Sick Day: Where's the Easy Button?

There are so many times in life when I want an Easy Button. But from what I can tell, I can only think of one actual Easy Button that exists in real life. And that, my friends, is Amoxicillin. 

I could see the writing on the wall Sunday night, when my son came into the kitchen and said, "Mom, I don't feel so well." I immediately said those silly things Moms say in these situations. "I'll make you some tea," and "Put on a sweatshirt." By the next morning, the symptoms had gone into full blown sore throat-swollen glands-throbbing-headache mode, and I sighed as I looked at our family calendar scrawled with a zillion appointments and obligations for the coming week. How many of those things would be obliterated by illness? A mere 50%? Or 100%? Because while Amoxicillin is the world's Easy Button, a family member's sickness is the only real-life crystal ball. Peer down the swollen, raw throat of your family member, and you're looking at your future.

I drove him to the doctor's office the next morning. I knew better than to say this out loud, but inside my head, I looked longingly at the family bringing in a baby, all snuggled in his car seat. Years ago, I had brought my son to this very same doctor, all 5 pounds of him, for his first well baby check. And now look at him: Taller than I am, his voice a couple octaves below mine (maybe more, in light of his throat thing), looking like some strange out-of-place character superimposed over the brightly colored trucks and toys and books in the pediatrician's waiting room.

The nurse came in, followed by the doctor. Playing the part of the well-seasoned mother who practically has a medical degree by mere virtue of the number of times I've experienced childbirth, I told him confidently, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's strep."

While waiting for the test results, I charted the easiest route to the pharmacy, where I could pick up that wonderful antibiotic, pink and bubble gummy, that would take the pain away from my child's throat. If he took his first dose right away, I calculated, maybe he could go back to school tomorrow morning. While at the pharmacy, I'd pick up soup, ginger ale, and more juice.

I felt like I was on the verge of winning something big. Once we got the test results back, we could start treating the problem and our life could go back to normal in 24 hours. Maybe we'd nipped it in the bud early enough to prevent the other kids from getting strep. Where was the doctor? When would he open the door?

Finally, a nurse stuck his head in. He looked at me apologetically, and I knew.

"It's negative," he said. "No strep."

"But …" I started, my lip beginning to tremble. "What are we supposed to do?"

"Lots of fluids," he shrugged. "And rest."

The poor kid was going to have to ride this thing out without the aid of a prescription. And so would, most likely, his brother, his other brother, his sister, then finally my husband and me. I got him a warm blanket, a pillow and some movies. Then, I headed to the store to pick up juice, ginger ale and soup. I got a lot of it. Enough to feed an entire family of sick, sore throated people. Because I've seen the crystal ball, and the future looks bleak.

What I wouldn't give for an Easy Button.

Why I Cling to Date Night

My husband and I joke that we grew up together. That's not exactly true—we met while in college, so by voting standards, we were adults. But of course, if you look at our wedding photo, we look like we were adolescents, at best. I met him the very first day of my freshman year of college; our first date came about one year later; a year after that, we were engaged, and the following year, we were married.

And then the babies came: one, two, three four. Our kids are the loud, bustling, sometimes self-destructive center of our universe right now. A household with young children, as all parents know, is ruled by naps, feeding schedules, diapers, diapers and more diapers, crazy antics to get a defiant toddler to eat their peas, terrifying, middle-of-the-night trips to the ER, giggles, tickles, excited phone calls to tell everyone in the world, "He said 'Ma-Ma!!'" There's the daily worrying and second-guessing, hoping you're doing the right things to raise a responsible, smart, independent, compassionate human being.

Then, as an afterthought, is your marriage. Raising children is a 24/7 marathon that lasts for 18 years. Who has time for deep conversations or romantic getaways?

Our very first date was spectacular. He scored box seats at the opera. We tentatively held hands for the first time as the soprano's voice soared over us. I will never forget it.

But marriage changes things. And once the babies came, we weren't going to the opera. We were lucky to stay awake for a movie on the VCR after we had tucked everyone in bed.

Somewhere along the line, we started fighting for the right to date night.

I probably read it in a magazine article somewhere—that regular dates strengthen a relationship—so at some point, we started scheduling date nights. We wrote them in on the calendar, just like we pencil in doctor's appointments and haircuts. For a while, we had date mornings. There was a stretch where our night-owl kids ate up every free moment of our evenings, so we set the clock for 5 a.m. so we could sneak downstairs while our babes slept in their beds. He would run over to the local bakery and pick up a warm cherry strudel, and we'd toast the new morning with steaming cups of coffee.

Every so often, the powers that be can foil date night: a babysitter cancels, or a child gets a fever. Guilt is a powerful deterrent, too: A couple times, we've literally had to peel sobbing children off our ankles as we left for a night out.

Even our budget has tried to ruin date night. But we've learned that dates don't have to cost a thing: some of my favorite dates have been walks in a nearby forest preserve, or a picnic on a blanket. Once, we even went to the library together. Go ahead and laugh, but when you spend 100% of trips to the library in the bookshelves squeezed between Dr. Seuss and Curious George, sometimes you just want to see what the grown-up section has to offer.

