Greetings from Waldo

A Face to Face (Book) Conversation

2011-02-21T06:50:00.000-08:00

This was my Facebook weekend. Watched The Social Network. I hope Mark Zuckerberg's ex-girlfriend friended him. I guess Eduardo had already friended him. Would he have un-friended him, I wonder?

Michael Scott on The Office once responded to the phrase "It's not personal. It's business" with something like, "Business is personal. It's the most personal thing in the world." I thought of that during the scenes between Zuckerberg and Eduardo Saverin in the movie.

It's just amazing the catch phrases people stake their happiness on.

By the same token, Eduardo didn't seem to have a very personal relationship with the business. Then again, he started out as the sole investor! That's pretty big right there. Well, I guess he ended up with a settlement, so his dad hopefully was proud.

Anyway, the next day, I went over to my mom's to add a profile pic and family pictures on her Facebook account. I could say something like, "Oh, no! My mom's on Facebook." Ha! Ha! Saturday Night Live. Except that I, too, am a mom. I have Facebook cousins who are only a couple years older than my son.

Idea for Zuckerberg: an option to "Cousin me" instead of just "Friend me." Friending family is great, but it would be fun to "Cousin someone" on Facebook. "Brother or Sister someone" on Facebook. Not only for relatives, but for people you grew up with or feel very close to or say, "What up, 'Cuz" or "Hey, bro" to.

I've been encouraging my mom to join Facebook for a long time because it's right up her alley. It's a "social" network. My mom is very social.

As her Facebook consultant/mentor, I suggested she add her maiden name to her account, so that high school friends could find her. When she told my dad, he immediately assumed it was her way of reaching out to former boyfriends. My mom said to put that in her info. "I'm interested in reaching out to former boyfriends." See? It's going to be fun to have my mom on Facebook.

My mom ordered pizza, and I had the opportunity to have a face-to-face conversation with J.J. People say nobody interacts face-to-face anymore because of things like Facebook, but J.J. and I do.

Me: (Daydreaming.)

J.J.: Do you want a hint?

Me: I'm sorry, did you ask me something?

J.J.: Here's a hint: pu pu pu. (In true lawyer fashion, J.J. never asks a question he doesn't know the answer to.)

Me: Pepsi?

J.J.: No. Pu pu pu. E e e.

Me: Pep talk?

J.J.: No.

Me: The best hint you could give me is to repeat the question.

J.J.: What is a flat meat?

Me: Oh. Pepperoni.

J.J.: Yes. What are some more flat meats?

Me: Besides pepperoni, Proscuto. Salami.

J.J.: What's salami?

Me: It's like pepperoni, only instead of being red, it's pink.

J.J.: (Giggling.) Is it only for girls?

Me: No, boys can eat salami. Do you think hamburger is a flat meat?

J.J.: Hamburger is a half flat meat.

Me: Okay. (Trying to think of the word "Braunschweiger.")

J.J.: (Losing interest)

End of conversation.

If you feel like your life has become too digital, I hope you enjoyed this window into what real conversations are all about. I can't believe I couldn't remember "Braunschweiger." Why didn't I just say liverwurst?

"Like" That's All I Have to Say

2011-02-05T11:19:00.000-08:00

Ahh...a comment.

It used to be something you said under your breath. If it was too bombastic for the person standing next to you, what were they going to do, tattle tell on you?

Now the comment is for all to see. I'm a shy commenter. Even when it comes to under-the-breath comments. I like people to think I'm a sweet person, not the smart aleck that I truly am. So unless you know me well, or have beer, you'll never hear me comment on much of anything.

Add the in-writing component to the equation and I'm paralyzed. Rather than spend an hour figuring out what to say, I just hit "like."

I mean, like everybody, I sometimes go overboard and say too much. But in general, I "like."

I wish I could "like" emails.

Often, I'll read an email and think, "I like the person who sent this email. I like this email. However, I have nothing to say. I wish I could just hit like. Or write, "Grin.""

I dislike emoticons (why do they look like Pacman?) but wouldn't object to writing out emotions. "Sly smile." "Wink." "Glaring at you. Just kidding. Sly smile."

While I'm reluctant to comment unless it's a complete no-brainer "Congrats!" "Good Luck" "What is wrong with you?" (not the last one) or I actually know what I'm talking about (picture books, sometimes,) I love other people's comments.

I like knowing what they think. I like sincere comments. I like smart aleck comments. I like questions. It goes without saying that I don't like mean comments, but those misinterpreted as mean are always interesting. I think this situation would straighten itself out if questionable comments were followed by, "I mean that in an immature, inappropriate way, not a mean way."

Then there's YouTube.

I like to click on the videos while I'm working for background music. But often I can't resist watching the footage, and of course reading the comments.

Old country songs are some of my favorites. Likewise, comments on old country songs are usually pretty good.

On Highway Man, for instance, somebody commented, "Why do the other singers have to work normal jobs, like building dams and being a carpenter, and Johnny Cash gets to fly a freaking starship across the sky?"

Someone responded, "Because he's Johnny Frickin' Cash. That's why."

And the prior responder was like, "Ha Ha ur right."

See, we can have nice, civil arguments like this. Even in America.

Have you heard the song "Alone Again (Naturally)"? It's the saddest song ever. The guy gets left at the altar and decides to jump from a tower. Plus, his dad dies. His mom is devastated. And then she dies, too. Finally, the guy loses his faith in God.

So a lady wrote in the comments: "It always brings me such joy to hear this song."

My comment was, "Jeez, lady, I'm glad the worst day of Gilbert O'Sullivan's life brought such a smile to your face."

I didn't write that. She sounded like a nice lady. A true optimist! But I did say it under my breath, to Justin. Just like in the old days!

Merry Christmas, Penguins!

2010-12-20T12:40:00.000-08:00

Christmas vacation...the kids may be out of school, but me? I'm learning a lot. Being home all day with the boys always brings me closer to understanding the young male mind, and subjects like:

Who Lives at the South Pole

J.J.: The only people who live at the South Pole are scientists and penguins.

Me: Would we call penguins "people"?

J.J. Well, they stand up.

Here, I thought he would go with the tuxedo defense. But he hit me with a left hook: They stand up, don't they? Congratulations, son. You just welcomed bears, meercats, and chickens to the human race.

How to Win at Wrestling

Richie and Johnny wrestling.

Johnny (suddenly): No! No! Nooooooo!

Richie: Ha! I farted...and it's still going!

Game over.

What I truly learned from this is that eight-year-old boys think of farts as capable of "going" somewhere. Like they're wearing little sneakers or something.

How to Smooth Things over with Santa

Johnny's letter to Santa final paragraph (after I told him that you can't write a list of demands and call it a letter): How are you? Is it cold there? This year, I'll try to get you cookies, not pears. Love Johnny

Ouch! Did we leave pears last year?

How to Find a Monkey Loophole

Richie's letter to Santa: Dear Santa, Thank you for the presents last year. I hope you doing well. This is what I want for Christmas: a monkey. It has to be a nice monkey. Hi. How are you? Love, Richie.(See--not a list of demands.)

My letter to Santa: Dear Santa, Is there such a thing as a "nice" monkey? I mean some are nice to your face, but deep down? Just a few months ago, a monkey (okay it was a chimpanzee) got loose in Kansas City, and behaved so poorly (chasing people onto their roof and flipping them off) that he came very close to getting sent to Monkey Island. True story. Hi. How are you. Love, Bridget

Anyway, Merry Christmas to you and yours. I hope you get cookies not pears (and not monkeys!) And in the New Year, may you stand tall like a penguin, win all your wrestling matches, and never run out of gas.

Furious No More

2010-12-20T12:24:00.000-08:00

While we were getting ready for Mass/Baby Jesus' birthday party on Sunday, J.J. called in: "Mom, Furious is squeeping." (sleeping)

You never want to hear those words as the mother of a pet owner. Fish "sleep" belly up. Guinnea Pigs "sleep" on their side.

When Richie came over to see his "sleeping" Guinnea pig, he announced what I already knew. Furious was dead.

While Richie was given Furious as a birthday present, and fed her and cleaned her cage, J.J. was the one who played with Furious. He planned a birthday party for Furious in November and had the idea to put carrot slices and lettuce in cupcake paper. J.J. built her houses with his blocks and read her books. He claimed that she starred in Home Alone 3 as a pet rat.

On the other hand, J.J. blamed his farts on Furious, occassionally lost her under the T.V. console, and, well, sometimes didn't have the best grip on her.

Justin and I secretly wondered if Furious saw J.J. as a friend, a father, or an insane dictator. In the end, I think Furious saw J.J. as a little boy. Because of him, she had an exciting life. Of course, I'm not a Guinnea pig mind reader. But I say this because she let him hold her without scratching, and didn't run into the corner when he came to her cage, which she did before she got to know him.

And J.J. loved Furious.

The saddest part of the whole thing came between the birthday party for Jesus, which Justin left early to dig a hole in the frozen ground, and the funeral, when we laid Furious to rest with a carrot.

Furious was still in her cage, and J.J. stood there alone. "Furious, why did you have to die?" he asked. "Why did you have to die, Furious?"

He was really waiting for an answer.

Is Thanksgiving a Hobby or a Job for You?

2010-11-26T13:19:00.001-08:00

I come from a family of eaters. I mean, we can pack it away. I hope this doesn't offend anybody, but I consider Thanksgiving to be amateur hour for some of my fellow eaters.

It was all over Facebook today: I'm still full! I have a food hangover! The tryptophan is making me sleepy. What are they--pilgrims? They're acting like this was their first Thanksgiving.

I wish some of these newbies could have seen my dad last night. He is a professional Thanksgiving eater in every sense of the word. While my cousin Brett was leading the family in prayer (by asking our family of 30 to go around and say something we're thankful for) my dad claimed that the public display of thankfulness was "making him nervous" and that he was "under a lot of pressure."

Two seconds later, he was seen standing over the stove, eating turkey by the fistfull, grease dripping off his chin.

Me, I thank God I learned from the best. You won't see me complain about eating seconds, as though it's a chore. "(Sigh.) I'm so full, but I have to eat a little more potatoes." It is a privilege to eat a little more potatoes!

At our house, the leftovers--even the tossed salad--are already gone. So if any of you hobbyists are turkeyed out, please feel free to send some our way.

Or perhaps you, yourself, are a professional holiday eater. Here are some qualifications:

1. Before hitting the food line, you have a game plan, prioritizing some foods over others.

2. Mid-meal, you don't complain about being full. It is a welcome part of the job.

3. Afterwards, you thank the cooks profusely. Maybe your aunt Carol doesn't want to bring the green bean casserole--the one with the cream of mushroom soup--for the 12th year in a row. Maybe she wanted to make a fancy asparagus dish. But a little gratitude goes a long way.

