14T18:42:00.000-07:00

Everyone used to think it was an earthquake to fear if you lived in California. Now we know it’s a wildfire. The first time I lived through one, I was nine years old living in a suburb of San Diego. The fire raged in the state park adjacent to our subdivision. I recall police cars and rescue vehicles driving through the neighborhood with bullhorns telling us we needed to evacuate.

“Bullshit!” was all I remember hearing from my dad.

He was up on our wood-shingled roof with the garden hose, wetting everything down. He had the sprinklers in the yard on at full blast and did not seem the least bit concerned that we might lose our home, or our lives. I remember crying and telling him I wanted to evacuate like all the normal people. He told me if I was so worried about it to go jump in the pool. He was not packing a damn thing and if I needed to do something about it, how about making myself useful with a hose.

The second set of fires I recall raged when I gave birth to my second son. The most devastating wildfires in California history sparked that day and by the time I was cradling my newborn, the entire hospital was filled with smoke. Nurses were wearing masks and we were told that half the staff couldn’t make it in due to evacuations and road closures. I wanted to remain in denial with my new sweet baby but left a day early so that women who needed legitimate medical care could have my bed. Let’s face it, all I was doing was lying around taking Vicodin. We went home to 3 inches of ash on our doorstep and a sig alert, which required us to remain indoors for a week. My four-year old and my husband were bouncing around the house while I tried to bond with my newborn.

The third round was exactly four years later and although we were fortunate to not have to evacuate, we saw people we know suffer from the fires. I recall spending most of my time on the phone reassuring the Professor’s relatives in New York who were going crazy over our safety that we were OK.

I have also dealt with smaller fires that affected my Grandma. We spent hours one year trying to find her when she was taken to an evacuation center by “helpful” neighbors. She slept on a high school gymnasium floor when she could have been tucked into bed in my guest room 15 miles away.

Tonight I see friends on Facebook offering their homes to friends who have to evacuate. I think about how you can remove the terror from most situations if you stay calm and rely on a little help from your friends, swift neighbors or non-conformist fathers.

Ashes-to-Go

2014-03-05T08:09:00.001-08:00

Just heard on the radio that St. Paul’s is offering “Ashes-to-Go” this Ash Wednesday. The program was started last year as a way for the Church to try to reconnect with people who are too busy for, or simply have let go of, attending services.

In New York City, the volunteers with their bowls of ashes can be found on street corners and in subway stations. That somehow seems less sad to me than where you can find Ashes-to-Go in San Diego -- at Peet’s Coffee and Starbuck’s.

People have time to stand in line and buy a five dollar coffee beverage but don’t have time to drop into their church and pay a visit to a man who has dedicated his life to helping others?

My mother would confirm that this is a sign we are all going to hell in a hand basket. My best friend would help me gain some perspective and make me feel less like the world is coming to an end and more like creative geniuses are alive and well at work.

Still, isn’t the whole point to get off the hamster wheel for an hour and think about stuff like getting off the hamster wheel? The Priest says, “From dust you came and to dust you will return,” as he makes the cross on your forehead. I am not sure if you get the same reminder when the random church volunteer who may or may not have washed his hands blesses you beside the barista counter.

Our synagogue has been faced with a similar dilemma – how to get people connected back to their religious community. It depresses me when I get notices for adult events like football viewing parties in the social hall and youth trips to places like Trampoline Zone. I want to attend lectures with interesting speakers, teaching about world events and child rearing. I want my son to go on a hike or visit the tide pools with his youth group. I can’t complain, though. When the bulletin went out to join our Rabbi for a coffee talk brainstorming session to come up with attractive events and outings, I was too busy to join them.

Miracle of Lights

2013-12-06T09:29:00.000-08:00

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The marketing geniuses of the United States of America have pitch perfect timing and so when I asked some of my sons' friends what they wanted for Christmas, it didn’t surprise me when most of them said, “The new [insert name here].” Even if your kids already have an X-Box or iPhone, they can ask for the latest version.

My kids don’t have an X-Box but that’s another blog post. They do have an impressive bunker of Apple products that is due mostly to birthdays in October, generous relatives and a father who values the latest technology above almost anything else. I purposely deny my sons things they ask for unless it is critical to their health or safety (shoes that are too small, for example) so I will have something to give them at Hanukah and Christmas.

First Born Prince (FBP) was shivering in the car next to me this morning (the climate control panel read “48”). He was wearing a t-shirt and shorts.

“Where is your sweatshirt?”

“I told you. I don’t have one.”

“You have three or four of them.”

“The sleeves are too short.”

He has a closet full of XL sweatshirts and dress shirts that fit him in the body but not in the arm length.

"Just push the sleeves up, like how we rolled the sleeves up on your dress shirt.”

He rolled his eyes and jumped out of the car.

I didn’t want to spoil the surprise and tell him he is getting two beautiful new XXL sweatshirts for Christmas. I also didn’t want to leave myself scrambling like a methamphetamine addict trying to find something to give him if I handed the sweatshirts over early which is what he is working towards. Obviously.

I know I am onto something because this past Hanukah I managed to surprise and delight him with relatively simple gifts they would have otherwise gotten out of me “for free” but I had the presence of mind to withhold from them until now. They got things like word search and crossword puzzle books (my fourth grader has been asking for them since school started), new basketballs, and a foam roller (my 8^th grader has an old one that is too-soft and has bites missing from when Charming Baby (CB) was two years old that he uses regularly on his hamstrings and back).

