A Few Last Minutes with Andy Rooney

While I was growing up, 60 Minutes was the centerpiece of a tradition in my house involving potato pancakes. Every Sunday, the hourly news magazine would air on CBS between 6 and 7 p.m.—it still does. And since my childhood home had a kitchen separate from our eating area and my mother didn't want to be stuck in the kitchen and miss something good on 60 Minutes, she would bring out her heavy electric skillet, plug it in at the kitchen table, and whip up a huge batch of potato pancakes while we'd watch Morley Safer, Ed Bradley, Harry Reasoner and Mike Wallace delve into some timely topic. Like a Pavlovian response, to this day when I hear the "tick-tick-tick" of that stopwatch during the opening credits of 60 Minutes, my mouth begins watering for the taste of fried potatoes and onions in oil, topped with a generous schmear of applesauce.

I just heard today that Andy Rooney, the pithy essayist who always had the last few minutes of the hour, is retiring from his regular spot on the show. He is 92 years old. When I posted the news item about his retirement on my Facebook page, a couple friends chimed in: Isn't he dead? I thought he was dead!

Rooney's last segment will be this Sunday, October 2. I've strayed from 60 Minutes over the past few years, probably because I've gotten caught up in my generation's need for everything to be in quick soundbytes. If it couldn't be said in 30 seconds, I didn't have the time to listen. But I recently pulled out my old cookbook and have reinstated my mother's Sunday night tradition of potato pancakes and 60 Minutes.

Something that should be old and stale—a news show that's been on the air since 1968—has become somewhat refreshingly new to me. I like the low production value of the "theme song," the starkness of the darkened black studio with one journalist sitting on a stool to introduce each segment. And it's not very often we see tough questions getting asked and a camera shot so close that we can see each bead of sweat and every skin pore. And in an age where most of us are satisfied to just get the sensational part of the story, it's a good reminder that sometimes stories take time to tell, and there is almost always more than one angle.

And after the in-depth nature of the show, at the very end, came Andy Rooney, the exclamatory punctuation to finish off the hour. I can still remember my mother's voice, her pancake flipper in her hand, an apron tied on to protect her clothes from the crackling oil on the griddle. She'd announced, "Shh! It's time for Andy Rooney!" and we'd all stop talking and listen. I'm not sure he has a face for television. He's a little like your curmudgeonly great-uncle with disheveled hair and eyebrows that never seemed to stop growing. But in all his essays, read from behind his desk and in front of his stacks of books, there was always a kernel of truth. There was the way he could take a common, everyday action and bring it to our attention in a different light. I remember one segment he devoted entirely to the proper way to eat an ice cream cone. It made me laugh. But to this day, I eat my cone Andy's way: licking around the bottom edge to avoid dripping, tipping the cone—never my head.

I'll be watching Andy this Sunday night. And I'll hold up my plate of potato pancakes schmeared with applesauce and I'll say, "Here's to you."

I'll Never Stop Saying Sorry

School has barely been in session for more than a few weeks, and we've already been hit by sickness. My poor family can hardly take that harsh transition from carefree summer days back into the daily grind of the school schedule. So there we were—me, hacking and coughing with the last traces of a virus, and my second oldest son, sore throat and stuffy head, missing the first spelling test of fifth grade.

By afternoon time, I had finished whatever menial chores I felt I "had" to finish, and somehow the Sorry game was pulled off the top shelf in our closet. I think the daily quota of SpongeBob had been filled, and it was time for something that didn't involve electronics.

I'd forgotten how much I love playing Sorry. It's a game I remember well from my childhood. My family enjoyed some friendly competition, and we had no misgivings about smacking down our opponent if the chance presented itself. So I think my son was a little surprised when, early in the game, I pulled a "Sorry!" card and gleefully replaced his piece—forcefully—with mine.

"Awww, that's a shame," I said in a cold, sinister voice. He just stared at me in shock.

I'm usually a pretty nurturing mother. I try not to hover, but my kids are probably pretty sheltered from most things. I guess this was a side of me he hadn't seen before. On a normal day, I'm a lioness who protects her little cubs. But put me in front of a board game, and suddenly I'm willing to eat my own young.

I beat him at the first game. I thought maybe he would cry at the defeat. That's what my younger kids do. When something doesn't go their way, they cry. Their lower lips stick out to the next county.

Not this kid.

"Rematch," he said, grabbing the deck of cards to shuffle. "And this time, you're goin' down."

That's my boy.

Guilt is that ever-present ingredient in all interactions mothers have with their children. I was feeling guilty for "letting" my kid get sick in the first place. Was he washing his hands enough? Eating healthy food? I was guilty that he was already missing school and would face make-up homework over the weekend.