4. You eagerly discuss the next holiday meal on a full stomach. "Well, it was fun polishing off that turkey. Who's making the chicken tetrazzini for Christmas?"

If three or more of these describe you, congrats. You're a pro. But sorry, your leftovers are probably gone. Well, there's always Christmas!

Now, I have to go lay down. Admittedly, the tryptophan is making me a little sleepy.

365 Days in a (Five) Year (Timespan)

2010-11-24T09:13:00.000-08:00

This is my 365th post. If you've read this from the beginning, you know my plan was to write a post every single day. Nearly five years later, here we are. Five years flying by in a single earth-go-round-the-sun? Yeah, that sounds about right.

And yet, so much has changed since then. My plan was to be a professional humor columnist. A fitting goal because, in hindsight, it is so humorous. Business plan: be Erma Bombeck. Um, somebody already had that business plan. It would be like saying, "My business plan is to start Facebook." You can't out-Facebook Facebook. And if you did, you would have to be extremely Facebookish. And I'm just not.

But something even better happened. I became a children's book writer.

I used to watch people go on business trips and form business friendships and wheel and deal, and I admired it, but I thought, "That's not for me."

Well, guess what? I'm planning my first ever business trip, and I can't wait. I'm networking with colleagues, and I love it. I'm even attempting to wheel and deal, which if you know me, you probably think I'm on a unicycle dealing cards, but I'm not. I'm actually trying to be a mover and shaker in my field. (Still not on the unicycle.) I know that I'll fall flat (not from a unicycle) in this endeavor many times because it's not really my nature. But I have to try because I love this job, and I want to be successful in it.

This all came about back when Johnny was in his young scientist phase and all we read was nonfiction. I decided to write a nonfiction book. That book, What to Expect When You're Expecting Larvae: a Guide for Insect Parents (and Curious Children) comes out this Spring.

Which leads me to the next thing I didn't expect: my young scientist is now in his young football player phase. He has a fantasy team and trash talks and everything. (A situation that has gotten entirely out of hand, by the way, though I did like Richie's zinger: "You have gas but you're in last place." By "gas" he meant, well, you know. But he never got the chance to post it because he doesn't know how to use the computer.

Anyway, Johnny doesn't read as much nonfiction now. He reads Goosebumps.

But Richie is in his young Abraham Lincoln phase, so we still get to read lots of nonfiction picture books. Also, baseball offers a treasure trove of nonfiction books. (Why are so many writers also baseball fans? I'm sure there is a poetic answer out there somewhere.)

J.J. loves sweet picture books, with ducks and what-not, which were also some of my favorites growing up. Maybe I'll write a sweet picture book some day. Perhaps it will actually be made of sugar. Sounds like a new business plan is showing it's diamond-studded face...

So that's the end of the story. Now I'm a picture book writer and my kids are all well-adjusted and never fall apart, as don't I. Also we're now rich and are only living a lower-middle class lifestyle to be ironic.

Just kidding. As long as there are problems (and there always will be,) as long as there are vulnerabilities and sore subjects and sweet little moments. Nay, as long as laughter rings through the billboard lined streets of Waldo, I'll continue to write this blog. Unless I forget to or am too busy, to quote Shrek.

Happy year-or-so anniversary, and thank you for reading this blog!

P.S. If you like picture books (or if you used to--I think that covers everyone) be sure to "like" my Facebook page. Fun news, reviews--often in pastel hues--regarding kids books.

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/pages/Author-Bridget-Heos/116576161735613

Tell your friends, too! (See. Wheeling. Dealing.)

Halloween from Hell

2010-11-03T05:56:00.000-07:00

What began as a Friday "jump-start" to Halloween ended on Saturday morning with me staring at a red splot on our school roster and wondering if it was real or fake blood.

First: Teacher conferences. Always an emotional roller coaster, for me at least. When Justin gets the recap from me, he finds them humorous. I do tend to be melodramatic, which I guess can be interpreted as funny. In my heart, it's not funny at all.

Not that I have bad kids. Actually, one got a really good report. I won't name names. But the other got sent to his room, thinking he was grounded from Halloween.

I did not plant that seed in his head. Getting grounded from Halloween would require something more than potty talk and general goofballery. By now you've probably guessed who got a bad report, but I'm still not naming names.

So I grounded him from T.V. Next stop: J.J.'s Halloween parade at school. Precious as always. Then: two birthday parties. One was Richie's friend's party.

And the bloodbath began. (Sort of.)

Richie's friend's uncle was there from out of town and he had a very unusual camera. I'm drawn to unusual objects like a parrot (plus am in the market for a camera) so I was staring at it. Richie's friend's dad introduced us.

Now, I was raised to believe a firm handshake and direct eye contact still mean something in this world. The problem with that is if the person has a huge bandage on his thumb, you don't see it...plus you squeeze the hell out of it. And there was the camera distraction.

So I gave the uncle a firm handshake, and he was like, "Ahhhhhhh" and leaned back and shook like he was being electrocuted.

My first thought was that it was a Halloween joke. I thought, what a hilarious prank, especially when you're in from out of town and meeting a complete stranger. (Put that in my back pocket for when I'm traveling.) But then I found out it was a real bandage and he had hurt himself pretty badly the day before. There were ambulances involved. Airplanes. Police. I'm not kidding here.

I felt horrible. Flash forward to an hour later. I'm rushing to get our trunk ready for Trunk or Treat: Our theme: Day of the Dead Grade School Students. Announcement: "1. Report cards go home today. 2. You're all dead."

I was cutting out a cardboard skeleton with a razor knife and thought, "Man, karma. I bet you anything I cut myself."

And I did! I sliced the heck out of my thumb. But the show had to go on. So I wrapped it in a cloth and kept decorating the trunk. It took longer than I thought, plus our furnace had broken.

So Justin came home and was toying with trivialities (fixing the furnace) when I had a trunk to decorate!

Trunk complete, I went to the kitchen and started making grilled cheese. At that point, the kids descended on the kitchen, needing faces painted and wrestling, and sitting on the cabinetry so the doors were going to break off, and my thumb was still bleeding like holy heck.

"Justin!!! Can you make Johnny up to be a zombie???!!! Please!!!" I mean what was so important that he couldn't paint a zombie face? Heat? And I kicked everybody out of the kitchen.

So I became that mom. The one whose trunk looks cute at the expense of her family. Meanwhile, Justin painted Johnny's face white, his eyes black, and added fake blood. Richie put on his zombie costume, which involved a werewolf mask (What? Werewolves can be zombies.)

We made it to Trunk or Treat on time and I won a major award. Which you've probably guessed made me feel pretty lousy after the meltdown. I went up alone to receive it; the boys were running around with their friends.

Eventually, Justin took J.J. home, who'd missed his nap earlier. I stayed with the older boys to talk. Justin says I'm always the last to leave anyplace because I talk and talk.

Well, cars left and I was still talking, this time to the cleanup crew. In my defense it related to our school chess club; a dramatic chapter of my life that I'm trying to bring to a happy ending. Meanwhile, Johnny went up to dunk a ball on a basketball hoop. He hung on the rim, and the whole thing came crashing down on him. He let go and fell right on his face on the blacktop. He laid there for a minute and I ran over, along with some other moms and dads.

Well, he wanted none of that. He was like, "I'm fine. I'm fine." and walked to the car. In fact, he was so adament that he was fine that I was worried. Plus, with his face painted, he looked pale (his face was painted white) and it was hard to see the injury.

A mom told me what to look for in terms of a concussion. We went home and washed his face. Then he watched a movie with some friends and I kept checking him and waking him up in the night.

The next day, he had a black eye and his arm hurt, but he was okay. I looked up the event organizer's number to call and let her know Johnny was okay, and that's when I saw the drop of blood. Fake? Real from my thumb? Real from Johnny's face? We'll never know.

It could have been worse, but this Thanksgiving, I will thank God it's not Halloween. And next Halloween, I'm going to duct tape an orange streamer to the trunk and call it a day.

Is Life All About Logistics?

2010-10-20T07:56:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted since summer because of...logistics.

Two weeks before school started, I found out that J.J.'s school day had been moved back an entire hour! That complicated things because I teach a few classes at the end of the school day. My chorus became, "I'm trying to work out the logistics."

You know when Jon Stewart of The Daily Show does a montage of a silly story that the news media is absolutely obsessed with? Like the Obama girls' lunch menu. Well, if I had been in the background of various people's home videos, that's what it would have looked like:

At the block party: "I found out just two weeks before school...it messes up all the logistics."

At the soccer game: "Had I known earlier, I would have rearranged my whole schedule...now the logistics are in a tailspin."

In the school parking lot: "I'm thinking of sending him to first grade an entire year earlier...just for the sake of logistics."

Well, it ended up my mom and a friend are helping me with the situation until next semester, at which point I'll have rearranged my whole schedule. (As all moms know, it takes longer than two weeks to rearrange your whole work schedule.)

But logistics had already become my buzz word.

"How is school going?" another mom would ask me.

"Just trying to work out the logistics," I'd say.

I started to think about work in terms of logistics, too. When the recession hit, my marketing work dropped off. But my children's book business picked up. Well, now the recession has hit school library books because funding is down. That has hurt my work-for-hire business. Work-for-hire is great because a publisher commissions you to write the book and pays you a couple months later, as opposed to you writing it, and then taking up to two years to sell it.

People would ask how work was going.

"Great--just figuring out the logistics of the economy."

I'd never used the word "logistics" in my life, and now it was all I ever talked about.

Was life all about logistics?

I even thought of seeing friends in terms of logistics. If I worked out with one of my friends in the morning, I could see her twice a week...but I had to get back to make breakfast--another logistical nightmare.

Not that I didn't see the folly of my thinking. I told my sister-in-law that if this is how I reacted to a scheduling change, God forbid I would ever have a real problem. And yet, that didn't stop me from talking about logistics!

Then my friend and I went to a Spin class. Now, I never expected to have a revelation during spin class. I hadn't even ridden a bike since childhood, at which point I fell off it onto my head, got lost for two or three hours, and had the whole neighborhood looking for me. This was in high school, by the way. So I was just hoping not to fall off the stationary bike.

Well, the teacher started giving us a pep talk. "You guys are here working out while everybody else is asleep. You're going to have a great day."

And I thought, you know, instead of thinking about the "logistics" of our day every morning, I should give the boys a little pep talk.

"Look at you boys, wearing your white shirts and ties for Mass day. People better climb on board because you're going places."

Then the spin instructor put on a song about how we should all get out of our heads and get into our hearts.

And that's when it hit me. Life is not all about logistics unless you make it that way. Life is about taking time for each other. Granted, I have to get the kids to and from school, but I don't have to think about it constantly. Instead, I should focus on asking them how the school year is going for them. (You know, getting the juicy gossip.)