The best gift I came up with was a few weeks ago after FBP asked me where the measuring tape was and if we had any tape that would stick to concrete. He wanted to mark off shooting lines under our basketball hoop in the driveway. Both of my sons are really into basketball. I was able to tell him, “Sorry” with a straight face, not volunteer to dash off to the store for specialty tape and hope he would forget about it. I then found a stencil kit with pavement paint online and ordered it for Hanukah.

When the kit arrived via Amazon Prime, I was nervous. It looked tedious. I certainly didn’t want to read the instructions and do all of that measuring and lying out of a pattern. My Home Economics sewing class in middle school was enough to last me a lifetime. I feared FBP would open the gift and balk at the three hours of labor I had just presented him with. Then a miracle happened. His eyes lit up and he was really excited.

As luck would have it, the following day was a minimum day for him at school (I did not plan this) so he had extra time for the project. He and his brother very carefully followed the instructions. When no tape we had would work to hold down the pattern paper, CB ran into the house and got his wooden blocks (another stroke of dumb luck, I almost donated them to Goodwill last week but then decided to keep them at the last minute).

CB and I had to leave before the work was finished to go to basketball practice and I panicked about leaving FBP alone with a can of spray paint in my driveway. I was sort of bitchy as I said, “Why did you start this right before I had to leave? You better not get paint all over the place!” He ignored me and I drove off figuring it was a disaster and I was a fool.

Two hours later I was at the mall, in the middle of the new Tevana store, sampling one of Oprah’s favorite things when the text arrived, “Time to play.”

A huge grin and $30 worth of Maharaja Chai Oolong later, I picked up CB at the JCC and raced home. Even though CB had just played bball for two hours and was tired and still had homework, he was so caught up in the excitement of celebrating the finished half-court, he shot with his brother for another hour after dinner.

FBP was proud of himself and CB was happy his older brother was including him. Actually more than including him, FBP needed him or all the papers would have blown away. It was a two-man job.

Now they want outdoor lights for their new evening pastime. I am thinking Santa might be a good one to ask.

The Opt-Out Generation Wants Back In

2013-08-08T10:08:00.000-07:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/11/magazine/the-opt-out-generation-wants-back-in.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0

I was one of the professional women they are talking about in this article -- one who opted out of the career track to stay at home. At the end of my maternity leave in January 2000, I extended the leave one month, still in denial, still putting off the pain of decision. I didn't want to say to my mother, or any other professional woman I respected, that I was going to take my education and 10-year career and chuck them. I was afraid to admit I was choosing diapers and nursing, playdates and parks. I was scared. All of us who chose to opt out were fearful. We'd never be able to pick up where we left off.

It feels a little less authentic now that I read I wasn't the only one struggling with the decision, I wasn't the only one who became mommy extraordinaire, volunteer queen, and home-making champion. I was like every other educated mother who could afford to stay home and decided to do it. I had a great run, too. Envious of my friends with careers, yes. Wishing I was in a conference room haggling with clients, no. Staying at home was rewarding for me. It also came with a price. The Professor and I fought. We almost divorced several times. We power struggled over everything from money to the kind of turkey I bought. I have learned it wasn't about the money, or the turkey. It was about my decision on how to spend my time. Owning that choice is difficult at best, even for the black and white thinkers.

The kids are older now. They set their own alarms, make their own lunches, do their own laundry. Mommy is still needed to direct and supervise but not execute any more. This is a natural time to make a change. I have friends who went back to work because they want to keep up their lifestyle and pay for their kids' college tuitions but can't swing it on one income. I also have friends who traded with their partner. She is the bread winner and he is the cook and chauffeur now. The last group is like me, they have some time while the kids are in school, have maxed out in the volunteering arena and don't care for the Work-Out Barbie look. Running errands and walking the dog doesn't take seven hours a day.

Women who are empowered with choice have the easiest time of going back to work after being at home for a long stretch (the article uses 10 years as the average). Whether that empowerment comes from external -- degrees from top schools, great networks, etc. -- or from internal -- recognizing the price of trade offs and making them (no matter how exhausting and uncomfortable that is) -- depends on the individual.

The sucker punch in the article was from the woman whose own mother had worked as a high school drama teacher and speech therapist and was home in the afternoons and during school vacations. She learned from her father, after her mother had died, that her mother had always wished she could have spent more time with her children.

So there is no easy answer. No matter whether you opt out or not, opt back in or not. Even when it looks like a woman has it all, in the end we discover she gave up something.

Gone Fishing

2013-01-23T05:56:00.002-08:00

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“Mom, will you take me and Ryan to Law Street?”

They wanted a ride down to Pacific Beach where they thought the bodysurfing would be better than at the beach right by our house. This was legitimate because the wave breaks are all different.

I didn’t have the time to stay and watch them. I overheard his friend asking if they could just be dropped off.

This is all new and uncomfortable. Leaving my son home alone is one thing. Leaving him at the beach with a friend unsupervised is another. I called the Professor.

“He needs some freedom. He’s a strong swimmer. It’s just an hour,” the Professor reassured.

It was time to take a risk, but I was terrified. I had worked myself up to First Born Prince either drowning or sneaking off to make out with some beach babe while he held a joint in one hand and a beer in the other.