I still love date night with my husband. We've made it through diapers, spit up, tantrums and potty training, and it turns out we still really like each other. And yes, we find things to talk about other than our kids. Thank goodness. We still have the teen years to weather together, though. Then, in a blink of an eye, the kids will be grown and leaving the nest. When they're all gone, beginning their own life stories, I cling to the hope that I'll still be able to look into his eyes and see that young boy who, back when we were kids, took me to the opera once.

Getting Started with 52 Letters, 52 Weeks

52 Letters, 52 Weeks: Letter #1

The last time I made New Year's resolutions, I failed in epic proportions. I believe my list of resolutions looked something like this:

1. Work out 3 times a week. (I failed miserably. I don't want to talk about it.)

2. Read all of C.S. Lewis' seven Chronicles of Narnia books. (Have you seen that anthology? It weighs about 20 pounds. I think I read the first three, then lost interest.)

3. Walk my dog every day. (Not even close.)

The following year, my resolution was not to make a New Year's Resolution. That worked out pretty well for me. It was the first time I actually followed my resolution through to the end of the year.

For 2012, I had my feet firmly planted on the ground, resolved yet again not to make a resolution. I was going to laugh in the face of common practice and just flail my way through a new year, like I always do.

Then, I saw the website for The 52 Letters Project, and fell in love. JoAnna Haugen, a freelance writer, started this project as her way to reconnect with her love for pretty paper and sparkly pens, and that feeling of opening an envelope, addressed to you, that arrives magically in your mail box.

The idea is simple: Just take out a pen, some paper and a stamp and write a letter. Once a week. To someone you care about.

I'm totally going to do this. I've written before about my love for typewriters, but I come from a long line of prolific letter writers, and sparkly pens and pretty notecards are just as thrilling.

And of course, who doesn't enjoy receiving a letter? Emails and texts are nice, but it can't compete with the loopy handwritten word, sealed in an envelope containing a message inside that's only meant for you.

My first letter went out last week. I sent it to my dear friend Korie, who lives over 2,000 miles away from me. Along with the letter, I sent a hand-knitted prayer shawl that I made for her. I wanted her to know that even though we don't see each other, sometimes for years at a time, I still love her as my friend. I can still remember how it felt to sing next to her in our little singing group. I told her I wished I could give her a hug.

It's a start. Check out the 52 Letters website and see what you think. If it's something you'd like to do, join me!

What Would Cinderella Bring the Christ Child?

It was time to say our goodbyes after my kids and I spent a weekend with my sister and brother-in-law. Their house looks like a Christmas card, all cozy and warm with lights and holly and a stunning tree bedecked with antique ornaments that give off a glimmer akin to jewels.

I can't remember who, amidst hugs and kisses goodbye in the foyer, called out, "Look at the nativity set!"

And this is what we saw:

We smiled and chuckled at the sight of the Disney princesses paying homage to the newborn Christ child. My four year-old daughter searched our faces, trying to determine whether we were admiring her handiwork or admonishing her.

Other than the fact that I prefer to think that Sleeping Beauty, being a true lady, would ride her camel sidesaddle, I thought the placement was perfect.

The story of the first Christmas is already so fantastic: A baby, born in a stable among animals? A newly married couple, the bride just a mere teenager? She, certainly with an aching back and swollen feet, miles away from home, jostling around on the back of a donkey before searching frantically for a room in a crowded city? Then Joseph and Mary, feeling that tired exhilaration of holding their first child, excited to get to know their son, but overwhelmed with self doubt that they wouldn't be good enough parents?

Then to top it all off, the three kings show up.

It's a story that becomes humdrum if we let it. We've heard it so many times that our ears gloss over the fantastic details. Face it—if we think we're stressed at Christmas, we've got nothing on Mary. We get bogged down with upholding our Christmas traditions and making sure everything goes smoothly. And we forget that the very first Christmas was anything but traditional. Hardly anything went according to plan.

And I, like I suspect so many mothers at Christmas time, feel overwhelmed. The children are overindulged with the excess sweets, and there is mounting pressure to buy the right gifts, get the right decorations, invite the right people to Christmas dinner. Every commercial is drowned out by the little voices yelling, "I want that! I want that!"

Thank goodness for four year-old girls, for breaking the tension with a little unintentional humor. And the more I think of it, the sight of Ariel, Cinderella, Aurora and Belle looking lovingly at the Christ child doesn't seem so unlikely after all. The kings came bearing gifts after all, didn't they? I like to think that princesses would've shown up with a lovely layette for the baby, like good girlfriends do: something good quality, practical, yet lavishly beautiful. Egyptian cotton with a high thread count.

Cinderella, knowing how important it is for a woman to feel beautiful, would've brought Mary some fluffy slippers or a silk robe. She'd say, "Honey, you don't look like you just had a baby. You look great." Then she'd whisper conspiratorially, "Make sure Joseph lets you get a little me-time, okay?"

This Distracted Mommy wishes you and yours a warm and blessed Christmas.  Try to enjoy the simple things. Let the unexpected happen.

