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.

The Frenzy Before the Storm

Tonight is a night full of possibilities and hope: our entire family is going to bed tonight with thoughts of a snow day on our mind. Forecasters are predicting that our area will be slammed with over a foot of snow, strong gusts of wind and near white-out conditions tomorrow and the next day. The press is calling it "Snowmageddon" and "Snowpocalypse."


I decided to venture out tonight to stock up on the essentials: Bread, milk, a chicken to roast for dinner tomorrow night. Some cereal. I knew I wouldn't be the only one at the store, but by the time I entered our neighborhood grocery store at about 9 p.m. tonight, it was clear that the entire town had mauled the shelves. I passed several shoppers whose carts were piled high with orange juice, cans of soup and bottles of water. Here's what I saw in the bread aisle:

I checked beneath my feet to see if there were tufts of hair and streaks of blood on the floor: surely this kind of carnage could have only happened after much violence and rioting? And if this was the bread aisle, could I expect the same kind of devastation in the deli section, where the cold cuts and slices of cheese would be strewn about, punctuated with smears of potato salad and spinach dip?


Just as I brought my modest 3 bags of groceries to my car, the first flakes of snow began to fall. A modest beginning to ... what? I admit that I hope this can become a story worthy of bragging rights. Maybe this one will be the one we tell our grandchildren. We'll say, "Yup, I survived the Blizzard of '11. Why, Grandpa and I checked on the neighbors with our sled. We melted snow for our baths. We had to tunnel our way to the garage. And for some reason, I remember we ate a lot of sandwiches."

What I Learned About Simple Abundance

Two unrelated things happened this week. First, I went out for a little retail therapy. I was feeling a little stressed, so I decided to go shopping. Except for me, who hates to shop, retail therapy almost always happens at a thrift store. I hate that about myself. No, I love it. No, I hate it. Thrift stores thrill me to no end. You walk in, and you never know what you’re going to find. It’s like ransacking someone’s attic and searching for buried treasure. When I come home from therapeutic thrifting, my husband will say, in mock aggravation, “What’s the damage this time?” I’ll smile coquettishly and hide my purchases behind my back. 

Anyway, I’m at this thrift store and I found a sign. It was a plain wooden board, and on it were written the words, “Simple Abundance.” Hmm, I thought. What a great concept. Simplicity. But an abundance of it.

I bought it. That was the first thing.

Second, one of our sons went through a (cough) Behavior Decline. That’s saying it nicely. If SuperNanny had walked in during Thursday night’s temper tantrum, she would’ve turned right around and run the other way, throwing her arms protectively over her head and her tightly wound bun.

“When we’re not doing our job as parents right,” my husband always says, “the kids will tell us.” It’s my least favorite of his mantras because it’s so ... spot on. When our kids are acting out, we don’t have to look very far to find the reason. 

Yeah, try the mirror. 

And we have been distracted this week with other things. And we haven’t been paying enough attention to our kids. And our boy told us. Loudly. Angrily. This Mommy yelled. He yelled louder. She pleaded. He sulked. She threatened. He apologized. She forgave, then it started again.

And somewhere in the middle of all the commotion, those words flew out of my mouth before I could catch them and take them back:

“That’s IT! No TV tomorrow!”

He kicked. Screamed.

“Okay,” I yelled. “You just lost TV for the next day, too!”

Well, that was stupid, I immediately told myself. Who am I punishing? Him or me?

But it was too late. Two days of no screen time. No computer games, no movies, no anything. I’d said it. And in this house, what Mommy says, goes.

In the meantime, the sign, the one from the thrift shop, sat on one end of our kitchen table. I hadn’t found a spot for it yet, so I set it there where I could look at it, until it told me where it needed to hang.

We made it through the two days of no screen time. He only asked “What can I do?” about 47 times. And he only said, “I’m bored” about 38 times. Not bad.

But on the last night of the No Screen Decree, our son came to us with Scrabble Junior in his arms.

“Will you play a game with me?”