“I don’t want him to grow up too fast,” I argued.

“He’s not going to grow up at all if you don’t let him go figure a few things out on his own,” replied the Professor who grew up in a New York nanosecond.

Ugh. I relented.

“Okay, Charlie, grab some towels, I can drop you off, but only for an hour while I…zoom to the grocery and maniacally throw food into the cart …grocery shop, then we have to hustle back home.”

They seemed a little too excited with the news. They seemed like drug addicts who just found a twenty-dollar bill.

As we pulled up to the beach access point, synchronizing our watches, I heard his friend whisper, “Did you bring it?” My son shushed him with his eyes.

My heart skipped a beat. This is it. Here we go. It’s happening. He was going to go off and do something he didn’t want me to know about. I wanted to shriek, “Bring WHAT?” I thought about parking the car down the road, and belly crawling back through the ice plant. I couldn’t believe it. How was I ever going to let go? Damn it all to hell.

I came back right at the scheduled time and watched them walk up with huge grins on their faces, my son carrying a bag. He waved it around.

“We caught a fish!”

“What??!!”

“The waves weren’t that great so we walked down to the pier and you can rent fishing poles for $7 an hour.”

He has a new debit card that accesses his own money but he usually asks before he buys anything. I approve all purchases and acquisitions, even a burrito. He didn’t ask this time, he was testing my control, he didn’t want me to say no, he wanted to do something without asking mommy first. I wondered how much longer he’d need me.

“Mom, will you please, please cook it for us when we get home?”

What Went Right

2013-01-06T17:28:00.000-08:00

Today is the last day of Christmas break. Normally I’d feel totally wiped out, like I just finished a perverse marathon where the goal was to consume all the shopping trips, cocktail parties, meals out, school holiday performances, See’s Candy, and Chardonnay possible between November 22 and January 1^st without going broke, throwing up or yelling at any dim-witted retail clerks. This year is different. I feel good. I could probably still use a week at Betty Ford, but I am mostly in a healthy place -- rested, inspired, and connected with my family and friends.

Were my relatives all medicated? Did someone slip the Professor a lobotomy? Had the boys finally taken me seriously about cutting off technology devices? Was it possible that my best friend intuitively knew that what I really needed for Christmas was a nice, long visit with her? Why did everything go so well?

It started with Thanksgiving. Charlie’s Bar Mitzvah was scheduled for the Saturday before, and I was planning to be the ultimate nut job and turn a simple Bar Mitzvah celebration into a week-long festival of eating, drinking and arguing, with the grand finale being a homemade turkey feast for anyone not smart enough to leave town promptly after the Bar Mitzvah ended. Fortunately I didn’t get my way. My mother-in-law invited everyone to Cabo San Lucas for some R&R. Thank God she is brilliant and I didn’t spend the week in my kitchen, muttering to myself, wandering around with a glass of wine permanently glued to my palm. And I didn’t miss the smell of turkey cooking, not one teeny, tiny, little bit.

I wondered if we could repeat the success of a calm holiday over Christmas break. Traditionally we meet our friends in Palm Desert, which is restorative, but this year they had just flown out for the Bar Mitzvah and we are heading back to see them in February. The Professor suggested we go to the Galapagos. Even though I love to travel, the magic, I knew, wasn’t in taking a trip.

I had so much work piled up that I feared vacation would turn into me at the computer and the boys in front of the TV. I wanted to spend quality time with them but also wanted to get a lot of shit crossed off my list. I didn’t want to spend my precious free time buying a bunch of crap for them and then yelling at them because I spent my day running stupid errands instead of doing something of quality. I wanted to be productive and be with them, and that was it.

We decided to stay home for Christmas, have a few friends and family over, get caught up on all our projects and take a short trip to San Francisco. To ensure we didn’t let the two weeks slip by without honoring what was important to us, we each picked something we wanted to do individually and also something we wanted to do as a family. I wrote them on a white board and left it up in the kitchen. This was our list:

--bodysurf day and movie night with Aunt Hayley

--sleepover with Jack (that was Sam’s, not mine)

--walk around the neighborhood with Huck at night to see the Xmas lights

--family board game

--family movie night

--take sheets and blankets to animal shelter

--volunteer at Hunger Project

--long hike

We did all of it. As a HUGE bonus, the Professor took the boys hiking for three days to Joshua Tree and I literally spent the entire time researching and writing. No errands, no socializing, just peace of mind. It was one of the best gifts I ever received. Time. Time to think. Guilt free.

My last blog post was July 20. My resolution for 2012 was: Time for writing, quality mothering and better health. Two out of three ain’t bad. Maybe I can sit myself down at my keyboard more often in 2013...

Saints

2012-07-20T12:19:00.001-07:00

First Born Prince went with his father to volunteer at a homeless shelter last weekend. The project is organized by our temple and the service hours are required as part of his Hebrew school education.

The Professor kept forwarding the e-mails from the ‘Hunger Project” coordinator directly to First Born Prince with notes like, “This is your responsibility. You need to figure out what you need to do, what to wear, what to bring, etc.”

I stayed out of it. I loosely knew their shift started around 8:00 a.m. on Sunday morning and did my part by suggesting an early bedtime Saturday night. I figured the ritual of becoming a man should encompass the whole shebang.