And when was the last time he and I sat down to play a board game together? It had been too long.

More guilt.

I'm trying to let go of the guilt. But who am I kidding? I can't really let go of it. Maybe I'll learn to give it a quick embrace, then gently push it away. I have to choose not to beat myself up about each little failure throughout the day—for me, there are a lot of them. The "I'm sorrys" come fast and furious for not being enough, for not doing enough. I'm sorry that I don't take enough time with each child, treating them like a herd and not singling each one out to spend time to celebrate each one's special qualities.

I'll be saying Sorry! the rest of my life, I have the feeling. I guess it's what parents do. But darn it, some of those so-called failures can really turn out to be something wonderful. Because as it turns out, playing board games on a sick day with one special kid really rocks my world.

RIP Dishwasher

Oh dishwasher.

You've been a daily part of our lives since we moved into this house almost 10 years ago. The real estate agent said, "Look! The house has a dishwasher!" and I ran my hands lovingly over you, knowing that I was soon to leave my dishwasher-less home just to be closer to you.

The truth was, I never treated you the way you deserved. I stuffed you full of sticky plates and nasty glasses.

I didn't rinse properly.

I slammed your door shut with my foot. I even flippantly called you "the maid." I'd tell my guests, "Oh, don't bother with the dishes. The maid will do them." Then I'd throw my head back and laugh and we'd all go sit down and have another round of dessert.

You've been sick for a while. Sometimes I had to jab your buttons more than once to get you to start. You'd cough and groan, and slowly start up. Instead of caring for you, I got impatient. I'd open your jaws wide, stuff more crusty dishes in, then slam you shut. I pushed your buttons. I'd poke and prod you. 

But the reality is setting in, now that you're gone.

It hurts me when I think of the pink crayon episode. Pink wax, melted and spattered unceremoniously all over your insides. I'm so sorry. I'd blame it on my toddler, but the truth was, I wasn't paying attention.

What a cutie! But were we considering your feelings?

I'd say, "Look honey! The baby is sitting on the dishwasher! He's helping me load the dishes! Isn't that cute?" Then I'd run and get my camera. I never thought about how the diaper-heavy child might be breaking your back, pushing you to your limits.

And now you're gone. Last week, when I knew the end was near, I kneeled down next to you. I had just had a dinner party, and I pleaded with you.

Please. Just work for me one last time. I need this. You don't realize how much I hate doing dishes.

And you did. Even in your hour of need, you selflessly gave me your final round of clean dishes, sputtering out steam one last time before you took your final rest.

There's nothing that can be done for you now. Soon, you'll be out at the curb and to be honest, we probably won't even gather to bid you goodbye as you travel to the pearly gates of the landfill. You will be heaved into the back of a smelly truck, and we will forget you. We will move on, and begin torturing our new dishwasher.

You didn't deserve this. You really didn't.

Guess What Guess What Guess What?

Motherhood is a business of multiples. Sure, it can be about multiple children, but even if you have just one kid, you are still dealing with multiples. If my kid spills something, it's not just a drop of milk, it's the whole gallon of milk. Or, "oops, I accidentally poured all the marshmallows into my hot chocolate."

And don't get me started on the multiples of Legos. The ones I always seem to step on when I go into my kids' rooms. To put away their laundry.

Laundry. Ugh—multiples of multiples.

Being a truly distracted Mommy means that sometimes my head isn't where it needs to be, so that when I'm on the phone with the doctor, or when I'm working my brain to its capacity to balance the checkbook, this is typically when my kids have something important to say. But first, they have to get my attention.

"Mom."

"Mom"

"Mommy."

"MomMomMomMomMomMomMom."

If I'm having a good day, I'll find a break in what I'm doing, look up at them lovingly and say, "Yes darling. What is it?"

But more often than not, I'll run my hands through my hair exasperated, and answer, "What?! WhatWhatWhatWhatWhatWhatWhat???"

I know I shouldn't do it. But you tell me who—other than some sainted woman from Calcutta or some Disney Princess—who wouldn't let their calm exterior get chipped away by the jackhammer-like persistence of little children who need to show you, right now,  that their brother is wearing the wrong shirt, or that it's the wrong episode of Dora the Explorer, or that, excuse me, I wanted a red apple and not a green one?

Except for the days that the insistent "MomMomMomMomMomMom" is so a sweet little someone can say, "I love you!" or, "Look at what I made you!" and that's exactly why I try so hard—so hard—not to snap and be sarcastic.

But not today. No, today was one of those sarcastic days, and my daughter got me good.

"Mom."

"Mom."

"MomMomMomMomMomMom."