And while I do have to find a way to make a living as a children's book writer, that doesn't have to be about logistics, either. I love kids' books and writing kids' books. I also love the people in this business. If I keep enjoying all that, it will lead to new connections. In fact, it already has. I have a lead on a second editor who may hire me for work-for-hire books, and I'm starting to market my picture book, which will hopefully be a good business, too.

And marketing something you love is really fun. Not that I know what I'm doing. I started a Facebook page called Author Bridget Heos. I thought it would be dorky if on my regular Facebook page I started only talking about picture books. (Or maybe I could only talk about logistics!) So on top of already asking people to be my friend, I was now also asking them to "like me," too. Also, I appeared to have changed my first name to "Author" and middle name to "Bridget" which isn't dorky at all.

When faced with a choice of two dorky things, why do I always choose the dorkiest? Meanwhile, there is probably some cool choice out there which doesn't even occur to me.

Anyway, that's why I haven't blogged since this summer. Logistics. And then Illogistics.

First Day of School

2010-08-17T18:35:00.000-07:00

End of the summer. Kids have been home for two and a half months. Nightly football games. Daily wrestling matches on the living room floor.

Now, all the kids are in bed--Richie and Johnny going to bed early voluntarily. Tomorrow they start school--fourth and second grade, and J.J., later in the month, kindergarten. They're listening to the iPod.

Seeing them, I think about how, when I babysat in grade school and high school, I imagined how my own family would be. And I think about how, now, my family is much different than I imagined.

I thought the pillows would remain on the couch at least 80 percent of the time.

I thought they'd curl up and read during the day.

I thought they'd fall in love with Walt Disney movies.

I thought they'd collect teddybears.

I thought I'd be the sweet mom at the grocery store.

Instead, they tear the pillows off the couch and block each other with them.

They spray the hose at each other during the day, chase each other around the house, and occassionally curl up with a good T.V. show.

They love sports movies. Rocky, Rudy, Hoosiers, and Cinderella Man are in our Netflix queue because we are having a bit of an underdog marathon.

They collect football cards and silly bands.

I grounded them from T.V. for two weeks today in the grocery store because for the past 10 years they've poked and pushed and even wrestled each other in the aisles. And at the end of two and half months, I'd had it with the roughhousing.

But during a quiet moment like this, I realize with a knot in my throat: This is nothing like I thought it would be because it is way better.

Today, Johnny said of a game they were playing in the neighborhood, "Richie is my go-to quarterback. He has a way better arm than I do."

Now, they're sharing the iPod earphones and listening to a lullaby they thought J.J. would like.

And I'm thinking, the craziness is part of it. It's a real family, and it's messy, but in the end, we're a good team.

I told the boys, "Other teams might come and go, but do you know the one team you'll always be on?"

"Us," they said.

"Yep. Your family," I said.

The boys looked at me like I was going to tell them I was dying or something.

Because I don't typically talk like this. I'm not the type who walks around saying, "I would rip out my right ventrical to make you feel my love." I know people like that, and that's not me.

So I said, "Who here hasn't brushed your teeth?" I knew one of them hadn't. I have a sixth sense about that type of thing. And I was right.

But I know now that I was wrong earlier this summer, when I thought, "I can't wait til school starts." Now I know that when I flash the photo of them in their blue slacks and red shirts--similar to the Catholic school uniforms I've been seeing on my friends' Facebook pages this week as other schools started, I'll feel the same pangs I always feel.

Gosh, what a sob story. Seriously, they'll be home at 12. It's a half day! And Lord knows they need something to do for three-fourths of the year! Best to change the subject. Who here hasn't brushed their teeth?

File Under: Kids Say the Darnedest

2010-08-13T14:01:00.000-07:00

1.

After I told the boys that a kid we know tried football but likes soccer better...
Johnny: Well, my favorite is football.
Richie: My favorite is baseball.
J.J.: My favorite is bouncy ball.

***

2.

J.J.: Mom, when are you going to get married and have a baby?
Me: I already got married and had three babies. You're one of them.
J.J.: Well, you could marry daddy.
Me: Yep that's my husband.
What does he think the connection is between the five of us living in this house? College roomies?

***

3.

J.J.: Mom, what do you want for your birthday?
Me: My dream gift would be an iphone or a new laptop.
J.J.: Or a Barbie doll?
Me: Yes, a Barbie doll would be great.
J.J.: Or a baby doll?
Me: Maybe I'll ask for a real baby...
J.J.: Maybe daddy could give you one.
Me: Um...yes.
J.J.: But doesn't God give babies?
Me: Yes, babies are gifts from God.
J.J., Johnny and Richie: Silence.
Me: (Big sigh of relief.)

What We Did On Our Summer Vacation

2010-08-11T07:05:00.000-07:00

We just got back from Boston for our annual trip to visit Justin's family and enjoy a town that has no end to the stuff there is to do. Here is what we did:

Caught up with friends and family at the annual party under the big white tent! The boys wrestled with friends and family at the same party.

Got tears in my eyes as we approached Gilette Stadium. I defy you to love football and not have this reaction. It is the Emerald City of football stadiums.

Saw a humpback whale and learned what "TAIL BREACH!" means. It's what the captain yells when a whale flips its tail a good way out of the water, and it's something I'm going to yell randomly from now on when something exciting happens in my life.

Watched Richie get seasick for the first time. Then immediately afterwords, heard the captain say, "I'm sure you all won't mind if we go six miles further--but the water's going to get rougher because there's a storm at sea." Richie was like, "Noooooooo!" And then a second later, we realized the Dramamine was in the bag I was holding and that Richie had just thrown up in.

Played T.V. tag with my nephew Brendan and J.J. Every time, they chose Dinosaur Train or Polar Express and the clue was, "trains." It was like stealing candy from a baby. To be fair, I chose Sesame Street every time.

Toured Paul Revere's house in the North End of Boston. Learned that when it was built, it was a mansion, but by the time the Reveres bought it, it was middle class. Keeping up with the Joneses is nothing new!

Ate pizza in the North End. Started to agonize over our restaurant decision before realizing you can't really go wrong with pizza in Boston.

Ate lobster rolls at the beach. Justin's mom's clam chowder at the party. Homemade blackberry bread in the morning. Boneless pork from a Chinese restaurant. And pretty much everything within a one-mile radius of my face. Tail breach!

Spent an evening at the beach and, as the sun set behind us, watched the water and sky become the same shade of gray until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. But I was too busy eating lobster rolls to notice until we walked to the car.

Watched the Red Sox at Fenway Park. So loud and so cool. A guy actually climbs a ladder to change the score on the Green Monster. Johnny's interpretation: They change the score from inside the Green Monster and the guy on the ladder paid for a special ticket. (The lawsuit waiting to happen ticket??) And then somebody hit a homerun over the green monster and it hit a car! Tail breach! Richie was sure that would be on the highlights of Sports Center.

Met a lady on the street in the North End and at the candlepin bowling alley who had three sons, too. I can't tell you how many times I meet mothers of three grown boys.

Found out Justin's brother Johnny and his wife Erin are having another boy! Justin's parents will still have all-boy grandkids!

Got a 73 at candlepin bowling--with bumpers! (Richie beat me with a 75.) I think it's a lot harder than "big ball bowling" as they call normal bowling in Boston. (Because there, candlepin, which has softball size balls and narrower pins, is more popular. As an aside, Justin was a child candlepin champion. Tail breach!) I love candlepin!

Made tie-dye shirts at a pool party and watched the big boys have a slam dunk contest off the diving board. Realized my oldest son is now one of the big boys...or almost. He was like, "I was doing dives and 360s; they were doing back flips and 460s."

Listened to the boys' uncle ask them, upon seeing that they were watch iCarly, "What are you, a bunch of cheerleadahs? Where are your pom poms?" I love how people in Boston talk.

Had a living room sleepover with all the Boston and Rhode Island cousins.

And that's only the half of it. J.J. cried his eyes out the night before we left. Johnny was like, "Could we move to Boston for one year?" I said that as soon as I made my first million, I was going to buy a summer place for us in the Back Bay. Well, my first 10 million.

Zoo Day!

2010-07-27T13:08:00.000-07:00

We went to the zoo today--The boys, my niece Francie and I. We were supposed to go a couple other times, but one day it looked like rain, the other, Johnny had football camp. I said, "Watch--the day we go, it will be the hottest day of the year."

Saving the zoo for the hottest day is kind of a tradition. As the temp crept toward the triple digits at around 1:30 p.m., I turned to Johnny and said, "You have to go to the zoo on the hottest day of the year, or else you lose your edge, and once you lose your edge, it's gone forever."

"Yeah," he said, laughing. "Wait, what does that mean?"

"Your competitive edge," I said. "When you lose it, it's gone."

"Yeah," he said, clearly thinking I had lost something.

Hot days are actually a great time to go to the zoo. I remember it used to mean the animals were off hiding in the shade, but now it seems like the shade is close to the viewing area. Lions were laying right up against the glass, and chimpanzees were grooming each other right by where we could sit.

On the information sign, it said chimpanzees have five or so behaviors, such as teaching the young how to hunt for termites, but the only thing I've ever seen them do is groom each other. A mother's work is never done. As soon as she's finished biting bugs off the baby's bottom, and moves onto the rest of the body, it's time to remove more bugs from the bottom.

I'm so glad humans had the common sense to lose our body fur. Seriously, removing bugs from my children only takes about .00000001 percent of my overall time, and only when we've been to a farm. Which gives me the free time to do important things like write a mommy blog.

I love taking J.J. and my niece to the zoo.

J.J.: "What's your name, seal? Seal, seal, what's your name?"

(He was talking to a sea lion. It must be frustrating to hear visitors talk when you're a zookeeper. They're probably like, FYI, the animal kingdom is not limited to monkeys, seals, and babies of bigger animals you're more familiar with. For the last time, servals aren't baby cheetahs! Learn the names, people, learn the names.)

Johnny: The seal can't talk, J.J.

J.J.: Oh.

Later, Francie: Hi, elephant. Elephant! Hi.

J.J.: The elephant can't talk, Francie.

Francie: Bye, elephant.

Francie said hi to all the animals. (Just because they can't talk, doesn't mean you can't talk to them!)When we came to the rhinoceros, she said, "Hi, dinosaur."

J.J. said, "That's not a dinosaur, it's a wino."

The best was when she came to the gorilla. She said, "Hi, granddad!"

It was like a scene from Inherit the Wind.

We were all laughing about that when the gorilla ran up and pounded on the window.

I was like, "Oh, no, he thought we were laughing at him."