When the Professor got up that day, he was pleasantly surprised to find FBP had set his alarm, was already dressed and ready to go.

FBP had the job of serving juice at meal time. If you’ve ever spent time around homeless people, you know that sugar, in any form, is a hot commodity. He was very busy filling and refilling their cups for them while they were eating.

“So one guy holds up his two paper cups and tells me, ‘I want more apple and grape juice.’ I took them and filled one up with apple and one with grape and brought them over to his table. The man looked into the cups, made a face and yelled, ‘I wanted half apple and half grape in each one!’ Then the other homeless guy sitting next to him, looked over and yelled at him, ‘Awww, don’t be such a dick!’”

He was laughing as he told the punchline. He smiled at me and said, “It was fun, Mom.”

I am thankful that my son sees the light and joy in his experiences. There is no perfect formula for passing on the values you want for your children. I don’t think First Born Prince would have spent time in a homeless shelter, serving people as a 12-year-old, if it wasn’t one of the requirements for his Bar Mitzvah. Helping those in need is part of a Jewish man's commitment to God. After FBP turns 13 this fall, it will be his choice whether or not he continues to fulfill the commandment.

As a kid, I memorized a framed prayer we had hanging on the wall in the downstairs guest bathroom, where apparently I spent a lot of time. I don't think my mother's intention was to give me a blueprint for thoughtful living in that way, but it pretty much sums up my deal:

The Prayer of Saint Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love.

Where there is injury, pardon.

Where there is doubt, faith.

Where there is despair, hope.

Where there is darkness, light.

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Amen.

Sucking Blood

2012-05-17T10:16:00.003-07:00

I am a vampire, roaming the earth seeking my life source. It’s not blood I’m after, that’s far too simple of an answer for a creature like me. It’s not love, either, that’s too Hallmark and Hollywood, if you know what I mean. I am not soulless though. The Professor and my boys are a source of nourishment in every sense. Even with all my good fortune, I still need more. I moved our family back to California thinking it was sunshine I was after. I feel sorry for the vampires who search in either the most predictable places (sigh) or the oddest. I’ve discovered it’s not in the California sunshine, nor is it in wine bottles, gyms or shopping malls. Intellectually, I get the message: The energy I am seeking comes from within. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Vampires don’t suck their own blood.

Then something wonderful happened. The good people of La Jolla recruited me to help our schools. I have volunteered in leadership positions for over ten years and was on hiatus from the public education crisis while we were in Ithaca for two years. Since we’ve been back, I’ve been avoiding the noise by writing checks and apologizing profusely to my friends. I was a burn out. I rolled my eyes. I snickered. I almost went nuts when the parent, sitting poolside on a weekday last summer, explained to me how she couldn’t afford to give the whole $1,000 per child that the school was trying to raise, and then in the next breath told me about their vacation to Hawaii and how she was planning to take her son to Disneyland as a pre back-to-school treat. I thought I was going to strangle a middle-aged woman right there in someone’s backyard. How could I effectively lead a group of volunteers from a jail cell?

This year, I couldn’t refuse. I’ve been to a few meetings already and started feeling the energy in my veins. This community amazes me and inspires me. I found myself laughing again and enjoying the company of the other volunteers. These are not rich ladies who lunch. Okay, a few are. But most of them have careers, or work inside the home, or both. They show up and they get shit done. I love it. I realized I have been too focused on the negative. I have to let go of the people who don’t give. I have found it in my heart to not blame the less fortunate. Either they are clueless and wander around not knowing half of what’s going on, or worse, they know but feel like they are not in a position to give, either time or money. I can’t imagine feeling that locked up. Nowhere to run or hide except maybe at Disneyland and even that only lasts for a day, two if you’re charging it.

I can’t remember if vampires can see themselves in mirrors or not. Doesn’t matter. If my good luck continues, I’ll be like all the energized, happy souls around me.

Spring Cleaning

2012-05-07T11:07:00.000-07:00

My favorite spring cleaning activity is purging. Old clothes, books, toys, stupid purchases (did I really pay for an avocado peeler?) and outgrown sporting equipment are given away. The house feels cleaner and fresher, ready for guests and naps on the back porch. It’s taken me years of living with a New Yorker who was raised in an apartment to learn how to let go of stuff. I used to have every single thing with meaning saved—notes passed to me in the hallway dating as far back as junior high, letters received while I was in college, dried corsages, bouquets, favorite pairs of jeans, an old boyfriend’s Stanford Football jacket (I’m actually saving it for the day he shows up on Facebook so I can get his current address and mail it back to him for his wife or kids to enjoy). Yes, I can be nice.

I learned to let go slowly over the years, but I still have trouble with my sons’ artwork and school work, all of it from pre-school through six grade, categorized and saved. It’s taking over my garage and office and we’re only half-way there. Since First Born Prince, we have moved four times, twice across country. You would think I would be better at tossing by now. I assign emotional currency to each and every pencil and crayon stroke they’ve ever made. A friend of mine suggested I take digital photos of everything and then recycle it. It’s not the same. I already feel like I lost the little boy who created what I am looking at when I dig the projects out. How will I feel if I lose his creations?

Then there are the keepsakes that you simply cannot toss. I have a pile of those sacred items in our master bedroom—the blankets and pillows from when my boys were little that I can’t even bear to put in the garage.