"Mom, guess what? Guesswhatguesswhatguesswhatguesswhat?"

I dropped my pencil and let out a sigh.

"Whaaaaaaat?" I moaned, immediately regretting my tone when I saw her sweet face, round cheeks and smile, with just a hint of mischief.

"Chickenbutt!" she said, and she ran away, cackling.

Okay, I deserved that.

What Do You Grab When You Run to Take Cover?

If someone had told me how often we'd be running for shelter in the past few years to our dark, dank, spidery crawl space, I would've laughed out loud. Suburban life makes you soft. You start thinking nothing could possibly touch your idyllic town with tree-lined streets and picket fences.

The sirens went off earlier this week, as ominous clouds seemed to melt over the beautiful blue evening sky with puffy white clouds. I, with my four children and a neighbor kid had just returned from the city swimming pool and we were hanging our wet towels on the clothesline.

The storm whipped up suddenly, and the siren was jarring. In order to get down to our crawl space, we had to open a closet and removed the contents: a vacuum cleaner, some backpacks, and a large box containing snow boots and out-of-season shoes.

When you need to duck for cover rightnowrightnowrightnow, your mind starts racing. I started mentally scolding myself for not being more prepared. Where are the flashlights? Will the kids be scared? Should I take candles? Snacks? In those first few moments of the blaring siren, my kids scattered everywhere. We were all making one mad dash to gather what we saw as the essentials: I was able to find some snacks and blankets. My son located the flashlight.

The next thing I know, all three of my boys are bringing their guitars toward the entry of the crawl space, the treasures that they've acquired in the last few years. My oldest son saved up his money to go towards his electric bass, and he wasn't about to let it get mangled in a tornado.

Son #2, my money monger, appeared clutching a heavy metal box in his arms.

"You're bringing your cash?" said his older brother.

"If there's a tornado, I want to have money," was the defiant answer.

"My shoes!" wailed my little daughter. I looked at her pudgy bare feet.

"Put these on," I said quickly, giving her some sneakers, realizing she'd need foot covering for the gravelly surface of the crawl space.

"I don't want those!" Sheesh, three year-olds can be stubborn. "I want my pink shoes!"

Thank goodness the pink shoes were just in the other room. We weren't breaking any records for getting down to safety in quick order.

Finally, we were all down in the crawl space.

"What about Ruby?" asks one of my sons, referring to our dog.

I pause, mentally picturing if I could muscle the 70 lb. chocolate labrador retriever myself. I'm sure she wouldn't go willingly.

"She'll be okay," I assured him. He looked doubtful.

We settled in with our blankets and snacks, the guitars safely leaned against old boxes filled with yearbooks and trinkets from years past. With the wind howling around us, we felt as safe and cozy as we could in this dank, cramped space.

The lights flickered, and went out. The darkness was the kind so thick you could cut through it. We all gasped a little bit, and my daughter began to cry. But we had our flashlight, and it clicked on and made us feel safe again. I looked around. I had my essentials. In the fear just before our descent to safety, I hadn't even thought of my "prized" possessions: my laptop where I write and my new expensive camera. I had kept my babies close, and we were safe, waiting for the wind to stop howling so we could come out of our underground bunker again.

My son picked up his guitar and started playing. We all recognized the tune he was playing: Under Pressure, by Queen and David Bowie.

Well, why not?


[Excerpt from Under Pressure, 1981, Queen and David Bowie]

Pressure pushing down on me
Pressing down on you no man ask for
Under pressure - that burns a building down
Splits a family in two
Puts people on streets
Um ba ba be
Um ba ba be
De day da
Ee day da - that's o.k.
It's the terror of knowing
What this world is about
Watching some good friends
Screaming 'Let me out'
Pray tomorrow - gets me higher
Pressure on people - people on streets
Day day de mm hm
Da da da ba ba
O.k.
Chippin' around - kick my brains around the floor
These are the days it never rains but it pours

Dear Tooth Fairy: You’re Fired!

It was early morning, and I was awakened by the sound of my son sniffling.

“Dad,” he said, hiccupping between sobs, “the tooth fairy didn’t come!”

Luckily, I was turned away from my disappointed son, so he didn’t see me clench my fists and mouth the words dammit dammit dammit.

I completely forgot. And it wouldn’t be so bad, except that I always completely forget. This is our third child who has lost teeth, and I—excuse me, the tooth fairy, has made each and every one of them cry.

“Awww, buddy, don’t worry,” says my husband. “Why don’t you go down and watch some cartoons for a little while?”

Leave it to my husband. In these situations, he is calm and knows how to deflect attention to, in this case, SpongeBob. He and I just steal glances at each other and just shake our heads. We are hopeless, and we know it.