There we sat, on a Saturday night. Cold outside, but warm and snug in our house. The soft light casting a golden glow in our family room. And we were playing a game together. And then the big bin of K’nex came out and I watched my boys—including my husband—laughing and playing and creating. And being. And it dawned on me that if I could, I would carry that big wooden sign around with me all the time. Simple Abundance. What a fabulous concept—to get rid of the abundant noise surrounding us so we really see—really notice—how much we really have. And so much of it can’t be bought or sold or traded. And it just figures that I got that lesson from an old second-hand piece of wood and a little kid. 

It just figures.

Mommy has a Migraine

Ever since I was a kid in middle school, I've suffered from migraines. And this afternoon, guess what? Migraine. I think, for me, the worst part about a migraine is that suddenly, without warning, your plans change. No matter where you were going, or what you were doing, the migraine means you must lie down and stay in a darkened room. You must stay very still and wait for the wave of pain to wash over you, then slowly recede again. I have a whole arsenal of things to help me get rid of migraines. I use heating pads, and a variety of over-the-counter meds. I even have a mask, suitable for a superhero, for over my eyes that I can either heat or cool, depending on what feels best at the time.

When Distracted Mommies get migraines, they still have to be the mommy. In fact, sometimes that's the part that's worse than the migraine itself. Because the migraine can be even more demanding than a three-year-old, if that's possible. And sometimes you have to juggle both, first answering to the demands of the child, all the while hoping the demands of the migraine don't overpower you completely.

All four of my children know that Mommy sometimes needs to lie down until the jackhammering in her head subsides. And as bad as those times have been, I also have some very fond memories of the sweet, care-taking side that emerges in my children.

When my oldest son was 2, he was worried about me one day as I lay in my bed, a washcloth over my eyes, writhing in pain from a migraine. I tried to reassure him that I would be okay, but even at his young age, he wanted to do something to make things better. He toddled off and disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he reappeared. Softly, he approached my bed. "Here," he said. In his hands, were two pieces of bread, carefully stacked and placed on a napkin. "It's a cheese sandwich," he told me, and I took it from him gratefully. When I peeked inside the bread, there was nothing between the slices.

"I couldn't reach the cheese," he explained, a little embarrassed at the limitations put on him by his height—or lack thereof. But I thanked him profusely anyway. It remains, to this day, the best cheese sandwich I've ever eaten. What it lacked in cheese, it made up for in compassion and sheer effort.

My other children have done the same: each migraine brings the little padding sound of feet approaching my bed, bringing treats of comfort: some crackers, a cup of tea, a handful of M&Ms, the candy coating sweating from the warmth of chubby little hands. They have no idea how these acts of kindnesses are the best medicine of all.

This afternoon, my daughter is treating my migraine with the delicious concoctions she's making in her make-believe kitchen. As I wait for my migraine medication to take effect, she shuttles back and forth between my bed and her room, where she retrieves cups and saucers filled with imaginary juice, or bowls filled with invisible noodles or chicken or pizza. She presents each new treat with a flourish. I sip some of her soup, where I scoop out each spoonful with a Superman action figure. Next she brings me a bright yellow bowl:

 "Why is Snow White in the bowl?" I ask, pointing to her little doll with the fluffy yellow skirt. She furrows her brow. "It's not Snow White," she says in that familiar defiant tone of voice I've come accustomed to since her 3rd birthday. "It's pudding!!"

"Ohhh," I say, slurping up my Snow White pudding appreciatively. "This pudding is delicious."

And it is. Despite the jackhammer in my head, we are having a moment that I will treasure forever. When I sometimes feel as though motherhood is an neverending series of non-reciprocal giving, I'm reminded that my children have the capacity to give something well beyond anything tangible. And it's right there, and all I need to do is to accept it. And isn't it strange that sometimes we need to be knocked off our course, or handed a little bit of pain and suffering, before we start noticing the beautiful roses growing right there in front of our eyes, among the thorns?

Forgive Me My Frito-licious Transgressions

If a man's home is his castle, then a woman's car is her den of iniquity. And I'm not even talking about the kinds of trouble a young woman in the 50s might've gotten themselves into in the backseat of her boyfriend's Chevy.

The transgressions I'm talking about take form in little pieces. Little bite-sized pieces. Wrapped in cellophane.

Yesterday I had a conversation that really put me on edge. I thought about it, worried a little, got angry, worried a little more, and by dinner time, I was still replaying the conversation in my mind. Oh well, I sighed. I've got to let this go. It's time to stop obsessing.