Today I eyed the bag and knew it was time to commit--make a permanent place for the assortment of baby blankets and pillows somewhere inside my home or store it. I picked up Charming Baby’s “emergency” nee-nee (the real nee-nee, his blanket he slept with every night of his life for seven years, was accidentally left on a Disney cruise ship). Caressing the soft, cream fabric, I smiled remembering when I bought the back-up “just in case,” he informed me I was wasting my money because it would never replace the real one.

Sam, the Sharpie markings read on the satin trim of the blanket. We labeled it his first week of Kindergarten to use at school for naptime. His real nee-nee was far too needed and cherished at home to be stored in a cubby at school. Without emergency nee-nee in front of me, I am not sure I would have remembered how we discussed which blanket would be sacrificed, labeled and sent to do duty at an institution. Nor would I have so clearly pictured how brave he was the day I hung up with the Disney World Lost-and-Found Specialist, confirming nee-nee was gone, and he looked me square in the eye and said, “It’s okay, Mom, I’m a big boy now.”

I think it was I who cried that night realizing I’d never see nee-nee again.

Blessing or Curse

2012-05-04T17:05:00.002-07:00

“We were blessed with cute faces,” my father explained to his chubby fourth-grade daughter. He was trying to comfort me as I sat across the table from him at the Howard Johnson’s All-You-Can-Eat Fried Clams night, a ritual I endured every Tuesday after my brother’s basketball practice at the JCC. I was on a diet, so I wasn’t bellying up to the clam bar with my brother and our neighbor’s three children. At nine-years old, I was already sitting with the moms, sipping a Tab and ordering the diet plate--a plain hamburger patty and scoop of cottage cheese with a side of canned peaches.

My father rationalized that if you had a cute face, you could get away with being a little pudgy and still be attractive. That may have been the case for a middle-aged married man living in the suburbs in the early 80’s, but it wasn’t my reality. I felt pressure to be skinny, not sturdy. I was actually cursed with a gene pool of giants.

My most painful memory during those years is of the day they weighed us at school and the nurse announced each student’s weight over her shoulder to the clerk recording the numbers. As I waited in line, my heart raced with anxiety. I knew I weighed more than all the other kids. No one else in my class weighed over 100 lbs. When it was my turn, I made eye contact with the nurse and silently pleaded with her to not share my weight out loud.

“Lisa Barnhouse, 103.”

I don’t remember if the other kids were shocked, or if I was teased, or if Jeff Shaller, the tall blonde boy who made up songs about my Barn butt, was even there that day. I just recall the fear.

First Born Prince got really round and soft right before he started shooting up overnight. One day he looked like maybe he should skip a meal and the next he was lanky and needed bigger shoes. When I talked to his pediatrician about it, he told me that males lose 25% of their body fat when they go through puberty, while girls gain 40% (yes, boobs and hips are made out of fat, people).

I am glad I didn’t give him the cute-face pep talk. Nor put him on a diet. I reassured him he was exactly the right size for someone born 11 pounds and predicted to grow up to somewhere between 6’8” and 7 feet tall.

Charming Baby is also the biggest kid in his class, just like his “big boned” mother and “baby fat” brother, except he doesn’t worry or feel self-conscious. He marches to his own beat, one giant step at a time. I only realize it’s a challenge at all when he has a growth spurt and gets clumsy all of the sudden. Just this week he fell twice on the playground, tripping over his own feet that have grown two sizes since September.

For comforting my baby, I simply kiss his scraped-up chin and tell him I am sorry he got hurt. Looking at that cute face he was blessed with, I don’t think there’s much else to say.

Hosting

2012-04-26T09:49:00.004-07:00

My bare feet felt the crumbs from the Professor’s potato chips first. Then I heard him, on the phone, conducting one of his many conference calls. He was standing on the patio, off the kitchen, grilling some sausages. It was almost five o’clock and I had six ladies coming over for dinner at 6:30. I still needed to shower and finish straightening up. It always came to a showdown. You get two out of three at my house: homemade food, showered hostess or pretty home. As I chopped up the yellow bell pepper, I could feel my voice getting bitchy.

“Are you making a snack?” I asked the Professor. Who makes himself a sausage right before dinner?

He looked up, hit the mute button on his phone, and smiled. I think he was wearing slippers.

“No, it’s lunch, I’ve had a busy day.”

I guess the chicken salad I made him and put on his desk at noon was technically breakfast.

Within minutes all three of my men were on the sofa, chomping sausages and firing questions, mostly about schedules and food, their top priorities, at me. I noticed the boys’ backpacks had been tossed in the corner of the family room and I think there was a karate uniform jammed between the sofa cushions. I scanned the room for lacrosse sticks and old ice packs.

“Guys, guys, I can’t talk about this summer right now. I can’t pull up my calendar, because, as you can see, I am cooking. Will you please put your stuff away? And, in case you didn’t notice, I just plumped up all those pillows. Do you have to recline when you eat your sausages?”

The Professor realized what was going on.

“I forgot you have your book club tonight! Are we messing you up?”

If they weren’t so totally innocent I might have told them to get out of the house and leave me alone. But then I would have been alone. Even though I say I want quiet and tidiness, I know it’s not true. I manifested this gang of loving boys in front of me, with their noise, mess, and food needs. Though I tried many different paths over the years, I discovered there is no other road to the laughter, kisses, and sweetness that I soak in every day.