Twenty years from now, we’ll be having a big family dinner together, and our four adult children will go around the dinner table and recollect the many many wrongs done to them by us, their parents. It’s a day I will try to prepare for, because I know it’s coming.

“They could never get it right. Once, they told me the tooth fairy didn’t come because she was on vacation.”

“They told you that? Mom told me that my friend got more money from the tooth fairy because he lived on the north side of town, and the south side fairy paid less!”

“Remember that one time when she told us the tooth fairy probably got laid off because of the economy?”

I hope that some day, they can laugh about it, and forgive their Distracted Mommy. But I know in their heads, they’ll be promising to themselves that they’ll never make the same mistakes I did.

Under cover of the SpongeBob theme song being played in the next room, my husband sneaks into my son’s room and shuffles around.

“Well, no wonder!” he says loudly, so my son can hear. “The tooth fairy DID come! You just didn’t see it because she left the money for you on the dresser, not under your pillow where you were looking!”

My son runs up the stairs, and his eyes sparkle brightly at the sight of the crisp dollar bill on his dresser. His faith in all things mythical has been restored.

And I let out a huge sigh of relief. We have the most distracted, forgetful and inconsistent tooth fairy in the neighborhood. Maybe her wings are broken. She certainly didn’t graduate summa cum laude from Tooth Fairy University—she probably didn’t graduate at all.

If it weren’t for her calm and trustworthy assistant, she would’ve been fired long ago.

Pinching Pennies by Pickling (Roasting) Peppers

My favorite grocery shopping experiences happen at Caputo's. I like that it's a family-owned chain of stores. And I like that the produce section takes up about a third of the store, only rivaled by the fresh bread section and the deli that offers homemade Italian sausage. Inside the store, it's noisy and bustling. People call to each other from one end of the deli to the other. The fish market guy will let you select a fish, and he'll ask you if you want him to cut off the fish heads or not (and whether you want the heads bagged to take home).

In the middle of the huge produce section, where stout women are squeezing mangoes and picking the best potatoes and husking their own corn, is what I refer to as the "Veggie Hospice," where vegetables are sent to die with dignity. Boxes are packed with an assortment of veggies that are bruised and sadly, a little past their prime. They are facing the dumpster or the compost heap if someone doesn't act quickly and take them home so they can fulfill their destiny.

This is when I leap into action.

I take my time in the Veggie Hospice. I must choose wisely. The boxes are marked to sell—most of them can be yours for the low price of $1.99—but exactly what does one do with an entire box of wilted lettuce? I have to take into account how much time and energy I'll have once I get home, and which kitchen tool will help me with the salvation of the veggies. Once, I scored a box full of huge Portobello mushrooms, which I immediately put in my dehydrator for future use in delectable soups.

Another time, I brought home a box of oranges and lemons, and I attempted to make homemade marmalade. It didn't go well. Say the word "marmalade," and my cheeks will burn with the memory of that mishap.

But last week, my eye caught a box of big red bell peppers, still in good shape. I snatched them up and took them home. Thank goodness for the internet, where I immediately could call up all sorts of ways to roast red peppers. Laying these red jewels on the baking pan in a hot oven until their skins were blackened was a really fun process. Then, I transferred them to a paper bag, where they steamed. After their veggie sauna, their blackened skins peeled right off. Now I have a huge jar of my own roasted bell peppers. I've been making roasted red pepper hummus and layering cheese and the peppers on some of my homemade bread, then toasting it in the oven.

Tonight, I'm making tabbouleh—my favorite refreshing salad of bulghur wheat, cucumbers and lemon—and I'll be sprucing it up with some more of my red peppers.

I can't wait to see which forsaken vegetables I can rescue next week. Thank you, Caputo's.

Hold On to Every Moment—It Goes So Fast

Fourteen years ago, my husband and I were still getting the hang of being new parents. One day we had packed the diaper bag, loaded the car seat, and carefully strapped in our newborn for a family shopping trip. After sleepless nights, we were starved to get out of the house and feel normal again. Our first little boy had been a preemie, and for the three weeks he spent in the NICU, we measured his growth in ounces and fractions of inches. At birth, his tiny ankle was the same size as my thumb. His entire little body was as long as my forearm.

At the department store, between the racks of clothing, a man approached us, and congratulated us on being new parents.

"Hold on to every moment—it goes so fast," he smiled, before he turned and left.

"Wasn't that sweet of him to say that?" I said to my husband. We smiled satisfactorily at this new inner circle we had stepped into, simply by having a baby.

