Pregnant Sky

The earth has been so dry that in our back yard, deep crevices are carved into the ground below our crunchy grass. If you lean over these cracks, millions of tiny ants and roly polies swarm in these underground condominiums, and if you stand barefoot, and close your eyes and face it in the direction of the beating sun, you can feel the heat enveloping you from above while it creeps up the back of your heel and radiates towards your toes.

And finally, after barely any rain for a month, I saw the dark clouds looming in the west.

"Come to Mama," laughed my friend Jan, beckoning to the rain clouds. We were in her back garden, a lovely patch filled with leafy good things. In any direction, you see her efforts to keep the earth cool and moist so plants can eke out an existence during the dry summer.

The garden hose. Watering cans. Rain barrels.

But overhead, things looked more and more turbulent. We said our goodbyes to Jan, and kept looking skyward as we raced home in an attempt to reach our laundry, drying on the line. I jumped out of the car and immediately gathered my towels and sheets, wrapping my arms around their lovely warmth so I could spread them on my table and fold them, tuck them safely into the kitchen drawer and linen closet.

The sky got blacker. With our towels safely inside, we continued driving to the grocery store.

The pregnant sky is full of hope, anxious, excited, ready to burst with rain. The world stills in respect of the pregnant sky, and we all wait, feeling the electricity in the air and the anticipation of something we've been wanting for a long time.

The grocery list can wait. We stand in the parking lot, staring, slack-jawed, toward the heavens. Over my right shoulder, a man wearing his work out clothes is taking a video of this black sky, streaked with Mother Nature's paintbrush. Another couple stand nearby, pointing upwards. I want it to stay this way forever.

The rain does not come, but the clouds are changing every second, churning and tumbling closer and closer. The wind makes its entrance first, whooshing in our ears and flipping leaves up on end to expose their silver bellies. Everything feels awake and alive.

And then, a crack of thunder splits the air in half.

The rain has come.

Summer Pages

Almost two years ago to the day, I wrote this post, detailing the frustrations-turned-to-joys when taking small children to the pool. Two years later, we are still spending our summer evenings at the pool, something that's become a welcomed routine in our household. After a day of sweaty play and sunshine, we all head to the pool around sunset, to finish out the day in the cool waters of our community pool. The water is chlorinated, and patrolled by skilled and vigilant teen lifeguards who cling to their unlikely summer employment during this economic recession as tightly as they cling to their life-saving flotation devices.

But as parenthood has taught us, the drive towards independence is a tidal wave that can't be stopped by sentimentality. We tilt our heads and "Awww" at the sight of our kids splashing happily in the pool, but we dare not let them see us. They are older now, and we no longer have to chase after them or be ready to dive in at a moment's notice to bring a sputtering child back to the surface. In fact, last night, we didn't suit up at all. We were merely the chauffeurs. In our sandals and shorts, we sat like sentries in lounge chairs guarding the pile of towels, pool passes and goggles heaped lopsidedly on the deck.

The days of extreme parental supervision might be behind us, at least at the pool. My husband and I sat still, reading our books, lazily turning pages while our kids went off and did their thing.

He is reading Frank McCourt's Teacher Man, a searingly funny and poignant memoir of the Irish-born Pulitzer Prize-winning author, who taught English at various New York public high schools before penning his famous book, Angela's Ashes.

I've chosen The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown, the story of three adult sisters who return to live with their parents, each hiding their own secret, living in the shadow of their father, a professor of Shakespeare. The literary nods to William Shakespeare is a treat for the literature nerd that lives just beneath my skin.

I like this new chapter, the two of us reading side-by-side, occasionally laughing out loud, then stopping to read a paragraph or two to the other.

It reminds me of two toddlers, who play side by side, but are not really playing with each other, besides occasionally passing a block to the other or knocking down a tower the other is building.

If this is our summer, I like it. I like it very much indeed.

I Hate Summer (And Other Lies I Tell Myself)

 

As seen on the Elmhurst Patch

School gets out on May 29th in Elmhurst. For heaven’s sake, it won’t even be June yet, and our kids will be lolling around in their pajamas at 10 a.m. trying to figure out if they want to watch yet another episode of SpongeBob, or invite the entire neighborhood over for a water fight. Excuse me. I mean an Epic Water Battle.