Tea & Sympathy

2012-04-24T08:11:00.000-07:00

We have a weekly family movie night. Sometimes I am lazy and we just scroll through what’s “On Demand” and hope for the best. I usually try to research a quality film, appropriate, yet interesting enough to hold the attention of ages 8 – 45, order in advance through Netflix, and have it ready, with healthy snacks, in time for the weekend. I know, I am a miracle worker.

First Born Prince wanted some tea to sip during the show last Sunday night, a sweet little tradition we started in Ithaca. He takes his with milk and honey. I prefer mine spiked with comfort but I usually settle for plain. If I can’t catch a buzz, then I am a purist.

“Mom, can I have some tea?”

“Sure.”

Neither of us moved a muscle. He was, of course, waiting for me to hop up, put the kettle on, make a fuss with the tea bags, etc., etc. I was already horizontal with “War Horse” all queued up, a dog by my side and a bag of Power Berries from Trader Joe’s in my lap. (If you haven’t tried these chocolate “berries” made with acai, blueberry and pomegranate juice, DON’T—they are highly addictive.)

“Charlie, why don’t I teach you how to make it?”

“Okay.”

I walked him through all the steps, including running down the hall to ask the Professor if he wanted any. Note: This is a serious step when making anything in our house. It didn’t occur to me to tell him to use a potholder or oven mitt.

“Aaaggghhh!”

He had grabbed the kettle, boiling hot, by its metal handle. I couldn’t see what he was doing, because, remember, I was busy getting the sofa and snacks ready for everyone from my spot on the pillows. He was fine, the burn wasn’t too bad. I tried not to make too big of a fuss. He’s almost six feet tall and is certainly capable of pouring hot water on his own.

It got me thinking about the process of letting go, knowing they’ll make mistakes and realizing that even when you’re lying there, eating fake healthy carbohydrates only a few feet away, that even then they will get hurt.

If we’re lucky, they will learn from these mistakes and go off to college knowing how to make a cup of tea.

Tools

2012-04-20T10:27:00.000-07:00

I got into the habit of sending an e-mail to our gardener when I wanted fresh flowers planted in our yard or something replaced, like part of a hedge. It’s not that expensive, not much more than the cost of buying the flats of perennials or a 15-gallon boxwood myself and much easier than carving out the time to go to the nursery, loading up my car and then spending hours on my knees in the dirt. Or so I thought.

Charming Baby is full of questions about nature and desire to spend time with me. He yearns to be productive and will not turn down a challenge. We recently made a chore chart. I gave each of my sons a handful of mandatory tasks (trash, recycling, setting table, dishes, etc.) and then asked them to choose one of their own. First Born Prince focuses on results, not process, so he went for the most efficient return on investment of his time, like picking up dog poop which simultaneously allows him to play lacrosse in the backyard worry-free. He gets the whole win-win concept. Charming Baby chose gardening. This chore was originally intended for me to have someone help pick all the dead blossoms off our plants and trees. Then it hit me.

I decided to surprise Charming Baby with the job of planting all the new flowers I want in the yard this season. I also decided to enjoy myself and turn the whole project into a treat for both of us since Sam had already figured out that it wasn’t really a “chore.” I cleared my schedule so I would have time to think at the nursery rather than running through with a cart yelling at the workers that I was parked in a red zone. I thought through what I needed and made a list so I wouldn’t be caught having to use my ivory-handled silver pie server to dig holes, or the kids’ bamboo back scratcher as a rake.

We spent two hours hauling, digging, planting, watering and cleaning up. We’re about a third done. Charming Baby asked me this morning if we could get right to it after school today and even figured out which plants he wants to save for Saturday. He likes organizing the work and is excited about the progress.

“Thank you, Mom, for buying all the flowers and letting me plant everything.”

“Thank YOU, Sam. You did such a great job. The yard looks beautiful.”

Just wait until it blooms.

Roots

2012-04-15T10:56:00.002-07:00

Passenger Ship Samuel

My family can trace its roots back to the arrival of the Barnhouses in North America from England in 1638. One of my great grandfathers, Captain Richard Barnhouse, sailed his ship, Samuel, over and settled in Virginia. He brought passengers and slaves in exchange for land. He had a slave himself. After he died, his widow, Anne Barnhouse, granted the slave his freedom. That part reminds me of how after my father died my mother made big cash donations to her favorite charities. My father was not into charity or parting with cash.

My mother’s side of the family came over from France, through Canada. The French Canadians began moving to North America in the mid-18^th century and continued emigrating up through 1930. Our family settled in New York where they built and worked in factories, no slaves involved, only hard-working French people.

Grandpa Barnhouse moved to California in the early 20^th century to be an actor in Hollywood. He met my grandmother, also from an English family, fell madly in love, started a family and settled on a successful sales career. My father was one of their five children, raised in an affluent suburb of Los Angeles. When he was young, he spent his spare time swimming with his sisters or selling persimmons from their backyard at a little stand he made.

My mother was basically an only child, although she had three much-older stepsiblings, raised in Niagara Falls. She remembers countless hours curled up reading, either at night under the covers with a flashlight or in the summers, up in the attic with old comic books she found. She also recalls spying on her brother through the floorboards when he was entertaining dates in the basement.