But then the second baby came, and the third. And the fourth. At any given time, I was breastfeeding someone, or changing a diaper. More often than not, I had throw up or snot or poop smeared surreptitiously on my clothing. And it seemed wherever I went, a well-meaning older, wiser parent would come up to me, pat me on the shoulder and say, "Hold on to every moment—it goes so fast."

"Why does everyone keep saying that to me?" I'd complain to my husband. "It's so patronizing. Do they think I don't understand how fast they grow up?"

But the truth was, I didn't. How many times, when the kids were babies, did I think to myself, "I just can't wait until they're grown up so they can feed themselves/wipe themselves/clean up after themselves/drive themselves.

This past Mother's Day, my oldest son came up to me as I was pouring my morning coffee.

"Happy Mother's Day, Mom."

I was looking my son in the eye. In the eye. His voice is starting to creep down into the lower register, and he is beginning to take on that look of a young man.

Last week I visited a friend of mine, who is a brand new mother. I got to hold her newborn baby, who opened his deep blue eyes just for a few moments to look at me before drowsily zonking out in my arms in that wonderful newborn slumber that I remember so well. I looked into his sleepy face, and listened to his quiet little coos and smelled the warm sweetness radiating off the fine, downy hair on his head. I squinted my eyes and tried to imagine him as a toddler, pulling all the toilet paper off the roll and draping it across the house—for the second time that day. I imagined his toothless grin he'd have when his baby teeth started falling out in elementary school, or the day he'd tower over his mother with his hands on his hips saying, "Why can't I borrow the car?"

The words were right there on my tongue. I wanted to say it so badly. I wanted to tell the new mother how fast it goes, how she'll look up one day and see her son's eyes looking right back at her and she'll wonder where this little baby went. But I didn't say it to her.

She'll find out for herself.

Fine and Dandy Dandelions

How am I supposed to know if I should love or hate dandelions? I mean, I should hate them, right? That's what the flyers tell me—tucked surreptitiously in my front door handle of chemical lawn services trying to drum up business in my neighborhood. I walk my kids home from school in the afternoon and see the little flags lined up to warn pedestrians that chemical has just been applied to the neatly squared suburban lawns.

My husband and I have never applied chemicals to our lawn. I just don't like the idea of my kids and dog rolling around in chemicals. But in the spring and summer, when the bright yellow dandelions start popping up like little exclamation points in my yard, I feel conflicted. I am drawn to the bright yellow heads, with their perky, spiky petals and leaves. My kids are delighted.

"Dandy-lions!' They exclaim.

My daughter picks a bouquet for me. My sons swing a baseball bat at them, knocking off their heads.

"You think we should call a lawn service?"

I ask my husband this question every year. We'll talk about it, consider it. Then we ultimately decide not to. Much to the chagrin of our neighbors, I'm sure.

In fact, the fear of my neighbors hating me is the sole source of my hate for dandelions. I'll worry so much about their private tsk-ing and head shaking, that I'll grab my dandelion digger, that metal fork with the ergonomic grip handle, and start stabbing away at the roots, flinging murdered dandelions into a large bucket. For every one that I dig up, I swear 10 more appear instantaneously.

My daughter watched me somberly as I went on a dandelion murdering rampage earlier this week.

"Why are you throwing away the dandelions?" she asked me, her lip protruding ever so slightly.

"Because they're weeds," I answered, never stopping my rhythm of plunge, rip, toss. Plunge, rip, toss.


"Weeds? What are weeds?"

I lean back on my heels, wipe the sweat from my forehead.

"I don't really know," I say.

She hands me another bunch of dandelions, offering them up like a little cherub. As soon as you pick a dandelion, it starts wilting, which makes them all the more endearing to me. The bright yellow heads nod slightly in the grip of her little chubby hands. Where a flower is aware of its beauty and intrinsic value and will stand straight and tall on its stem, the dandelion seems to know that it's a weed, and isn't invited to the flower garden party. It shows up in its glorious golden crown, but tips its head humbly as if to say, "I'd like to stay ... if you'll have me."

I take the bouquet from my daughter, and wrap her up in a hug and thank her profusely. She waits and watches me, probably suspicious that if she turns her back on me, I'll toss her treasured bouquet into the bucket with the others—cold, heartless dandelion murderess that I am.

I won't. I will hold the dandelions in my hand, my other arm around my daughter. I will put them in a tiny vase on my windowsill, knowing they will wilt immediately. Or we will pick more dandelions and put them behind our ear and let out our inner forest divas.

If you're my neighbor, I'm so sorry. I will not be calling the chemical lawn service again this year. Maybe next year?

Nah, probably not.

Hosanna! But Not Where You'd Think.

We missed church this morning, but not for lack of trying.