I would never laugh at a gorilla! Chimps, yes. They just make the funniest faces at each other, and you're like, "What does that mean?" You soon find out they were asking if they could groom each other. What a surprise!

It was almost too hot to walk to the exit, but we made it. There, we saw that the sea lion show was going on. The sea lion hugged the zoo keeper, jumped through hoops, dove from great heights, and even played Frisbee. J.J. kept laughing and looking at me. I know what he was thinking, "Are you sure seals don't talk? Because it looks like this guy can do anything he puts his mind to!"

J.J. was right. That sea lion certainly hadn't lost his competitive edge! Which is why he has his own pool, front and center of the zoo.

All the kids agreed they were the sea lion. (Don't you love how kids always say who they are? And it's always the best one. I was at Karate Kid, and during the final Kung Fu tournament, the kid next to me nudged me, and pointed to Dre. "I'm him. Not that one. That one," he said.

I thought, "Yeah, obviously you're not going to be the mean kid who's about ready to get his butt kicked and dishonor his family.")

Anyway, they were all the sea lion because he got the most attention, the most fish, and the pool.

On the way home, I said, "What a great day to go to the zoo."

"Yeah," Richie said. "And it would have been a great day to go to the pool, too."

Good thing we're all sea lions. We don't have to choose!

I Love This Pool

2010-07-05T21:41:00.000-07:00

At the city pool again. This time, with waterguns. I'd like to take a moment to describe our city pool, or mi amour, as I sometimes call it when I'm being French. Is that French? I think that's French.

The cheapest city pool around (Our Pool) happens to be in the toniest city in Johnson County, aside from Mission Hills, which I'm pretty sure only has a country club. For obvious reasons (they don't make their Shirley Temples right,) Justin and I opted not to join "the club." So we go to this awesome city pool in this awesome city in Kansas. Sometimes, when all the lawn chairs are taken, I lay in the grass and pretend I actually live in this city. And the lifeguards are like, "Oh what in the ever living hell are the mothers smoking now?"

I'm smoking the air in your city, lifeguards. Because I love it that much.

Well, this year, one of our lifeguards has a tattoo. I was like, "When the lifeguards in Toni Town start getting tattoos, I start buying stock in tattoos."

Okay: so, the waterguns. They're a gray area at our pool. They're not "outlawed," but they're frowned upon. Usually, kids with waterguns get kicked out of the shallow pool and into the big pool, where the lifeguards defy them to tread water while operating a modern watergun. (Have you seen these things? Pretty awesome. But requiring two hands.)

Today was overcast and cool, so the shallow pool was pretty empty. Richie came into the pool with his watergun. He started shooting at this kid who--for reasons I couldn't understand at the time, let Richie shoot him. I was like, "Are you crazy, kid?" I mean, a kid might join a watergun fight without a watergun, but it's either with the intention of engaging in hand-to-hand combat (splashing) or tricking the other kid out of his gun. Richie actually handed this kid the gun and he handed it back.

Nearby, Richie saw a gentleman who looked to be in his 80s with a tattoo of...I couldn't see what...on his bicep. The only tattoos I take seriously are a. on people 70 or over and b. on the bicep. These people got tattoos when they actually meant something. Nowadays, everybody has a tattoo. Therefore, no one does.

So Richie shoots this guy in the chest.

The guy gets a funny glint in his eye. Is he going to tell him to get some manners? Is he going to make a joke?

I said, "Richie! Don't shoot grownups or babies!"

Meanwhile, the guy disappears. He comes back with one of those big waterguns that's made of foam. He starts spraying Richie. I mean full combat. He's sneaking behind mothers in tankinis and coming out full barrel. (At one point he had two waterguns that he was shooting at the same time.) Richie loved it. He was like, "He's got waterguns now, mom. That means he's no longer a grownup."

I looked at the tatoo again: a cannon, I think. I was like, "Of course. Only Richie would pick a watergun fight with a sailor."

Then the guy's granddaughter started attacking. She was shooting water straight into Richie's ear. The guy turned to me and said, happily, "She usually doesn't like watergun fights!"

So that's what he was thinking when he got that glint in his eye: "I'm going to go get my granddaughter's watergun. Yes!"

A little while later, the guy took his grandson over to the big pool, and Johnny and Richie continued the fight with the kid who I had thought was crazy. (Have you noticed that--to avoid getting shot with a watergun--kids go underwater? Interesting.) Well, as it turned out, every time the kid picked up the watergun, his mom went ballistic. She marched over from her lawnchair and sat him in time out. Johnny thought that she thought her son would wander off with the watergun and not be able to find us when it was time to leave. I think maybe she didn't let her kids play with toy guns. Which is great--I get that. But it made me feel bad for thinking her kid was crazy.

Anyway, a little later, I was trying to teach Johnny how to swim. (I mean, he knows how to swim, but he weaves his legs back and forth like an alligator in distress.) The same guy comes over and starts giving him pointers. He was wearing a Navy baseball cap. (I guess my Nancy Drew sleuthing skills are sharp as ever.) He said he was a Navy instructor, which touched my heart because my grandpa was an Air Force instructor. This guy had prequalified Navy Seals.

"Did you notice that he was an awesome watergun fighter, Richie?" I later asked.

"Yeah!" Richie said enthusiastically.

"Well, that's why."

Not that people shoot each other with waterguns in the Navy, but you know what I mean.

See, I love our city pool.

Freedom Fest

2010-07-05T07:48:00.000-07:00

The Fourth of July isn't the same without traveling to Boston, which is what we usually do, for a giant tent party with family and friends. This year, we're going to Boston later in the summer.

Meanwhile, here in Kansas City, the boys paid tribute to the Americans who have built our country brick by brick...by rebuilding our patio brick by brick. This is Justin's declaration of independence from weeds. He's using a special kind of sand guaranteed to prevent weeds until we sell out house. I don't know how the weeds know when we are going to sell our house...because I sure don't. But apparently it is going to happen at some point.

Justin also declared independence from mowing the grass...by teaching Johnny how to operate the lawn mower. I almost cried when I looked out the window and saw my oldest wearing a football t-shirt with the sleeves cut out and pushing a lawn mower. When he came inside, he was beaming. "It wasn't at all like I thought it would be, mom," he said dreamily. Did Justin pull a Tom Sawyer on him or what?

That night, we were going to see fireworks at something called the Star Spangled Spectacular (Question: How do Independence Day events manage to make the tenets and symbols of our great nation sound dorky as hell: Freedom Fest, Star Spangled Spectacular, Red White and Boom. Come on. How about: F.U. England. We're Doing Our Own Thing Now. That's just one of many festivals I'm considering getting started.)

Unfortuantely, it rained, so we didn't go to the fireworks. Instead, I regaled the children by reading the Declaration of Independence, which the newspaper had printed. (Newspaper=freedom from ignorance. I still believe that, even though they are going through hard times.) I only read the first paragraph to Richie and J.J. I figured that was all they could handle--well, J.J. anyway.

Earlier in the evening, J.J.'s Nana explained to him that it was America's birthday. He was like, "It's your birthday?" Um, J.J., is your Nana's name America? Jeez. Talk about needing freedom from ignorance.

I made Johnny read the whole thing, which he absolutely loved. Some moms buy their kids bottle rockets. I say, set your mind on fire, son, not your head. (The lawn mower makes me nervous enough.)

Today, Justin got rained out from work, so they are back to laying bricks. Which the boys actually do like. Justin is a fun boss. He even let the boys bid out the job. He is big on teaching them to bid out jobs. Johnny got a job in the fall raking our neighbor's yard--$20 front and back. Well, the leaves fell faster than he could rake, and soon, he had twice the work. I went over to help him, wanting the lesson to be, "Hard work pays off."

Justin said, "I'm too old to rake people's leaves. Johnny needs to learn to bid higher." For him, the lesson was, "Charge a realistic price." In the end, our nice neighbor saw that the job was bigger than Johnny had thought and paid him $20 for the front yard. He did the backyard by himself. I don't know what the lesson was. Maybe: It's nice to have nice neighbors.

Anyway, while they're outside, I'm going to write a book about crocodiles and alligators. So, goodbye now. Or should I say, See 'ya later alligator.

Daze of Summer

2010-06-29T06:31:00.000-07:00

How would I describe summer vs. the rest of the year? First of all: I love summer. It's my chance to spend time with my boys that doesn't include homework and signing a bunch of stuff.

I get that homework is important. Especially if my boys are to fullfill their promise to me that one will be a doctor/dentist, another, a lawyer/mad scientist/local business owner who sponsors a 3&2 team, and the third a "surprise me." Guess who chose that one? (Hint: starts with an R.)

In terms of dealing with people, however, who would you choose? A. People who have spent all day swimming/playing whiffle ball/eating ice cream products. B. People who have been bossed around and forced to do paperwork in tiny desks all day. Again, I get it. If they always do "A" they'll turn into donkeys. I'm just sayin': I would choose A.

Furthermore, summer is one reason I chose to be a children's book writer, instead of a...I would have said banker, but there's really no sure thing anymore, is there? You might as well feed it all to the birds.

So I'm not complaining. Just making a statement. There is a certain daaaze that goes along with summer, as opposed to working while the kids are in school. I would compare it to being a hunter-gatherer vs. a farmer.

Farmers mold their world by planting crops and raising animals. Hunter-gatherers live off the land as it already exists. Winter mama molds her world by doing such things as generating business, doing work, following up on paychecks. Summer mama's to-do list says, "Apply sunscreen. Do it again. Do it again. Do it again. Do it again."

All humans used to be hunter-gatherers until the agricultural revolution. Then, a wave of farming swept the world, and people laid down roots, planned ahead, met certain goals.

Now, if I had heard about this new way of life, I would have said, "That sounds like a lot of work. Why don't you guys do that, and I'll chill out here on the savannah. Your descendents can come back in a few thousand years and write magazine articles about how my people don't plan ahead...which is why we never got around to drilling for oil in the ocean or building nuclear bombs. I'm going to take a nap now. Have fun with your corn."

But at the time, everybody thought this was a great idea. In a way, it was. We got culture. I love culture, don't you? Books and what-not. Culture is so great. I have several cultural deadlines coming up that I will do momentarily. While my kids are quietly...dripping popsicles on the furniture and losing Furious behind the toy box.

Not that we're at home that much. That's the difference between being a summer mom and a year-round stay at home mom, like I was when the kids were little. The sunny months are so much better! Mainly, we go to the pool and eat. Swimming makes these children hungry! Speaking of corn, you can't have enough popcorn lying around when you are at the pool!

Here's something else I thank the agricultural revolution for: mass-produced coffee. I had given up coffee for green tea over the winter. Coffee was keeping me up at night. In the summer, however, I can pour coffee directly onto my eyeballs with no adverse affects. The sun bakes it out of me--even with my dorky-ass mom visor. (During the summer, I use big words like "dorky-ass," and "punk-ass," and "sorry-ass." Hardly ever front of the children though. That would be bad parenting-ass.)