We have a genealogy book from the Barnhouse side of the family and a few of my aunts belong to Daughters of the Revolution, both help keep the history alive. I have a handwritten family tree from my maternal grandmother, also French Canadian like my grandfather, whom she met in New York. Everything I learned about the LaFrenieres is word of mouth.

I am doing my best to paint the family’s historical picture for my sons. Every time we revisit the past, a fact is corrected or a child born out of wedlock pops up. The details don’t really matter but it sure is interesting to discover the English side has something in common with the French—like that one of my great grandmothers was a badass liberal, just like my mom.

Intellectual Pursuits

2012-04-11T09:58:00.001-07:00

“Will you read my blog post and tell me if you think it’s too weird?”

“Sure,” says the Professor.

He doesn’t laugh which is the opposite of what I was going for.

“Too bizarre, huh?”

“You know better than to ask me. I am too private. But I will say one thing. Writing about boobs is not an intellectual pursuit. This is what happens when you live in La Jolla.”

Had I been anywhere else in my cycle I would have fought him on this. This from a man who bought a hot tub as an impulse purchase while out grocery shopping at Costco? He is lecturing me on intellectual pursuits?

I don’t think so! Here’s the post:

I am not built for running, but I love it so I do it anyway. There are a lot of things that aren’t good for me that I do regardless, but that’s another story, shared only after years of friendship and a bottle of wine. I like the freedom and simplicity of being able to put on running shoes, my music and just go. The last time I ran this much was in Ithaca and I fractured a toe. Even with taping them and wearing orthotics, I may not make it to my grave without intervention.

“I think I need foot surgery,” I told the Professor.

He looked at my feet.

“Because of how they look or because of how they feel?”

“Please. It’s my toe. I think I’m getting a stress fracture. My weight isn’t being distributed properly. My second toe is doing all the work the big toe is supposed to be doing. I can feel it happening when I push off.”

“Well, you have to schedule it when I can help out.”

I started thinking about the down time and the risks of anethesia.

“I wonder if there is anything else I should have done while I am under?”

“Like what?” He sounded hopeful.

“Oh my God, I knew it. You want me to get new boobs.”

“No, honey, I love your boobs. Really. I am not one of those guys that wants everything new. I like living in reality.”

Reality boobs?

Hunger Games

2012-04-05T13:43:00.000-07:00

I was mean to two old men the other day at the movie theatre. The first was at the concession counter. I was with First Born Prince, on a special date to see “The Hunger Games.” We were planning to go to dinner afterwards, and I was in an exceptionally good mood…until Old Man #1 cut in front of us (and the rest of the line) to get a free popcorn refill. He didn’t make eye contact, just marched right up and wove his bag around until the counter person helped him, right in the middle of my transaction. The sales clerk literally stopped filling up my son’s soda to wait on him.

When he turned around, I spoke up.

“Excuse me, Sir, did you see the line of people here waiting?”

“Excuse me, Ma’am!” His tone was indignant. “I was getting a refill!” I noticed his hand holding the popcorn-in-question was shaking and I didn’t want him to drop it or anything, so I just turned back to pay for the soda.

“Maybe he was confused, Mom.” Son of Pollyanna reminded me to give others the benefit of the doubt. I also wasn’t 100% sure what the rules around refills were since I’ve been depriving myself of movie theatre popcorn for over thirty years now.

We were seated, excited for the movie to begin, when Old Man #2 strolled in just as the lights dimmed and sat in the seat directly in front of my son, on TOP of a special cushion he brought with him. There were many, many other open seats. We had purposely arrived early and I was frustrated by the turn of events.

I asked really loudly, “Charlie, CAN YOU SEE?”

“No,” he whispered.

“I GUESS WE’LL HAVE TO MOVE THEN!”

The old man didn’t flinch. I stood in the aisle with my hand on my hip, searching for another good seat, giving out a long, loud, heavy sigh. Finally, Old Man #2 snuck a peek at me. I marched off.

“It’s okay, Mom.” First Born Prince-slash-Son of Pollyanna wanted back my bubbly mood.

And it was. We ended up in good seats. We were two rows back and I looked at Old Man #2 nestling himself into his booster seat and realized he was alone. I started to feel a little sinking feeling in my stomach. I wondered if Old Man #1 was alone, too. I thought to myself, “What the hell is wrong with me?”

As we left the theater and made our way to dinner, I remembered the sage advice my father used to give me, “Don’t be an asshole.”

It didn’t really matter what the refill protocol was or that an old man plunked himself down in front of my strapping 12-year-old, did it? I was on a date with my son and was excited to discuss the merits of a great film over a slice of pizza and the rules of the elderly or the impatient, or the clueless, needn’t apply to me.

We only go around once, it’s a short ride.

Price Tags

2012-03-30T08:44:00.000-07:00

The elementary school’s fundraising gala program came home in Charming Baby's backpack, complete with auction item listings and their descriptions. The Professor had already read through the details online and thought it would be fun to bid on “Navy Seal for a Day.” The winner gets to go with a real Navy Seal to their elite training center here in San Diego and spend a day learning all about it. All I could think was, “There’s a Navy Seal at the school and this is the first I've heard about it?”

I like to bid on experiences as well and sifted through the little booklet to see if there were any vacation packages for the family.

“Oh, Mom, I already read that and know what I want.”

This surprised me and made me laugh, picturing him stretched out on the sofa with his long legs crossed, scanning a list of offerings for anything that might appeal to him.