Sure, you can consult your calendar to find out exactly when summer vacation starts, but the truth is, you’ve known it’s been coming for a while. Moms start getting that preemptive tired look on their face as they peruse camp brochures and talk to other mothers. What are your kids doing for summer vacation? they murmur in hushed tones on the playground. Because, for crying out loud, they’ve got to do something. If they don’t do something, there are going to be a lot of exasperated parents out there. There’s got to be a sports team. Or a day camp maybe? Summer school? Community theatre?

A job?

I’m kidding. (No I’m not.)

Here are the top five lies I tell myself every summer:

1. I hate summer.

No, I don’t, really. I love summer. What’s not to love? Warm breezes, no homework. Grilling. Sounds of children laughing. Picnics. Sprinklers.
Do I worry about three months of unstructured time for my kids? Sure I do. But I'll get through it.

2. This summer, we’re sticking to our regular bedtimes.

Yeah, right. It doesn’t even get dark until 8:30, and that’s when the fireflies come out. Do you want the kids to miss that?

3. I’m going to make time for myself this summer.

Mommies need time for themselves, but you’re delusional if you think you’re actually going to be alone. Unless “Me-Time” means the one minute you get on your patio before one of your kids, hot and sweaty from playing, climbs up on your lap to sip from your lemonade and stroke your cheek with a sticky hand. Which, all in all, may not be a bad thing.

4. A good, old-fashioned vacation is what we need!

What we need is an all-inclusive resort hotel on an exotic island. What we’ll actually do will be a road trip to some unsuspecting relative’s house. We’ll fight over the temperature of the air conditioning in the car—until it breaks down somewhere in the middle of Iowa. Half the family will want Arby’s, the other half Burger King. No one will want the natural peanut butter sandwiches on 12-grain bread that I lovingly packed in the cooler. We’ll hear “Are we there yet?” a thousand times. Upon arrival, we’ll find out our relatives don’t have cable, don’t have an iPad, and their hide-a-bed in the basement smells like mildew. When we get back home, our dog will have kennel cough and all the houseplants will have died. Believe me, a vacation is not what we need.

5. I will NOT allow my children to buy from the ice cream truck.

You spend all your spare time telling your children to stay away from strange men in white vans who offer candy to children, then the ice cream man comes along and makes hypocrites of us all. I’ll fight a good fight, but at a certain point, the demonic sound of out-of-tune calliope music turning onto our block will wear me down, and just for once, I’ll decide to be Fun Mom. Maybe on a plain ol’ Tuesday when they least expect it. But you can be sure that some time, probably in August, I’ll give in and we’ll chase the ice cream truck down, waving dollar bills at him.
I'll push to the front of the line and get a Dreamsicle, the orange kind with vanilla ice cream in the middle. If you see me, I'll have orange residue on my chin and a trail of orange splotches below me on the sidewalk. I'll look like I'm lost in a reverie, transported to hot summers in my South Side hometown the year I was 12, when the long hot days seemed to go on forever.
But what I'll be thinking is, Gee, I really hate summer. No really. I do.

Fit to Be Fried: A Guide to Stress Eating

When it feels like the walls are closing in, nothing pushes out said walls—and the waistline—like some good old-fashioned stress eating. I sincerely hope I'm not alone in this because, well, misery loves company.

Recently, I received an invitation to a wine-tasting party. The invitation said something like "Sample Appetizers Perfectly Paired with Premium Wines from Selected Regions …"

It sounds so classy, doesn't it?

It made me start thinking about my stress eating. Despite the fact that stress eating is the furthest thing from classy, I realize I've developed some very specific "pairings" for my stress eating. Like a fine wine, I pair the comfort food to precisely match the type of stress I'm dealing with. So for all you stress eaters out there, I present to you:

Distracted Mommy's Sweet and Savory Guide:

Cleansing Your Palate 

of the Pungent Bitterness of Your Own Inadequacies

Anger

I combine my anger with the aggressive crunch of a Frito's corn chip. On special occasions, I call in the Chili Cheese variety when I'm getting dangerously close to my boiling point. Grab a handful of chips noisily in the loud, crinkly bag. Smack lips loudly while licking off the chili cheese residue from your fingers.