The bottom-line: I love summer--I'm so lucky to get to have a summer, but staying home with kids and meeting deadlines don't mix. The boys and I are about living off the land--the land being the swimming pool and Aldi's. Deadlines are about planning and meeting goals.

So when I say, "No problem," about a deadline, I'm thinking, "Winter me is all over it. Summer me, on the other hand, is trying to find my son's camouflaged flip-flop. Why in the swamp-ass hell did I purchase something camouflaged for a son who can't find his nose on a map of his own face?!"

If you are reading this and have given me a deadline, however, I really am all over it. Right...(push "publish post") now!

So, So Furious

2010-06-25T07:17:00.000-07:00

Last summer, a blog I like, Fuse #8 Production, posted the top 100 picture books, based on readers' votes. I can't find the original post, but here is the list on Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/shelf/show/fuse-8-top-100-picture-books.

We read most of them last summer and into the fall. It was perfect timing because Johnny was still reading picture books. Now, he's too old...for now. See, you're never too old for picture books, or too young, but sometimes you're too in between.

Anyway, it was interesting to see what my sons' favorites were. I'm basing this not on votes, but on 1. how many times they wanted it reread and 2. the look in their eyes that said, "I'm not here; I'm there. The book is my religion. It's my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It's my lucky everything." You know the look. Actually these are separate criteria, so here were their favorites, based on one and two:

J.J.: 1. Scaredy Squirrel by Melanie Watt. 2. Little Blue and Little Yellow, by Leo Lionni.
Richie: 1. Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales by John Scieszka. 2. The Story of Babar by Jean de Brunhoff and Our Animal Friends at Maple Hill Farm by Alice Provensen.
Johnny: 1. None. 2. Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans and Eloise by Kay Thompson.

I thought of this list yesterday because of Richie's reaction to the animals in Our Animal Friends. He said, in an imagination-induced daze, "I never knew you could have that many animals as pets!" Then: "Can I have a pet pig?"

"Sure!" I said, caught up in the excitement. "You don't mind if we get a pig, do you Justin?"

He had just walked into the room and was like, "What the hell just happened in here? I thought you were reading a book."

He asked, "A pig?"

"Not a hog, but a small pig," I said. I turned to Richie. "I think they have something called a 'pocket pig,' which can fit in your pocket. They either have it or they're developing it. Or we could get a pot-bellied pig. They're small. Would a pot bellied pig be all right?" I asked Justin.

"Sure," he said. It's the same answer I get when I suggest we move to Florida or travel the country in an RV. He knows that I have ADHD and only follow through on writing projects. He was thinking, "You can write about small pigs all you want, honey."

Well, guess what? Yesterday, Richie got a pig!

A Guinea pig.

He'd been wanting a pet of his own for two years. Johnny used to have a frog and a turtle. Then there were the snails, which died tragically of overpopulation.

Richie had his heart set on a parrot. But we are not pirates. Plus, Justin doesn't like birds. Plus, aren't parrots expensive? They're bossy, I know that. I once accompanied my brother to feed our neighbor's parrots, and they were like, "Turn on Nick at Night! Where's Lois? Get the lights. Blah Blah Blah."

"Parrots cost $5,000" I said.

Richie began to lean toward something furry.

On his birthday, we went to see Shrek: Forever After. I rented out the entire movie theater, Daddy Warbucks-style, or at least that's what I told Richie. We really were the only ones in the theater!

Then we went to Petsmart. My mom and I had both given Richie gift certificates for his birthday.

First Richie looked at dumbo rats. I'm not a rat person, per se, but I have to admit, one of these guys was cute. He was pawing at the glass as if to say, "Pick me! Pick me!" Then the Petsmart worker opened the cage and they all started running around, and all I could think was Willard. Plus, my mom would die if she had aided and abetted the purchase of a rat. Because then, somewhere, someone would say, "A rat has been sold. Excellent. Now we can breed more rats!" And his name would be Willard, horror, etc.

It came down to Russian hamsters v. Guinea pigs. We learned that hamsters are crazy hyper and fun to watch on their little wheels. But they're quick to get away when you hold them Then Richie held a Guinea pig. She held perfectly still. I knew he had found the pig of his dreams.

"What are you going to name her?" I asked.

"Furious," he said. "Because his eyes are red." (Richie is in denial that Furious is a girl.)

Her eyes are red because she's an albino, but yeah, okay, I can see why you would think the timid little fur ball was on the verge of insane Guinea pig anger. If you were an eight-year-old boy, that is.

We got furious a cage, bedding, water bottle, food, special hay, and an oatmeal canister hiding place.

J.J. asked, "Why doesn't Furious have a T.V.?"

"Maybe she prefers to read," I said.

"No, he wants a T.V.," J.J. said. So he drew pictures on Post-its and stuck them on the cage. I'm not sure why that constituted a T.V. and not an art exhibit. I guess it speaks to the cultural experiences I've offered my children. In my defense, Sesame Street is a work of art, in my book. And iCarly is not too bad, either.

Well, Furious might be watching T.V., but my boys aren't. They're allowed to watch T.V. before 8 a.m.and after 4 p.m. This works better for us than limiting their viewing time to one hour because I can't keep track of time. Today, the boys woke up at 7 a.m. but didn't turn on T.V. Instead, they sat backwards on the couch and watched The Furious Show.

"He's drinking his water! He's hiding! He's eating hay! He's knocking things over! Wow he's so smart!"

Richie held him several times. True to his name (now I think of him as a him, too,) he nuzzled softly against Richie's chest and let him pet him. What an angry young Guinea pig!

I took Richie's picture with him. Then Richie, the wildlife photographer, took several pictures of Furious in his cage. The big question is: Did Furious sleep last night? When we left him in the living room, he was awake in his oatmeal canister. When I woke up this morning, he was awake outside the oatmeal canister. Maybe we'll have to hook up a secret camera. Then we really will be able to watch him on T.V.!

Happy bday Richie.

Wrestlemania

2010-06-22T06:14:00.000-07:00

As you know, I'm J.J.'s celebrity handler at the pool. His new friend, Preston, also has a handler, a babysitter who wears a blue, what we used to call "tank" swimsuit and cop sunglasses.

Preston asked J.J.: "Do you have a dad?"

"Yeah," J.J. said.

"Well, where is he?"

"He's at work, Preston," his babysitter said.

"My dad is really, really scary," J.J. said.

I laughed nervously. "His dad is not scary at all," I assured officer babysitter.

"No, I said, 'my dad's really, really hairy,'" J.J. said.

"Oh, well, that's true," I said.

Richie went to his first day of wrestling camp at a school called Rockhurst. Richie is always getting wrestled by Johnny and J.J. and he doesn't like it, which leads to fights. I figured, maybe if Richie knew what he was doing, he would like wrestling, and my boys could be happy barbarians all day long.

Last night, I told Justin that Richie had gone to wrestling camp.

"Did you learn to jump off the high rope and body slam guys?" Justin asked.

"This is real wrestling," Richie said. "Not T.V."

Richie described a move called the knife, which involved legs, and that's all I understood of it.

J.J. said that he had also been to wrestling camp. He showed us his move, which was to hold up his fists, jump and land on somebody. He must have gone to T.V. wrestling camp.

"My wrestling camp was at Nockhurst," J.J. said. I thought that sounded suspiciously like Rockhurst--and knockwurst.

Seeing my skepticism he said, "No, I mean it was at... (trying to make up a school name)...Frickin'"

"You went to Frickin' wrestling camp?" I asked.

He nodded and showed me his wrestling move again. Sometimes I think J.J. is not being totally honest with me.

Spider-dad, Spider-dad

2010-06-19T12:23:00.000-07:00

J.J.'s party was a success. A mom from J.J.'s school came to the party with her four cute kids, who each brought a present. She was like the guardian angel of people not RSVP-ing! One was a slip n' slide, so the kids played in the plastic pool and on the slip n' slide, and did play dough. Then, while they ate their cupcakes, Spider-man came.

His pants were about six inches too short and he was wearing brown loafers.

He came out saying, with a thick Boston accent, "What is this, a birthday party? Psha Psha (shooting webs from his wrist.)"

J.J. looked shocked--even a little scared. Then he yelled, "Daddy?!"

He looked on the verge of laughter and tears.

The other kids were nonplussed. "Are you really Spider-man?" they asked skeptically.

So I had to say, "Spider-man was busy fighting bad guys so daddy came instead. Wasn't that nice?"

J.J. nodded and started laughing and shaking his head, as if to say, "Oh, mom and dad, if only I could peer into the tangled webs your brains sometime."

Justin said he should have disguised his voice. I can't imagine the overall impression that would have given, what with the loafers.

But will we try the same thing in July for the cousins party? Yes. Only with a shorter and less well-known Spiderman.

Muscle Beach...meet Muscle Pool

2010-06-17T14:06:00.001-07:00

For some people, summer is about the beach. In Kansas City, it's all about the city pool. I once asked a friend in Boston if people went to city pools there. "Poor people do," she said. Well, poor people go to the city pool here, too, (how do you think our family gets in?) But so does everybody else. I mean everybody. It's a total madhouse.

J.J. doesn't know how to swim yet. So I follow him around everywhere. It's awkward this year because he's made some pool friends, and I tag along with them like some kind of celebrity handler.

Today, his friend Ryan--who was in the goldfish swim class with J.J. and apparently learned how to swim (what a concept! J.J. should try that some time.) was doing somersaults in the water.

"How old are you?" I asked, impressed.

"I'm five and three quarters," he said.

"I'm five and I have four quarters," J.J. said.

It was true--he did have four quarters. My kids' summer--if not their entire lives--are dedicated to memorizing the prices at snack bars--and scraping up just enough money to ruin their teeth. But J.J. is not five.

He's turning five in July. It was my brilliant plan to have his party one month early so that I could send invitations to school. (The school doesn't have a roster that I know of, so I don't have addresses.) Well, nobody RSVP'd. Way to keep it classy, J.J.'s friends' parents!

So I figured, we'll have his party at the regular time, when his cousins from Atlanta will be in town. Then, yesterday, one mom RSVP'd. She offered to bring her three other kids, too. Bam! Instant party.

I don't want to blow my wad on this party, since we're having the cousins in July, so I'm going to make play dough, copy Spiderman coloring sheets off the computer, make red cupcakes, and make Justin dress up as Spiderman. Keeping it classy, as always.

