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.

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.