“I would like to do the Teacher Feature with Ms. White.”

Teacher Features are experiences that teachers from the school donate to the auction, like taking the four highest bidders to pizza and bowling for the afternoon. Another popular one is a teacher who brings a lucky group to a Padres baseball game. Ms. White is Charming Baby’s second-grade teacher and was offering a Scrapbooking Class. I would never have guessed.

“Really? What made you choose that one?”

“Well, I liked the trip to Belmont Park (boardwalk amusement with a roller coaster and arcade), but that’s another teacher and I want to do something with my teacher. Plus I think you get dessert with Ms. White and I’m not sure you do with the other one.”

Charming Baby had to pick a theme for his scrapbook and bring in photos and mementos. My heart cracked open going through the two years of memories from our sabbatical in Ithaca. It was easy to see what he cherished: outdoor adventures with his brother, waterfalls, snow, our big yard full of deer, time on Cornell campus, and playing with Huck.

“My hiking stick can’t fit in there, Mom!” He made jokes as we filled the Ziploc.

When I picked him up yesterday after the much-anticipated event, he was beaming and proud and held in his arms a keepsake that truly was priceless.

Dude!

2012-03-18T10:43:00.003-07:00

On my way back from dropping First Born Prince at school I saw a dad I know driving home with his surfboard on top of his car, coming up the hill from the beach. It was 7:20a.m. and he was already done with his surf session.

Done? Dude!

He was already finished because he’s a lawyer and I am sure had to be in his office by 9:00. It hit me like a ton of sand that all the surfers I know are successful working professionals...teachers, lawyers, surgeons, engineers, physical therapists…most of them are the healthiest people in my social circle, too. They are physically and mentally fit and as a bonus, tend to be soulful, kind and caring.

I used to be afraid of the negative surf-culture stereotypes. I grew up with a mixed bag of screw-ups and college-bound surfers. I am a protective mother now. No one wants a kid who ditches class to surf or falls out of a VW bus in a cloud of smoke. But now that I see how my peers at the beach ended up, I realize it’s not the love of the ocean that breeds screw-ups.

Surfing is a sport, like any other—not wanting your son to surf because he might end up like Jeff Spicoli is like not letting your son play football because he might turn out like Michael Vick. Likewise, not trying to surf when you live in La Jolla is like not trying to ski when you live at the base of a gorgeous ski resort. The wave breaks here are infamous and we boast year-round surfing weather.

Charming Baby wants to learn how to surf this summer. I foolishly dissuaded my older son from trying it. Thankfully I am older and wiser now. We’re fortunate to live here and I’m excited he is interested in one of the more challenging, yet rewarding, sports available to us on the coast.

If everybody had an ocean…

Easy Roads

2012-02-29T07:03:00.002-08:00

I still remember when my babies were in my arms nursing how they would look at me and reach their little hand up to stroke my cheek. It made me feel like everything was right in the world. I’d turn off the Law & Order marathon, put down the burrito, prop myself up against some comfy pillows and just enjoy the time doing something natural, simple and easy.

Except, getting to that point wasn't. First, I almost missed the boat on the father of my children. I didn’t want to get married young (by my standards, not Appalachian). The Professor put up with years of dating, breaking up, living together in sin, and in therapy. I finally did agree to be a child bride. I was 28.

Then, the Professor was ready to start a family, again years before I was. I had just hit my stride in my career and didn’t want to slow down. He was worried we might run into trouble conceiving (Had he seen my hips?), having read somewhere it could take up to two years to get pregnant “naturally.” I bought the logic, thinking we could avoid pressure if we got started early. At any rate, I figured baby making might be more fun if it wasn’t a pre-scheduled activity, like a Body Pump class at the gym. I got pregnant the first month off of birth control. I was 30.

In between my two babies, I had a pregnancy that didn’t make it. I carried our middle son for six months. I’ve come to understand that miscarriages and terminations are part of motherhood. We’ve come a long way from having children to help out on the farm, and making a few extra “just in case.” We now know exactly why we can or can’t, will or won’t conceive, carry and deliver. Scientific progress doesn’t make it easier. I grieved heavily over the loss. I was 34.

Charming Baby came along soon thereafter, thanks to ovulation testing kits. There is nothing less romantic than telling a man he has to do it immediately when he gets home from his business trip because you’ve released an egg. Conceiving wasn’t the part that was rough, though. After a successful (albeit nauseous) pregnancy, my OB-GYN advised me to induce early. My first baby was 10 lbs. 14 oz. at birth and while it was wonderful that I could actually push out an 11 lb. baby, it wasn’t advisable. Where First Born Prince had been big and beautiful and pink, Charming Baby, who was forced out before he was ready, was thin and yellow and just looked like he wasn’t fully baked. He was jittery and had jaundice. I was mad at myself for listening to ill advice. I was 35.

Some women make it look easy. They have twins, with no household help, and casually nurse their infants, one after the other, without you even noticing. Others act like feeding their one little baby is a military exercise and everyone should stop talking, round up burp cloths and stand at attention until the last gas bubble is gone. I like to think I have had enough challenges achieving the title “mother” that I am not smug or unsympathetic. But I am keenly aware of how extremely fortunate I am. I hit the mommy jackpot with two strong healthy boys and am in the sweet spot of my journey. I am 43.