The kids were rousted out of bed, dressed, toast and cereal were flung on the counters. We gave more than a couple 5 minute warnings. And one, two, three, four, five, six, we all piled into the van for our weekly trip to church. Since we started attending a church in the city, we have to navigate our way out of the suburbs, and admittedly, we are still learning the ins and outs of city traffic.

As traffic on the expressway slowed to a crawl, I could feel my heart rate rising. Each precious minute was slipping away, and with it our chances of getting to church on time. And when I miss church, the rest of my week is just ... off. And since I was already feeling a bit off, I knew church attendance was mandatory for me. What was the hold up?

Rubberneckers. *sigh* A red SUV had unceremoniously hopped the median, and ended up facing counter to the traffic pattern. And well, we had to look—just like all the other rubberneckers. Squad cars were everywhere, and thankfully, we didn't see an ambulance. The traffic jam unlocked, and we were on our way ... but it was too late. Church had already started, and we weren't going to make it.

And that's how we ended up spending Palm Sunday in the Conservatory. We took the first exit off the expressway and found our way to the conservatory, a place we'd always told ourselves we'd visit ... some day. As a good, trained church-going Christian, I felt at first that it was a sacrilege to be anywhere other than worship on a Sunday morning, especially Palm Sunday. I was afraid someone might recognize me and "tsk" that I wasn't at Palm Sunday services.

Then I saw the palms! As we walked into the front door, I got that feeling of entering heaven. The only thing that would've made it more heaven-like would've been harps. Or flutes. Or whatever God has on his iPod. The sun streamed warm through the glass roof, and the overwhelming smell of oxygen and pollen overtook our senses.

I won't miss church next week. I promise. But I have this sense that I did attend church this morning. I go to church to feel loved, refreshed, hopeful, and in awe of the beauty and loveliness around me. This morning I saw the awe-inspiring fruit trees that feed humans and animals alike, the leaves the provide shelter, the flowers that produce nectar and color and aroma and texture. I was in a biosphere of all the earth's lovely creation—including the park district workers who water and maintain the gardens and ponds. And of course my lovely children, the perfectly imperfect creations entrusted to our care.

Hosanna!

The Thumpa-Thump my Heart Makes over the Clickety-Clack

I don't know about you, but I think estate sales are a little creepy. There's something so sad and forlorn about a house that's no longer occupied, and just the bare bones of a lifetime are left, piled up on tables and marked with orange price tags. Whenever I'm at one, I can't help but wonder what my estate sale would be like. Would people be haggling over the price of my chipped dishes? How much would they pay for my "If I Were a Rich Man" music box, with Reb Tevye's jaunty arm raised mid-snap? Would they notice that poor Tevye's wrist had been cracked years ago, and meticulously re-glued?

At such a sale this week, I wasn't seeing much that interested me. I passed by the collection of porcelain faced dolls and shot glasses from touristy American cities. But in the basement, I saw something that made by heart go thumpa-thump:

A Royal typewriter.

My husband had to call my name a couple times before I came out of my trance. It was just like the typewriter my father used, and memories began flooding back. Something so satisfying about that fat clack clack clack that signified that Dad was working, or typing up a letter. And the memory of him taking me on his knee to show me how to give each key a sharp attack, not too hard to make an imprint into the paper, but not too soft so that the ink wouldn't transfer from the ribbon. I remember how he showed me how to replace the ribbon, to gently thread it through the inner workings of the magical machine, and your words would come out thick and black and meaningful. And when you ran out of room, but had just a few more letters, there was that lovely margin release button, that extended your line just a few more spaces.

I wonder if we all have that thing, that special memory or experience that we can go back to and revisit from time to time. And when we take it off the dusty shelf of our memory, we can say, "Oh, so that's why ..." Because without realizing it, I guess a typewriter is that thing I revisit from time to time. Somewhere early on I began my love affair with words, and the idea of sharing words with others. When I think of my Dad, who is a retired minister, I often couple my early memories of him with the sound of a clacking typewriter and the ding at the end of each line. I loved the words that he wrote, and the way he used his words to share good news and to make people feel happy and hopeful again.

Before him, my grandfather sat at his old black typewriter. He had written so many words that the "a" key had fallen off, rendered useless. The letters he would write us would be missing the a's, or else he would write them in by hand.

My first typewriter was a cute little blue one that came in its own carrying case. I loved being able to carry it around, and I'd type up stories and lists and letters. It was so modern and lightweight compared to my Dad's Royal, and I loved it because it was mine. I was probably in grade school, and it seemed like such a grown-up thing to own. Later on I bought myself an electric typewriter, but I never loved it the way I loved my little blue one.