So I set to the task at hand, which happened to be running to the store for a few odds and ends for that night's dinner. Hmmmm, y'know what would taste good with the hamburgers and the salad I'm making? I thought to myself. Chips. Some good, healthy, grainy chips.

The chip aisle is beautiful. All those bags with photographs of chips, magnified 100 times. You can see every ridge, every curl. You can practically see the grains of luminous salt on each chip. The bags make that satisfying crunch sound. I like to run my hands over all the chips. So many kinds! Healthy choices: multi-grain. Baked! Organic! Isn't it wonderful?

I did run my hands over all those healthy choices. But you and I both know how this story ends: Me, grabbing a bag of the Frito's Honey BBQ twists, the kind with the sickeningly artificial red powder. My eyes dart up and down the aisle. Did anyone see me? I dodged to the self-checkout lane, quickly purchased my items, being sure to put the bag of Frito's on the top of the last bag I put into my cart.

From there, it's all over. By the time I've returned home, half the bag is devoured, the shrunken, crumpled wrapper lying in a demoralized heap in my car's passenger seat, as I lick my fingers noisily.

What have I done?

For a brief moment, I was able to step outside of myself and see this scene. It struck me as being so funny and so pitiful all at the same time that I decided to mention it on my Facebook status. And the comments came rolling in. I was expecting some light chiding, or perhaps some encouragement to break my habit. Instead, I got a confessional. Turns out, I'm not the only one who pigs out in the car and hides the evidence. I got admissions from friends, profiling their vices: licorice, Pringles, dark chocolate mints, donuts. Beef jerky. Nutter Butters. My friend Chris asked me (or was she ordering me?) to share my Frito's, because those are her vice, too. (My answer? "No.")

I wonder if I will ever stop stress eating. I wonder why so many people do it. All I know is that when I am upset, stressed or hurt, my thoughts don't turn to revenge; they turn to the small stash of candy bars I hid in my glove compartment. And so do you.

Shhhhhhhhh.

Wouldn't it be Nice if a Failure Were Actually an Achievement?

It's Monday morning, and my kids got tardy slips at school.

Again.

I dropped my boys off in front of the school and watched them walk in, slowly. They hate getting tardy slips. The front office has a big window, and I watch the nice lady in the front office hand my kids the cheerful pink slips. They trudged to their classrooms. I drive home, feeling like I have a big red "FAILURE" stamped across my forehead.

A few years ago, when I was in a terrible habit of not getting my kids to school on time, I received a letter from the school.

Dear Distracted Mommy, it read. Please be informed that your student, Distracted Mommy's Son, has accrued quite a few tardies. Please make more of an effort to get your child to school on time ...

Okay, I don't remember exactly what the letter said. But when I read it, I swore I could see the words "You Fail" on the watermark of the paper.

This morning, I've decided I don't want to start a Monday off feeling like such a failure. So I'm drafting an imaginary letter to myself from my sons' school:

Dear Distracted Mommy,


Congratulations! Your sons were tardy to school this morning, but only by two minutes! That's a lot better than last week, when they were 11 minutes late.


Also, we want to commend you for never, not even once, sending your sons to school in their pajamas. We know the temptation has been there many times, and yet your sons come to school each day, fully dressed. Amazing!


Another list of achievements:


Kudos for not feeding your children last night's cold pizza and flat soda for breakfast, even though that would've been a lot easier than giving them a bowl of cereal.


Also, we're so proud that your son's socks match this morning! And the other son looked like he combed at least the front part of his hair.


Keep up the good work!


Sincerely yours,
Your sons' school

Hand-Me-Down Heaven

It's a weekday morning in early fall, and it looks like psychedelic fairies just threw up in my living room.

I guess it's right now, as the summer warmth give way to the crispness of fall, that mothers everywhere are sorting clothes. As I go through my daughter's dresser drawers, I longingly look at each item, remembering the ill-fated sundress that never recovered from the cherry-red popsicle—sadly, that will go in the rag pile—then smelling the faint smell of chlorine on the sunshine-yellow bathing suit with ruffles. A mother's heart breaks at the letting go of each little article of clothing, because it symbolizes the relentless forward march of time, and the irretrievable nature of childhood.