Financial Worries
White Castle Sliders, the little square hamburgers sold in the Midwestern chain restaurant, are a great way to drown your sorrows when you're short on cash. You can get an entire bag of them for a few bucks (that's a savings!). A few hours later, you'll regret your Slider Bender. But it will be worth it.

Fight with your Husband/Boyfriend/Partner
Chocolate, and not just some ol' cheap candy bar, either. Get yourself the good stuff—Swiss or German chocolate, the kind that melts before you get it into your mouth. For extreme cases, buy yourself a heart-shaped box of chocolates and eat the whole thing. It'll remind you of the times he used to get you chocolates, probably in the first 6 months of your relationship.

Fender Bender Woes
If your car is still drivable, get thee to a drive thru window for some fries with extra salt. If you're riding in the tow truck, buy the tow truck driver his/her own fries.

I'm Feeling Fat/Why Can't I Stick to This Diet?
Apples or bananas slathered in Nutella. Shut up—it's fruit.

Company is Coming and the House isn't Ready

*

When overnight guests are heading your way, and you know you have underwear in the guest bathroom and cobwebs in the ceiling fans, eggnog is easy to slurp while you run around the house trying to get ready. The obvious problem with this is that eggnog is seasonal. Take full advantage of eggnog season and drink straight from the carton in the grocery store parking lot.* Time's a-wastin'.

* Based on a true story. Leave me alone.
Fun fact: Eggnog is available at Christmas and Easter.

Why Can't I Shake this Cold/Flu?
When women get sick, things start to pile up and fall apart around them. In this situation, the stress food should contain medicinal qualities as well as provide a good comfort nosh. Therefore, I suggest rice pudding with a generous sprinkling of cinnamon.

Of course, these are just suggestions. Some other all-purpose stress foods include, but are not limited to:

-canned frosting
-ice cream
-Whipped Cream straight from the can
-Cracker Jack (there's a prize in every box!)
-Ramen Noodles

What is your favorite stress food? Leave a comment below.

Before I Die

I cried for a good portion of yesterday's Easter morning service at my church. From my seat in the balcony, the sight of a room full of people swaying, clapping, and singing their hearts out was enough to make my voice tremble and move me to tears.

Already at a tenuous brink of emotion, my phone vibrated in my pocket. Without thinking, I pulled it out, looked at it, and saw that I had received a message from my friend. Someone I knew had died. I stared in disbelief as a wave of nausea washed over me. Someone's wife was gone; a sister had passed away. I remembered seeing her just last fall, just a chance meeting of an old friend in a store aisle. We stood there, catching up for a few minutes. How could I have known that would be the last time I'd see her? As we parted ways to finish our respective shopping, we talked about getting together soon for dinner. Soon.

I cried again, this time tears of despair. Amidst hallelujahs and "He Lives!" I mourned the many times I've said, "Let's do that real soon," and never did it.

After church, we drove to Chicago's Pilsen neighborhood. On the corner of Carpenter and 18th St. is an installation of artist Candy Chang's interactive "Before I Die" exhibit. On the side of a building, a large area is covered with chalkboard paint with the phrase, "Before I die, I want to: _________" stenciled repeatedly all over the wall. Chang started this exhibit in her own native New Orleans as a chance to turn a neglected space into a space of hope; a chance for anyone walking by to put their dream into words. Now, these walls are cropping up in cities all over the world: London, Johannesburg, Mumbai, Reno and Muncie.

If you live near one of these walls, I encourage you to go. I liked reading what others had written:

Before I die, I want to:

-be loved how I love
-be a star
-play kazoo in front of a sold-out crowd
-meet my brother
-visit water parks all over the world
-have sex
-go to college
-kiss the man of my dreams

 
We all have dreams, and we have have good intentions of making them happen. Sometimes it's all I can do to get through my day, but it was a good exercise to step back and look at the big picture. Even more powerful was seeing my wish woven into a patchwork of dreams and hopes written by other strangers in brightly colored chalk.  We're all not that different after all.