I would never go back to using a typewriter now—I love my Macbook almost as much as my own children—but I'm so glad I have the memory of it. My kids don't even know what a typewriter is. It is a foreign concept to them, just like a Victrola is to me. I will tell them about my typewriter, but they will never love it as much as I do. They won't get that feeling in the pit of their stomach when they see an old typewriter sitting in someone's dusty basement.

But I hope for their sake, that they have that something that evokes happy memories. That something that sort of serves as a building block for who they are. For me, it is a typewriter. What is it for you?

Without a Mate

Funny how I was drawn to this sad, forlorn pink sock, lying in the grass in the middle of the park. I took my children to the playground because it was a sunny Saturday, and spring is so close you could reach out and touch it. And as I rounded up the kids and herded them towards the minivan, there it was, this lonely pink sock, looking terribly out of place on top of the crunchy dead grass and the drab brown leaves still left over from last fall.

One lonely pink sock.

I think I feel a little bit like this pink sock today, because I, too, am without my mate. My husband is out of town on business (this sounds funny to me, because he's not a business man, and he's barely out of town—a mere 17 miles away—but I digress). And I miss my husband when he's gone. And even though it was a great day in the sunshine with the kids, I couldn't help think to myself, He should be here. He should see our daughter trying the big slide, and see our boys wrestle rough-and-tumble in the wood chips, their giggles being carried on the breeze.

So I guess when I saw this pink sock lying there, I felt bad for it. Because it hadn't lived its full life yet. Unlike some of my kids' socks, this one had no holes and no gray, pilled surface on the bottom, and yet there it was, cast away completely forgotten and alone. Because who would want one pink sock? Even if it was the prettiest, brand new pink sock, who needs just one?

So, like I tend to do, I conjured in my mind the story of the lonely pink sock. I couldn't just let it lie there without a story, without some explanation of how it got to this place next to the weeping willow tree. I imagined a little girl with blond fly-away curls who was so excited at the first warm day of spring that she took off her shoes, then her socks, and dug her little pink toes into the cool earth and shivered and laughed because of the chill and the sheer pleasure of feeling skin against nature. And then her mother called to her, Time to go home! and then, seeing her barefoot, scolded, It's too chilly to be barefoot! Put your shoes on this instant! And in the literal sense that children hear their parents' commands, she quickly stepped back into her shoes, without first putting her two pretty socks on. Then, as an afterthought, she picked up her socks off the ground, first one, then the other, and ran to catch up with her mother. But in her rush, one of her socks slipped out of her pudgy fingers. And because one sock is so lightweight, so inconsequential and insignificant, she did not notice and continued running towards home.

And there it lay, and lays there still: a little bit crumpled but as bright at bubble gum, on the prickly grass in the intense sunlight.

RSVPing for the Rest Home

I don't think I realized what bad of shape I was in until last weekend, when we visited a nursing home. My husband was there to provide some music for the residents, so I tagged along and brought two of the kids. It's a lot of fun to talk to the residents of a place like this, mostly because they are usually so visibly pleased to have a visitor. And their eyes light up especially at the sight of children. And when their eyes light up, I like to look in their faces, and imagine them as children themselves. Without the wrinkles and the brittle bones. Before the gray hair.

Surprisingly, it's often not hard at all to imagine them as younger people, who had the same worries and fears and joys that I have now. That story of their life is still on their faces, still at the surface.

All my life, I called these places "nursing homes." My husband calls them "Rest Homes." Where did these names come from?

While we were at the nursing home, my son took this photo of the fireplace. I like it when my kids take photographs. It's a rare opportunity to see the world as they see it.

I've found myself actually daydreaming about the rest home. It was lovely there; there was an open area off the lobby where this roaring fire was the centerpiece. There were overstuffed couches in tasteful decor that looked so inviting with their plump pillows. The residents moved slowly around me. They even nodded slowly, and their smiles were real, and they didn't look hurried or worried. I didn't see a single pile of laundry anywhere, and there were no toys scattered all over the floor.

I could get used to this.

The moniker "Rest Home" appeals to me. I have been hell on wheels these last few weeks. I am at the end of my collective rope. I can't take any more of this winter. The cold is getting dangerously close to freezing my soul. My duties as a wife and mother are piling up around me. I wonder when this rat race of my life will ever slow down to a manageable pace.

I indulged my secret to another Mommy friend over the phone this morning. "I'm kind of thinking," I said hesitantly, "I don't know … like I'd like to check into the rest home."

I closed my eyes and waited for her to mock me. To tell me I was crazy.

"You know," she said, after some thoughtful consideration, "that wouldn't be so bad. I mean, as long as we'd have half our marbles ..."