But just as soon as I drop off a donation to the local thrift shop, or give a bag of little dresses to a friend whose daughter will fit them, I'll get a call from a mother in my neighborhood. Her voice will be tentative, as if she realizes she is at risk of offending me.

"I have some hand-me-downs. Would you—could you use them?"

There is always a little bit of embarrassment in the voice of the mother offering hand-me-downs. I guess to the giver, it sounds like, "Do you want my leftovers? My garbage?" But to me, the receiver, I hear, "Do you want some nice, gently-used clothes for free, thus saving you loads of cash and time spent shopping in busy department stores with screaming children in tow?"

Uh, yes. The answer is always YES.

Hand-me-downs are magical. They are a hug from the giver. They are an homage to the "big kid" who has given them up. It is like a huge present of brightly colored fragments of rainbow.

My daughter is delighted with our latest gift of hand-me-downs. She will spend all afternoon seeing if the Tinkerbell shirt goes with the ruffled skirt; she may toy with the idea of striped pants with a flowered shirt; she squeals at the sight of the jammies covered in princesses.

When the Mommy drops off the bag of hand-me-downs, and I take them, I never hide my delight. I want her to know there is no greater gift than what she has just given me. And between us is the unspoken understanding that I will pay the favor forward, handing on the gently used hand-me-downs to the next mother, and the next, and the next. We will keep the clothes moving in that synergistic circle of hand-me-down heaven.

Ladies Night at the Shop

Ever since we decided to give our kids an allowance, they have become fascinated with the mason jar we gave them to hold their money. Each pay day, they gather at the table where we ceremoniously drop in their money, an amount calculated according to their age.

The six year-old is fully aware that his jar has less in it than his two older brothers. Just another harsh reality for the third son in the family.

"My shop is open, Mom," says my six year-old. He jangles his jar, and holds it towards me. He's not begging; he knows I'm a sucker for his massage service, where he'll offer to knead my back, my arms, or my hands—for only 25¢ a pop. It's an incredible deal for me, who is too thrifty and frugal to take myself to an actual spa, even though I dream of it daily. So my quarters have started to raise the level in his jar of money, trying to close the gap of injustice created by his rotten luck of being born after his brothers.

My little entrepreneur even understands that the consumer loves a good bargain, and offered "Ladies Night" a few nights ago, where I received the same gentle but loving massage on my aching shoulders for only a nickel (I bought two sessions).

I don't know how long this will last, but I will be his faithful customer to the end. And I've decided to be loyal, through the struggling economy and all.

The other night, as I prepared to be pampered by my miniature businessman, I got out my change. "Twenty-five cents, right?" I asked, secretly hoping it was Ladies Night again.

"No," he sighed, apologetically. "I'm sorry to say, the price has gone up. I have to charge you 28¢ now."

"Whoa," I say, trying to hide my amusement. "That's steep."

"I'm really sorry," he said again. "But I'm saving up for an electric guitar."

What Did You Just Say?

Some of the best comedy of motherhood, in my opinion, comes as our children learn to navigate the good ol' English language. One of our sons excitedly used to point out, "Look! Abstinence!" every time he saw an ambulance. Then there was the misnomer "catpicker," used to describe a caterpillar. My husband still remembers feeling a twinge of sadness the night one son realized he could say "movie" instead of the previously uber-adorable pronunciation of "moonie." (We still have moonie nights at our house—we can't seem to let that one go.)

On a recent car ride, our daughter was getting increasingly frustrated with being restrained for hours on end in her car seat. Irritated that her belongings kept falling to the floor of the car and out of her reach, she demanded, in a screaming voice: "I WANT MY BEER AND CRACK!" Horrified, my husband and I looked around at the customers at the gas station, hoping no one heard her. Of course, as seasoned parents, we knew her precise meaning: she wanted her bear and her crocs, both fallen victims to the crumb-covered floormats below her bare feet.

Tonight, as I was filling the bathtub, I instructed my son to get ready for his bath. "Okay, Mom," he said, starting to take off his shirt. "But just be careful of my nuts."

WHAAAAAAT? My mind raced. Did he already learn to talk so crudely from the playground? It's only the second day of school! How could this have happened?