J.J. has luckily forgotten all about passing out 20 invitations at school. He only remembers giving one to his elusive school bus friend, Jamaicai, who I'm beginning to think is J.J.'s snuffalufagus. I told J.J. that Jamaicai might be spending his summer in Texas. I have no reason to think that. But my yoga teacher's kids are spending their summer in Texas, and it's a big state, so you never know. I should have said Jamaica, though. Duh.

Anyway, J.J. now has no idea how old he is, only that he gets to have two birthday parties this summer. Yay!

Richie, meanwhile, really does have a birthday coming up and we're celebrating...you guessed it, at the city pool. Then he gets to have a slumber party. This is the boys' big eight year old treat. The pool is key--you have to wear these children out. I'm hoping they don't wear goggles, as chlorine can do wonders for kids wanting to close their eyes when they get home.

I'm realizing that this post is not about Muscle Beach/Pool after all. Here is what I was going to say. At football camp, Johnny's coach said the boys should relax afterwards. He said, "Your shoulders are starting to get big, so go show them off to the girls at the pool."

Johnny took that comment at face value. We were riding in the car the other day and he said to Richie, "Dude, my arms are enormous next to yours." Just what every younger brother wants to hear.

Then, he actually saw a girl in his class at the pool the other day. I think he likes this girl, because for a while, he was working her name into distantly related conversations. Well, he wouldn't even look at her! Finally, I convinced him to say hi out of politeness. And out of me handpicking her for my future daughter-in-law. (She's very sweet.)

That's all I have about muscles. I should probably change the title of this post...

Running Routes

2010-06-11T08:52:00.000-07:00

Johnny went to football camp and won a quarterback award (for some drills they'd done.) That night, he wanted to practice. He asked if we had a target he could throw the ball at.

"No, that won't work," Justin said. "You have to throw to somebody in motion. Mom will run routes for you."

I was just taking a bite out of my second giant chicken salad croissant, and gave him a look.

"What? I can't because of my knee," he said.

"I just think you've found a way to dovetail your dreams of having a quarterback son and a skinny wife," I said.

But after finishing my dinner, I laced up my tennis shoes and we went over to the school playground, which is next to a busy street. I've run routes with Johnny before, but I'm the one who throws it. This is normal. The mom or dad passes the ball and the kid catches it. Whoever is running the routes is the one practicing. So it looked like I'd told my son, "Hey, I'm joining a lady football team. Come run me some drills."

As I ran a post across the field, a couple of cars honked. Yeah, I get it, my ship has sailed. Ha. Ha. Or never come into port, actually.

Once we started, though, I got into it. I was like, "You can throw this far, Johnny. You just need to train your eyes. See, you did it!" For my part, I was jumping and diving for balls--training my body to think it was invincible. (I found out the next day it isn't.)

Soon, some Boy Scouts came outside. I was like, oh, great. Now I'll really feel like a fool. But they looked to be in high school and were playing on the swings, so I figured we were in the same boat.

The next night, Johnny tried to throw J.J. routes, but he doesn't know how to catch the ball. In parochial league, they have a weight limit for who can carry the ball, and at age four, J.J. is approaching it, so he probably won't need to learn that particular skill set. But it would be nice if Johnny could teach him. Then Johnny could be the quarterback and his brothers (not his mother), the receivers. Even though it was fun diving for those footballs.

Early Summer

2010-05-26T11:11:00.000-07:00

Goggles. Check.
Sunscreen. Check.
Swim trunks. Check.
Sidewalk chalk. Check.
Heat and humidity. Check check.

Summer came a little early this year, and I say: Welcome. I'll take the high eighties and 100 percent humidity any May over a lingering winter.

Johnny and Richie get out on Friday, and J.J., next Friday. J.J. has kindergarten graduation on Tuesday. He's not in kindergarten, but has been talking about this since April. I don't know what happens at kindergarten graduation (we didn't celebrate stupid stuff like that when I was a kid) but based on his excitement, it must be a hoedown hootenany of a good time.

Even though J.J. is in preschool, he has kindergarteners in his class. Once they graduate, he'll be a kindergartener, which is the real reason for his excitement, I think.

Every day, he goes to school thinking it is the big day. I picture him waiting, thinking, "After snack...no, after lunch...no, after nap...no, tomorrow!" I've told him it's next Tuesday, but what do I know? I'm a dumb 34 year old, whereas he is four and brilliant.

Since J.J. is almost in kindergarten, Justin and I are cracking down on fits. We cracked down earlier with Johnny and Richie, but now we are old and lazy. I know J.J. doesn't throw them at school (or I'm sure his teacher would have mentioned it by now!) But at home: yes. He wanted to wear blue shorts--not tan! Where are his sunglasses! Who stole his chapstick! (Whenever my kids lose something, somebody clearly pilfered it. As if we have a roving thief living in our house.)

Well, from now on, he goes straight to time out when he throws a fit. So there. Now who's the brilliant four year old? I am.

If you recall, last summer, I sent Johnny and Richie to summer camp every day, which Johnny protested by calling "summer school." Richie was put in cheese sandwich debtor's prison because I sent the lunch money in the wrong envelope. This year, I said they could stay home, but they need to occupy themselves. Johnny wants to mow lawns, but Justin wants him to be one year older. I told my dad it would be nice if things were like the old days, and they could sell The Saturday Evening Post, like my Papa did as a kid. My dad said it would be even better if they could work in a coal mine in which the ceiling was too short for grownups, so kids had to work it. Or there's always chimney sweeping.

I'm sure they'll stay busy. Between whiffle ball and Harry Potter, what's not to love about summer boredom? Plus, I'll be here, and I'm a lot of fun. Hey kids, who wants to do a science experiment?

I only have one book to write this summer--about alligator and crocodile babies--A light load. My first picture book comes out in one year. Save the date! Just kidding. I don't even know what the date will be. I am working on the mystery book idea. I've read three kids' mysteries. Just 97 to go. Then I can write my own, theoretically. Happy early summer!

Brazil

2010-05-01T14:34:00.000-07:00

I was working in J.J.'s school garden yesterday and a mother asked me what country I was from. She said it sounded like I had an accent. I guess my fake Madonna accent is really paying off! Actually, people have said this before, so I think I must have a speech impediment that sounds like an accent. (Like when my brother couldn't say his r's, his therapist asked if he was from the East Coast. He said he had cousins in New Jersey, so that explained that.)

The speech impediment, I'm assuming, is from the birthmark on my tongue, which is real, not something I'm making up to sound crazy. I had the option of having it removed as a kid, but when the doctor described a lazer beam shooting my tongue, I thought, "What if they miss their mark and I lose my whole tongue? Can you eat without a tongue?" Plus, I didn't have a high incentive to have it removed. Kids rarely made fun of me, much to my dismay. Once a girl called me Dragon Girl, and I laid into her so hard, I couldn't wait for it to happen again. Alas...nobody else broached the subject. Then, when I worked at the food court in college, some students would ask me to show them my tongue, but I told them it wasn't that kind of place. It was more of a sandwich/pizza/grill/Chinese food/frozen yogurt place.

I felt neutral about having an accent. But what the mother said next, I really liked. She said, "I think that you're from Brazil."

"Thank you!" I gushed, breathlessly. I've been waiting my whole life for someone to say that. I picture Brazilians to be exotic people who wear bikinis all day. (Though she was probably referring to a Brazilian woman who wears yoga pants all day with the intention of going to yoga but instead tries to think of a children's book series that will make her rich.)

I started convincing myself that I really was Brazilian. "No wonder I don't fit in in America," I said to myself. "No wonder I don't quite 'get' the culture or 'speak' the language. I'm from Brazil."

Now, whenever I feel like I'm different or say the wrong thing, I'm going to say, "Well, it's hard being a recent immigrant to this country. It will take a while to get used to customs such as working outside the home/caring about our yard/being on the ball in terms of Cub Scouts. That's not how we do things in Brazil."

In honesty, I have no idea how things are done in Brazil. Like my brother who acquired his speech impediment by having cousins in New Jersey, I've acquired my knowledge of Brazil from our neighbor, who traveled to Brazil, and described it by shaking her shoulders and saying, "It's so spicy!"

Brazil is just my metaphor for the feeling we all have of "not being from around here" even if you've lived somewhere your whole life. Everybody feels this way, which means, in truth, we are all coming from the same place. Do you like how I so subtly beat you over the head with that metaphor? I just don't want to present myself as some kind of Brazil expert because I also once ate at a Brazilian restaurant in St. Louis.

Anyway, back to the children's book series. As you know, I write picture books and children's nonfiction. Johnny had a friend over a while ago who said, "Mrs. Heos, you should write a series. That's where the real money is."

"You're right," I said.

He follows up everytime he comes over. "Have you written that series yet? If you write that series, maybe you could afford to live in my neighborhood." (They live on the other side of Wornall.)

"What should I write about?" I asked. I mean, I'll write on demand. I do it all the time with my work for hire stuff.

He said I should write about he and Johnny and their friends, who solve real crimes. The Hardy Boys, in other words. Only instead of being brothers, they're friends. How fun would that be: to be a crime fighter in a book?

I wish I could write a mystery. I love reading mysteries. Usually, if you're a writer and you read enough of something, you can write that something. But that hasn't been the case with me and mysteries.

I haven't read kids' mysteries, though, except for my brother's copy of Encyclopedia Brown #14 and some Nancy Drews. I guess my knowledge of children's mysteries amounts to my knowledge of Brazil. That settles it. I will read more children's mysteries in an attempt to get rich. Then maybe we'll move to Brazil.

Thank God for Football

2010-04-19T17:30:00.000-07:00

J.J. loves art. Every day, he comes home and colors and cuts stuff out and tapes it to other stuff. He's never been too into playing sports with the older boys. That's fine. Maybe he'll get into sports later, like Johnny did, or maybe not.

I will say life is easier for Johnny since he started liking sports.

He said the other day, "I've been noticing I get a lot more respect these days."

"Why's that?" I asked, knowing the answer. I remember all too well those nights in first grade when Johnny would go to sleep crying about what some of the kids said to him during kickball (because he couldn't catch a ball to save his life.) This happened frequently enough that kickball, which I do not even consider to be a real sport, was ruining our lives. And I knew that once Johnny discovered football in second grade, and became obsessed with it, he suddenly became coordinated.

"I think it's because I'm better at sports now," he said.

"How do you feel about that?" I asked.

"I like it," he said.

Well, I guess he would. But I thought he might think the kids were being a little shallow.

"I think kids should be nice to people whether they're good at sports or not," I said. "I think those are your real friends."

"Yeah," he said. "They are." But I guess there's no reason not to enjoy the respect of your...fake friends? No, I mean kids change. A mean kid one year can be a sweetheart the next. And it's a lot to ask of kids to think like grownups...and grownups who have their priorities straight, at that.