We Don't Need No Stinking Halloween Decorations

Is there a position open for the Scrooge of Halloween? Because I'd like to apply.

Could everyone just stop it already with the Halloween decorations already?

The writing was on the wall when we had that week of summer-like weather spanning two weekends. People had their ladders out, stringing skeleton lights, hoisting hay bales onto their perfect front porches, balancing plump orange pumpkins on their front railings and placing mums in terra cotta pots on the steps. You know the ones. Those flowers that look so perfect that they look suspiciously artificial. And don't get me started on those little witches who look like they rode their broom right into a neighbor's fence and flattened themselves.


Don't forget the fake headstones with the pithy epitaphs:

Here Lies a man named Blake. He was bitten by his own pet snake.

I told you I was sick. 

Ben Dismembered. May he rest in pieces. 

Here Lies Mr. Jones. Now he's just a bag of bones.

I knew my kids would start in begging.

"Can we get some decorations?"

(No)

"Can we?"

(No)

"Can we? Pleeeeeeeeese?"

(Nooooooooo)

That's why I snapped this picture of the lamp just outside our back door:

 

"Here!" I yelled triumphantly, holding up my phone so they could see the picture. "This just proves that we have Halloween spirit!"

They gave me blank stares. Were they mocking me, or were they just glazed over from video games? I couldn't tell.

"Mom, that's not a decoration. That's a lamp."

"Ahhh, but the cobwebs!" Look at those! Those aren't your everyday big-box variety cobwebs made of polyester and nylon. Those are the real deal! There are even dead bugs in them!"

They just stared at me, incredulous. Yep, their mother had finally lost her marbles. I think one of them rolled their eyes—just a little bit. I heard an almost inaudible sigh.

Sometimes, my kids don't get my humor.

Sorry kids. There will be no inflatable Frankenstein in front of this house this year. Probably not next year, either.

And slaying perfectly good vegetables for Jack-o-Lanterns so squirrels can nibble and adolescents can smash them to smithereens? Don't get me started. That's a huge waste of a perfectly good pie.

No, sir. We're in a recession. Waste not, want not. A penny saved is a … well, you know the rest.

With this, I nominate myself as Scrooge of Halloween. I'll be the mean lady passing out kale chips and pencils to the Trick-or-Treaters.

Boo Humbug!

Breaking Up With Myself

I've been watching old episodes of "Seinfeld" with my kids (what a relief to find that my kids not only "get" the humor, but they love it!). I came across the episode entitled "The Dog" (Episode 21, Season 4, airdate: October 9, 1991) in which Kramer breaks up (or tries to) with his girlfriend, only to desperately beg to be taken back later.

How familiar is Kramer's voice, when he says, "Look at you! Why don't you do something with your life? You sit around here all day, you contribute nothing to society! You're just taking up space!"

 

Every time I see this episode, it strikes me how I've heard those words before; but they're not from a nasty break-up I've had in my past. They're my own voice, my inner admonishment to myself. Being a stay-at-home mom feels a lot like running in place, like a hamster in one of those exercise wheels. I don't get much done, so the Go-Getter Me tells Stay-At-Home Me, "What have you done all day? The house looks like a warzone, your to-do list only has a few things crossed off! You've contributed nothing to society!!"

The Stay-At-Home Me usually answers back: "You wanted this life! You wanted to stay home with your kids! I'm here so I can see all the milestones, and referee all the fights. I can administer the time-outs, apply the band-aids, kiss warm foreheads and help with homework. This isn't a glamorous life, but hopefully in a couple more decades, when my kids are independent, strong and compassionate, I can look back and know I had some small part in who they are."

And that's when Go-Getter Me, much like Kramer, brow furled, arms outstretched says, "I'm sorry! I take it all back! I love youuuuuuuuuuuu."

We break up, then we make up. And then we both get right back onto the hamster wheel and try to figure out what we're meant to do in this life.

Walk and Roll (or Roll Outta Bed and Drive) Day

It's International Walk and Roll Day (hint: I drove)

To all the mothers and fathers who dutifully walked their kids to school this morning for International Walk to School Day today:

You're welcome.

You can smugly feel confident today in your superior parenting skills today. It was a beautiful, sunny fall day, and you successfully got your children out of bed, dressed and fed before walking to school to arrive—on time—to the 8:15 a.m. Walk to School Day Rally on the neatly manicured lawn of the elementary school.

I didn't.

I was the one you saw speeding past you in my gas-guzzling mini-van (which is long overdue for an oil change) pushing my kids out the passenger door so that they made it to their classroom before the tardy bell rang. (They did, but only by a hair.)

I rolled my window down so I could hear the strains of  The Four Seasons singing "Walk Like a Man" coming from the speakers set up next to where the principal was standing. I saw heads whip around to watch me drive past the celebration about … not driving.

I waved like the Queen. Look at me, look at me! I drove my kids to school on Walk to School Day! Look! My dog is riding in the front seat with me. I don't even walk my dog!

Special thanks to my kids who didn't give me any grief about driving today. They've figured out long ago that Mommy isn't a morning person. They just clicked their seat belts and said, "Well Mom, there's always next year."

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.