I spun around, to see my son's angelic face, smiling at me. "See?" he asked me. "My nuts are right there."

I looked down.

*huge sigh of relief*

There were the acorns he had been collecting that afternoon, placed carefully on the bathroom rug.

Eulogy for Summer

The cicadas are chirping, the evening sun begins to take on a more golden hue, and the backpacks are parked by the door, lined up like soldiers ready for battle. Summer is gone, and school begins tomorrow.

I will miss Summer 2010, but I'm a better person having known her. Her life was short, but she lived it to the fullest.

Through her selflessness, our family enjoyed a trip to Graceland, time to visit with both sets of grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins; she afforded us some dramatic thunderstorms, many hot days and slightly cooler evenings. Our skin bronzed in her glow. There was splashing in the pool, some mosquito-ridden camping, adventures with bikes, skateboards, and pogo sticks. There was a funeral, a wedding, a birthday party. There were concerts, fireworks, a trip to the blueberry patch.

I will remember fondly the endless parade of friends she allowed to come through my house. The smiles on the children, with slightly mussed hair, the "thank yous" in answer to the offer of cold lemonade.

Summer gave me more excuses to say "yes" and less reasons to say "no."

Summer gave us time. Time to love, to read, to get to know each other, to do the things we love to do.

We loved you, Summer. And we love you still.

Scene from a Road Trip

We’ve driven this car ride probably a hundred times, the interminably straight line between our house and my husband’s hometown, the hundreds of miles that stretch across flat plains, carved out between corn fields that run into more cornfields that occasionally back up to soybean fields. Eleven hours in the car. Each way. Four kids in the back of the van, asking, “How many more minutes?” Patient dog, incurably happy to be with us, drooling as she smiles a floppy-tongued grin.

The kids fight, or sing, or beg for snacks doled out from our cooler that I’ve packed before we left. We pass the time, remembering our favorite scenes from movies, or talking about current events. We fall into a pleasant kind of rhythm, between naps, then eating, then noisy, raucous laughter. Alphabet games as the bulletin boards whiz by. I like to guess where the other cars on the road are going, or where they’ve been.

These eleven hour stints are the barometer of our marriage. If there’s been a fight just before our departure, the eleven hours can seem like weeks. There have been long, quiet hours of angry silence, punctuated by perfunctory requests for a kleenex or a look at the map. 

But there can be those nice silences, those silences that signify that while, we may not have anything pressing to discuss at the moment, we are just as happy to sit side by side,watching the landscape fly past our car windows.

Oh. And there’s always roadkill to talk about. So. Much. Roadkill.

Inevitably, in the last few hours of the trip home, slap-happy-ness sets in. The kids have had just about enough of the seatbelt, the awful food and lukewarm drinks out of their water bottles, and we’re all anxious to see our house and play with toys and take a hot shower and get down to our at-home-ness.

“Do you know all the words to the ‘Love Boat’ theme?” my husband asks.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he smiles. “Do you know it? Can you sing it? All the words?”

This definitely sounds like a challenge. And having grown up in the 80s, I’ve pretty much got this in the bag.

“Of course!” I blurt out.

“I don’t think you can,” he says.

I straighten in my seat. Quickly shedding my two-lane highway coma, I feel my competitive spirit coming alive.

“Oh, I can,” I say, with sass in my voice. “And I will.”

It was glorious, my friends. Somewhere from the dark recesses of my memory, I saw it all: the sparkling blue waters of the ocean, the smiling faces of Doc Bricker, Julie with the clipboard, and Gopher, waiting to grab my luggage. I filled my lungs and sang it full throttle while he grinned, shaking his head but keeping his eyes vigilantly on the road. I sang it all, right down to the little “Dee-da dee-da da da das” played by the synthesized trumpets between the phrases.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t think you could do it.”

I sit back and adjust my seatbelt. I smile to myself, as we settle back into a comfortable silence. I look out the window. I see rows of corn, and a poor skunk at the side of the road, whose early demise left him in an unnatural position facing the unforgiving sun.

Under his breath, I hear my husband humming. I smile when I recognize the opening bars of the Love Boat theme. I have the feeling he’s going to have that tune in his head all the way to the state line.

“How many more minutes?” asks a tiny voice from the back seat.