There will come a day when the kids in his class will respect people for different reasons...like being involved in the community or standing up for the little guy, or taking on the big guy, or raising a nice family, or being good at anything, not just sports, or simply not being a jerk. But I guess in third grade it comes down to whether you can field a kickball. (Again, not a real sport.)

I'd be stressed out about J.J. except that now I know that everything changes with kids from year to year...and also every class is different. J.J. might like sports later or he might have a class who doesn't care. To tell you the truth, none of this has even crossed my mind until now, when I'm writing about it.

But in spite of not really liking sports, J.J. always asks us to sign him up for flag football. Last year, he'd get the ball and run, and look back and laugh as if to say "Which of you kids wants to tackle me? Don't make me run the length of the whole dang field!"

Not that his goofiness stood out. There were kids tackling their own teamates, trying to strip the ball off their own coach, carrying lawn chairs onto the field...

Now it's Spring flag football season, and J.J. had his first game Monday night. His team was maroon and the other team, purple. The color blind kids were s.o.l.

On the first play, J.J. was on defense. After the ball was snapped, he picked out the biggest old boy on the purple team, ran across the field, tore off his flag, and held it up for the ref and all the world to see. The only problem was: that kid didn't have the ball.

Later, Richie said that boy, DeJon, was J.J.'s evil twin. (In Richie's world, if you look remotely like somebody else, you are their evil twin.) J.J. said, "Yeah, I'm evil to DeJon because he said a bad word to me."

I hadn't seen DeJon say a word to anyone all night.

"What word was it?" I asked, skeptically.

"Butt," J.J. said.

Of course, it was. Of all the bad words for a kid to allegedly say, it would have to be "butt."

Johnny said, "He probably said, 'I'm going to kick your---"

"Shhh. How did he say it?" I asked.

"He opened his mouth and moved his tongue like this:" (He mouthed the word butt.)

Jeez. I know how human beings form words. I meant did he say, "Butthead," "Move your butt," or just a random, "Butt." Oh whatever, it's not like he even said it.

Another play, the coach told J.J. to get the ball. J.J. ran over to the kid, made eye contact, and took it out of his hands. The kid relinquished it like a kid giving the ball to a ref after the whistle. Still, in my heart of hearts, J.J. stripped the ball.

Then he actually got a flag...and a touchdown. Well, good. He can play football. That will soften the blow during kickball "season" at school.

Of course, the whole thing leaves me retrospective. Why didn't we sign Johnny up for flag football at J.J.'s age? Why did we waste so much time on soccer? (Not that there's anything wrong with soccer, but kicking sports were a problem.) Richie was fine with soccer. In school, he had to write a book, complete with a dedication and bio. He wrote, "I'm Richie. I like to play sports. It is my thing to play sports. I'm good at it. I play with my big brother. He's nine. I'm seven." He didn't end up writing the actual book, but he did dedicate the blank pages to J.J., which was nice. The point is, when it comes to sports--or anything really--Richie fits in where he gets in, to quote Snoop Dog.

Well, maybe the kickball tragedy of first grade taught Johnny some important lessons. First, it stinks to have people give you a hard time for something you can't help. Coordination arrives in it's own sweet time, or in some cases, is a complete no show. And second, you should respect people for whatever they're good at, whether it's kickball or art or just being nice.

But for now, I think the lesson Johnny took away from the whole thing is: "I'm glad I figured out how to play football so I could finally get some respect."

And I'm okay with that less hippie-ish lesson.

Last summer, Johnny went to a football camp, and the coach said, "Thank your mothers for bringing you to camp and thank God for football."

"Amen," I said. "Amen."

What Boys Think About

2010-04-02T13:53:00.000-07:00

The other day, I was in the library with a group of first grade boys. A fifth grade boy walked through the room and climbed the stairs. Just before he reached the landing, he turned around and said, "I could beat all of you at basketball."

They stared at him like, "Well, duh. Seeings how you're four years older than us."

Then he clarified. "I meant I could beat all of you at the same time. My team won the city championships."

The first graders started saying, "No. We'd beat you up. We'd punch you."

I guess they'd be playing Moms & Pops rules. Moms & Pops is a tournament in which mainly the dads play each other according to what class their oldest kid is in. My brother says it gives dads the opportunity the moms have through the PTA to form lifetime enemies. It rarely comes to blows. But there are some friendly headlocks and elbows to the eyeballs. It's Justin's favorite weekend of the year.

The basketball statement got me thinking about the things that occupy young boys' minds. The things that, 20 years from now, won't even be a blip on their radar.

Things like the logistics of opposite.

"There is no such thing as opposite day," I heard Johnny argue with his friend the other day. "Because if you say it's opposite day, it is not opposite day."

Twenty years from now, Wednesday will roll around and their boss will say, "There's a meeting today at 4:30."

And it won't even cross their minds to say, "Too bad it's opposite day!"

Also in 20 years, they'll no longer know, within half an inch, how tall their friends' dads are. In the car today, we drove by a parking lot with six foot three clearance. Johnny's friend said, "My dad could make that by one inch. Your dad's head would be touching the ceiling."

Remember when you used to know exactly how tall your friends' dads were? Kids wore it like a badge of honor.

"My dad is five foot eleven."
"My dad is five foot eleven and a half."
"My dad is five foot seven but he once lifted a car." (Short but strong was just as good as tall.)

You might still know, off the top of your head, how tall your oldest friends' dads are. But I bet you don't know--or have even thought to ask--how tall your colleagues' dads are. Or your neighbors' dads. Maybe it's because, as a kid, you knew your friends' height might mirror their parents' height. Now, not only are your friends finished growing, but you also don't give a hollering hoot how tall they are. It's something that only concerns kids.

Here's the thing with the basketball comment, though. I've never seen Justin announce to a room of people, "I could beat all of you in basketball. Not one at a time. But all at once. I'm the champion of the city. Beyond that, have a great weekend and enjoy your cocktails."

But sometimes, maybe he's thinking it.

Living the High Life in St. Louis

2010-03-31T11:49:00.000-07:00

We went to San Lucas for Spring Break. I mean San Louis. I mean St. Louis! They sure sound alike! We didn't go to a beach, but we did go to the coolest place ever: the City Museum.

I've been trying to describe this to people and it comes out sounding like a McDonald's Playland. It's not like that at all! It's five stories of wire tubing, which you crawl through and then all the sudden you're in a burned out airplane, eye to eye with a real bird. Later, you slide down a slide that is so steep it's practically inverted.

Naturally, I was wearing flats. You know how, when you're up high, you think about how you could easily lose a shoe. That would be scary because you'd think, "Am I falling or is it just my shoe? Is my foot in that shoe?" The whole line of thought leaves your stomach in your throat. There were times where I had to convince myself getting to the end of the tube was a matter of life and death.

At one point, I turned to Justin and said, "This is the stuff nightmares are made of."

But it was a really cool nightmare, you know?

Johnny said, "I feel like we're some kids that found an abandoned place and turned it into this." It's the kind of place where you imagine stuff like that.

While in St. Louis, I also, ahem, met up with my agent. Did you know I have an agent? For my children's books. I feel funny mentioning it here because ever since I became a writer, I've gotten used to bad news. The good thing about bad news is it can be entertaining for others. Nobody likes to read about how you had breakfast with your, ahem, agent. When I got an agent, Richie asked, "Is she a secret agent?" So I guess that's why I've been keeping it a secret...at least as far as the blog is concerned.

In truth, she has sold three of my picture books (two written, one to-be written!) I don't believe it, either. It feels like something that's happening to someone else. In fact, if this is something that's happening to you and I'm passing it off as something that's happening to me, please let me know before I get carried away.

Hmm, why have I never done that before? You all seem to have interesting jobs. Successful. Purposeful. Why have I never pretended to have one of your jobs? And now it's too late because I have a job of my own. Guess I missed that boat.

Agent or no agent, children's book writing is a tough way to make a living. The good news is: Everybody's so nice! It's like you're in a business where your colleagues all happen to be your former kindergarten teacher. That's how nice they are. Which is great because I'm not exactly a tough cookie. I mean, occassionally I am. But as a rule, I'm more of an ice cream sandwich.

I've always wished I'd walk by somebody and they'd say, "There goes one tough broad." But that's never happened. So this business suits me just fine, and the meeting went great.

The picture books will come out next Spring...it takes a while!

Everybody Makes Mistakes...

2010-03-05T11:28:00.000-08:00

So much to write about, so little time...

First, my nephew, Luke Trosper Brewster, was born--named after my older brother Luke (but my brother Josh's son.) He is very cute and has tested to be a genius. Did I spell genius right? I certainly hope so.

The boys and I were holding Luke in the hospital room--I think J.J. was holding him, when the nurse came in and told my sister-in-law Sarah she'd be right back to draw blood and start an I.V. Sarah is very laid back and said that sounded fine.

Then my brother walked in from getting dinner and asked what was going on (because the nurse was rushing around.)

The nurse said, "I'm going to draw blood and start the I.V."

Josh asked, "For what reason?"

The nurse said, "Because she's in labor."

Josh said, "We already had the baby." He pointed to the baby.

The nurse walked over and said, "Oh my gosh. He's adorable."

End of conversation.

But my sister-in-law and I thought it was really funny that the nurse thought I'd bring my sons for a front row seat to labor and delivery...and that we also brought an infant with us.

Congrats to Josh and Sarah and Francie!

I know I always have an excuse not to write in the blog, but I really have been very busy with work...but not so much that I'm able to turn down some work and focus on one type of writing. I'm still like Dick VanDyke in Mary Poppins. Now I'm a street performer. Now I'm a chimney sweep. Now I'm an old man who's a banker...

But I've been wanting to write about an awkward situation that happened to the boys and me.

We went to a community center about 15 minutes from our house because in the paper, it said they were having "Rock and Jock--" music and open gym--for free. When we got there, the worker told us that the vendor didn't want to go through the city's vendor code regulations (I was thinking, "I don't want to get involved in the negotiations. We're just here to shoot baskets.")

He said we could stay and shoot around. We walked to the gym and he yelled to some teenagers, "Play half court. Let these guys shoot down here." That was kind of embarrassing, but the teenagers didn't seem to mind.

I had to take some notes from a book, so I sat down and let the boys play. After about half an hour, J.J. mosied over to the lights and flipped a switch. Our side of the court dimmed. No big deal. I walked over and tried to flip it back on, which didn't work. J.J. tried to turn it on with a different switch, which made our end of the court darker. Then Johnny and Richie came over and tried to turn on the lights and the whole gym went pitch black.

One of the teenagers went to tell a worker, and he came in.

By this time, all the teenagers were standing on "our side" of the court. The worker flipped the switch and said, "It will take half an hour for the lights to come back on."

My stomach dropped.