And then after the stepping back, after the dreaming, it's time to get down to the business of doing.

52 Letters, 52 Weeks: Pushing the Envelope

Homemade envelopes made from re-purposed calendars.

It's already March, and I have been completely rockin' on my New Year's Resolution this year, much to my own surprise and bewilderment. As I mentioned in a previous post, I was inspired to join the 52 Letters Project, in which you just commit to sending one physical piece of mail per week to someone you love for an entire year. Not only did it appeal to my love of communicating, but it was a way to wean myself, if only slightly, off my dependence on email and texting.

Today's post is just a little nod to the good ol' envelope. I have a stationary stash, and I always stop a little too long in stores to look at pretty cards and papers and postcards. Sometimes I feel like the envelope is just an afterthought. But sometimes you just use plain ol' white paper to write on, and it's fun to wrap it up in something pretty.

I didn't originate this idea: years ago, my husband and I received a beautiful handwritten letter in a re-purposed calendar envelope and I thought it was such a cute idea. So now I do it, asking my friends and relatives for old calendars they don't need anymore. A couple times I've used the heavier paper of an old map for the same purpose. The paper seems durable enough, and they often make beautiful envelopes, which I hope is a nice cheerful surprise to the letter receiver. I just affix address labels so the poor postal workers don't have to squint to make out the address.

I'm not crafty, so this is just right for me: I just use a regular envelope as a template. I don't know about you, but I find a little time at the kitchen table with a scissors and a glue stick to be quite relaxing.

The best part of the 52 Letter Project is that I've begun receiving some handwritten letters in my mailbox in return! Yes, this is a New Year's Resolution I can get used to.

Genetics are Funny

When we have children, we expect them to inherit certain things from us. One of my sons has my blue eyes, while the other 3 kids have eyes like their Daddy's. Other traits proudly passed on to our kids include cowlicks, crooked teeth in need of orthodontia, bad eyesight sprinkled in with a few allergies.

But then there have been some surprises: things we didn't think were traits that were necessarily genetic. For instance, I discovered that one of my kids gets stage fright after a performance. Just after a music performance, we found one of my sons sitting on the floor, breathing heavily, with his face flushed red. It seems strange, but I remember the same experience as a child, after I had performed at a piano recital. Maybe rather than calling it post-stage fright, I should refer to it as an intense adrenaline crash.

This morning I discovered something else that is apparently genetic: vandalism.

Just under our breakfast bar, I discovered that my daughter, Eva, had written her name on our *ahem* recently painted wall. At least she put a heart next to her name. And, as I can only imagine, she started feeling guilty about drawing on the wall with a red pen, so she quickly added a "P" in front of the name to disguise her identity.

I don't think I was a bad child, but I have a long, oft-repeated history of vandalizing my childhood home. I remember the green polar bear I scrawled on our dining room wall with a crayon, and the little flap of wallpaper I peeled back in our downstairs hallway where I drew, with a pretty purple felt-tip pen, the picture of a family driving in a car. (I pulled back that little flap of wallpaper often, to admire my handiwork, where I hoped it was obscured from the rest of the family). The time I attempted a mural, as it were, on my parents' master bedroom wall in permanent marker will go down in the history books. I was rather proud of my life-size portrait of monkeys hanging from a tree branch until I saw my poor Mom's reaction. I remember her scrubbing that masterpiece with some special cleaner from the store and a whole lot of elbow grease.

My Mom threw up her hands and said, "Carol! What am I going to do with you?"

I can only imagine I pouted out my bottom lip, suddenly feeling very remorseful, probably mostly for being caught. I reached back into my brain, and grasped at a recent Sunday School lesson.

"You could … forgive me," I said.

So now I'm getting what I deserved: a little vandal of my own. Either that, or I need to lock my doors against vandals named "Peva" who break into my house with red pens and have a thing for hearts.

Either way, it's time to get out some cleaner and a sponge.

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."