So there's my crazy confession. Don't write to scold me. Don't tell me I should be grateful for my crazy life, my non-stop family. I know. I love them. They are fun, and a true blessing.

But face it: a Caribbean vacation with fruity drinks and sun is not in my budget, and therefore, not in my future. Right now, just give me this. When the kids have worn me out, and have etched laugh lines into my face and robbed my hair of its color, I know there's a place with a comfy couch and a fireplace just waiting for me.

Sign me up.

Positive Reinforcement for Mommy

It was Saturday, and I was doing what I do most weekends: laundry. It had been a long week, and I was at least grateful for the sunshine streaming through the upstairs bedrooms as I collected dirty clothes from hampers. That's when I saw it. In my sons' bedroom, with the wrinkled bedsheets, the floor littered with toys and action figures, I found a piece of paper with a message written on it:

I just about dropped my armful of laundry. My heart skipped a beat. You other mommies know that motherhood can sometimes feel like a thankless job. You can go for days, plodding along, wondering if you're doing anything right. Then a child will give you a sticky kiss on the cheek, or make you a mud pie with a dandelion stuck in the middle, and your heart will overflow and you will almost feel embarrassed that you ever doubted this is the best job in the world.

The more I stared at the note, the more puzzled I became. The problem was, for the last few days, I don't think I have been very nice at all. I scolded the kids a lot. I lost my patience with their bickering. On Wednesday, two of my sons didn't have clean socks in their drawer and had to dig out some day-old socks. (Yuck). I didn't spend as much time with them as I wanted. I burnt dinner. I was "too busy" doing other things. Bedtime stories got skipped because I was at the end of my rope.

Is it possible my kids have picked up on the idea of positive reinforcement? When my first child was born, I remember hearing the advice, "You've gotta catch your kids doing something good," and I had taken that to heart. When my tiny one was sputtering out half his mashed up baby food onto his high chair, or flinging peas across the room, what did I say?

"You're such a good eater!"

And it continued as they got older. If they threw a temper tantrum, I was quick to forgive, and more than happy to praise them when they calmed down and said they were sorry.

I guess I just didn't want to nag my kids. And I didn't want to spend my time correcting them (unless it was really necessary.) So instead of focusing on the negative, I tried focusing on the positive.

"I know you broke my lamp, but I'm just glad you didn't get hurt by the broken glass!" I'd say, as I handed them a broom and dustpan.

But now the tables have been turned. I've been afforded grace by my little boy, who chose to turn a blind eye to the negative and focus on the positive. My heart is overflowing, and even though I will go back to the drudgery of washing, drying, folding and putting away clothes,  I will have a spring in my step and know that today marks the beginning of a new week. And I'll start it off knowing that my son sees something good in me, something redeeming. And starting today, I can try again to be the Mommy he knows I can be.

Snow My Goodness!

It's been called Snowmageddon, Snowpocalypse, snOMG ... the Midwest has been pummeled by a blizzard of snownormous proportions. You betcha, we've earned the right to tell our grandkids about today. We'll sit back in our rocking chairs, roll back our eyes and say, "I remember that winter we had, back in 2011 ..."

After hours of howling wind, and even snow thunder and lightning (which is quite possibly the coolest thing I've never seen until last night), we awoke to a frozen white world. You had that feeling of accidentally finding yourself in a house that was lowered into the ground, the way the piles of snow came up to an unnatural height just below the windows. Opening our back door to let the dog out, we found a flat wall of snow that had built up a few feet against the cold metal door. "Wait," said my 10 year old, still a little groggy with sleep, "isn't this more snow than we needed?"

Snow days are thousands times more precious than a scheduled day off. With the bustling schedule instantly wiped clean, time was created for more important things like painting, playing games and of course, snow play. My husband spent three hours first with a shovel, then with a borrowed snowblower to carve out precise snow canyons, under the false pretense that we could get our cars out. But since the plows didn't come around until mid-afternoon, the cars stayed put. And who needed anything? Everything was right here. Our cabinets and fridge were well-stocked and the schoolchildren visited one another's yards, to compare who had the highest snowdrifts. I tried not to giggle when my husband nervously paced as he watched the children's gloved and mittened hands chip away at his hours of labor in our driveway. "T-try not to put all that snow back in the driveway!" he yelled out the back door, a little too loudly. The kids all froze instantaneously, many pairs of eyes glancing at him warily. Were they in trouble? "But—have a good time!!" my husband offered as a reprieve. The kids continued their play, but a bit more carefully this time.

I want to say it was the best snow day ever. But I can't. Because you see, school has been called off tomorrow, too. So I can only say that today was the best snow day so far.