The teenagers said, "Man, it's going to be time to go home by then!"

I apologized to everybody. Total silence.

Johnny and Richie and I were blushing and hurrying to get our coats on so we could bust out of there. J.J. meanwhile wasn't embarrassed at all even though it was his fault.

Then one of the teenagers (the one with the most tattoos) said, "That lady just sat there and watched her son turn all the lights off." He said that about five times in a row.

Finally I yelled over to him, "No, what happened is my youngest son turned one light off. Then my other sons came over and tried to fix it and that's when all lights went off."

He said, "But you just sat there and watched them."

I said, "No, I was standing right there with them."

Which made me sound even dumber, something I was sure he would point out.

Instead, he said, "I'm sorry. I don't want you to think I'm mean."

I said, "I don't think you're mean. And I'm sorry, too."

Then we walked out. Other teenagers were walking in, and I said, "Hi, how are you?" But I wanted to hurry to the car before they realized what we'd done.

Anyway, we got to the car and I saw that the teenagers had propped open the door to let the rectangle of daylight in. I think the nice boy with all the tattoos yelled, "Hey, lady, don't worry, we have light now!" but I didn't stop to ask. I was too busy peeling out of the parking lot.

In the car, Johnny said, "I feel really embarrassed. Was that boy mad at you?"

"He was," I said. "But we made up."

Richie said, "Let's never go back there again."

"Oh, they won't remember us," I said. Then I thought about all those accusing eyes. "But we'll give it a few months to make sure."

Moral of the stories...everybody makes mistakes...It's nice when people shed some light on the situation.

Box Full of Valentines

2010-02-11T10:13:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Richie needed to make a Valentine box.

Here's something I'm not good at: art. And here's something else: crafts. But here's something I'm great at: having a lot of boxes in our basement. So we had that going for us.

We have them in every shape and size because we go to a really ritzy, classy grocery store where you have to pay for your own bags. Instead of paying, everybody grabs the empty boxes of food on the shelf to put their groceries in.

I brought up an orange juice box from the basement. I'd bought some construction paper, so we were on a roll.

I said, "So, I was thinking you could glue red and pink construction paper all over the box."

"But that would look dumb," Richie said, holding the paper up to the box in wierd ways.

"Well, don't glue it on all katty-wompas and criss-cross," I said.

"It's not going to work," he said.

"Yeah, but you don't want your box to say, 'orange juice,' on it," I argued.

He nodded. "I know what to do."

He started cutting and gluing paper and before I knew it, he brought it over to me.

"I covered up orange juice," he said.

He had covered the words "Orange Juice" with a thin strip of red construction paper, on which he had written "My Valentines" in yellow crayon. But the box still said orange juicy things like, "from concentrate," and "nature," and "Florida." Then he glued a heart on the back and called it a day.

Shew. Glad we got that over with.

Johnny, meanwhile, was signing and folding his cards, in a frantic manner that I know he got from me. "Where's the roster?! How do you fold these?! I need a box, too!" he exclaimed.

Richie was exclaiming, "Where's the glue?! Who has the glue?"

J.J. was asking, "What happened to my scizzors?!"

I love when our whole family gathers around the dining room table and yells.

Johnny was looking for the roster to make sure he had spelled everybody's name right. I said, "Oh, you're only supposed to sign your name, not address them."

But Johnny happens to be in a fight with his friend right now. He said he wanted to read off the names and hand everybody a card and then, when he got to his friend, he would say, "Oh, I'm sorry. I left yours at home."

I didn't think that was very nice, but apparently, this is the level they have stooped to. To be honest, it's stressing me out.

Here's something I'm trying to teach Johnny: In fights, you don't win by thinking up mean things to do. No. The kid with the best poker face wins. If you let the other kid get to you...game over. So act like you don't care...But it's your friend and you do care, so unless you're a robot or an actual poker player, good luck with that advice.

Later That Night...

Richie's class put on a poetry reading. They sang "All You Need Is Love" and put the Beatles to shame. Then they each read a poem: either rhyming, nonrhyming, something I'd never heard of, or Haiku.

Richie read Haiku. He got up there, looking very worried--like he would cry(his teacher said he'd been nervous aboout this all week).

He said:

Once a loud scream
It was the referee's whistle at a football game.

It was the most beautiful poem I've ever heard in my life.

Today...

Johnny came home from school today and asked if he could have his friend spend the night. He said the friend had been nice to him today, so he was nice, too.

J.J. came home with a bag full of Valentine's. He picked one up with a mouse on it.

"Who's this one from?" he asked.

"Your girl friend Elise," I said.

"What's it say?"

I read, "You're a mice valentine." Then I added, "And you're my boyfriend and I love you."

He smiled ear to ear.

So much love...and it's not even Valentine's Day yet. I'll be happy when it is, though. Justin announced a week ago at the dinner table that he was planning a Valentine's Day surprise for me and would take care of everything--the babysitter, the dinner, everything...

Wait, that doesn't sound right. I'm usually the planner of special events in our house. Now I remember. I announced at the dinner table that Justin was planning a Valentine's Day surprise for me and was taking care of everything--from the babysitter to the dinner.

"What do you have planned, dad?" Johnny asked.

"I, um, can't say," Justin said.

Once he gets things figured out, it should be a night to remember...thanks to my conniving and trickery.

Happy Valentine's Day one and all!

Little Things

2010-01-24T05:18:00.000-08:00

Nothing big has happened at our house this week (Not that these posts are ever about groundbreaking developments in our household) but here are few little things:

Limos

I love how kids are so definite about everything. They don't need to have any expertise or experience--just answers.

The other day, we were riding in the car when Johnny's friend asked, "If you could have any kind of car, what would it be? Would it be a limo?"

"No, you can't do that," Richie said immediately. "You have to have another car; not just a limo."

Johnny nodded. Yes, that sounded right.

His friend shrugged. The limo rule had ruined his car fantasy, but what can you do? You can't fight city hall.

How did Richie know this obscure limo law? Does he own a limo rental business on the side? Well, that would explain a lot.

Basketball

J.J. asked me at dinner, "Mom, do you play basketball, or are you a cheerleader?"

"I play basketball," I said.

"No, you don't," he said. "You're a cheerleader. Boys play basketball and girls are cheerleaders."

"That's right, J.J.," Justin said.

Justin is so committed to raising enlightened young men.

"They can do either," I said. "Basketball or cheerleading. Mommy plays basketball."

"But I'm going to play football and Francie's going to be the cheerleader," he said.

"Well, that's fine," I said. "But she can play basketball, too."

"But you're a cheerleader," he said.

There was a time when I would have argued this point. That ship has sailed.

"Fine," I said. "Sis boom ba. I'm a frickin' cheerleader."

J.J. smiled. "Yay! You're a cheerleader."

Shirts

When Richie gets home from school, the first thing he does is takes off his shirt. Then he changes into jeans, but without a shirt, so it's like The Dukes of Hazzard around here. Unfortunately, I'm playing the part of Uncle Jesse. He does his homework and eats dinner this way. And let me tell you, our house is cold--65-68 degrees. Justin's friend once told me that when he would go over to Justin's house as a kid, Justin and his brothers never wore shirts. So maybe it's a family thing. Or a boy thing.

Yesterday, the boys played a football game outside with their friends. When they came in, Justin asked, "How was your game?"

"We took our shirts off," Richie's friend answered.

"Yeah, we took our shirts off," Richie agreed.

Going Tribal

I remembered another time that Johnny and Richie had friends over. It was rainy and about 40 degrees and they were playing football over at the playground. I walked over to tell them something and saw that, not only did they have their shirts off, but they had smeared mud all over themselves. At the end of one of the plays, they yelled and beat their chests. I turned and walked away. The children had gone tribal. Once they go tribal, there's not a thing you can do. You can only keep them off your couch.

What is going tribal? It's when kids, left without adult supervision, form their own prehistoric tribe.

You've probably seen this happen at a pizza place--where several parents are eating and drinking beer, thinking, "Isn't it nice to have a night out without the children." Only they actually did bring their children...they've just gone off and gone tribal. They're playing hide and go seek in the bathroom stalls. Or loudly telling ghost stories under some young couple's table, who swear that when they have children, they're going to supervise them. (The parenting plans of young couples are so adorable.) Or violently shaking the machine that sells tatoos, bracelets, and superballs for 25 cents, hoping to get a freebie. They've gone tribal.

Or maybe you've seen it in a church basement. Parents are watching a Christmas program. Their kid is hungry. He has a stomach ache. His head hurts. If he sits still for one more minute, he will die. Then he sees another kid head to the back of the room. The tribal drum sounds. He signals to his parents that he's going to find his friends.

"Yes, by all means," his parents say. "Get the heck out of here."

Meanwhile, 50 other kids leave their seats, too. Pretty soon, they're swarming in the back of the basement. The girls and boys make up a game that is a mixture of freeze tag and war. They get loud. One parent goes over to quiet them down, which works for 5 seconds. That parent tries again. To no avail. Tired of being the heavy (Are the other parents deaf?) she makes her kid come back to his seat. But the other children have gone tribal and they do not care.

At the end of the program, the parents hopefully remember to retrieve their children, and they go back to civilization. Until next time.

Is going tribal bad? I guess it can be--if the kids go Lord of Flies tribal. But I think most kids want a good tribe rather than a bad one. And nobody polices each other like children do. (Have you ever seen one kid tell another to shape up? They are tough cookies!)

In the tribe, the kids make the rules--not just for the games they play, but for everything. They're deciding if, in a game between boys and girls, all is fair in love and war. And who gets to tell the next scary story? And also all the really important things. Like can a limosine be your only car? No, of course not. That's ridiculous. Duh.

The Twelve Days of Snow

2010-01-08T04:47:00.000-08:00

First day of snow. Christmas Eve. We walk out of Mass and giant flakes are falling upon our shoulders. God bless us, every one!

Second day of snow. Christmas. The boys think the slush in the street looks like a rootbeer slushie. Johnny runs outside to help our neighbor shovel her way out of the alley to go to her brother's. He comes in pink-cheeked and cheery. We haven't had a white Christmas since I was a kid.

A few days later, it snows again. Justin takes the boys to Suicide Hill to sled. I walk the dog, noticing how the snow sparkles under the streetlights like a Nutcracker Advent calendar I used to have. I see the neighbors shoveling their driveway and sidewalk within an inch of its life. You know that's a form of water, I thought. And if left alone, it will melt. I send Johnny outside to shovel to give him something to do. He runs outside. Shoveling is fun!

School's back in session. J.J. has the day off because it's cold. What the what?

A few days later. More snow. It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...Oh, wait. We already had Christmas. But J.J. has been off school all week. Could his school district brainstorm with the people of Wisconsin to determine alternatives to closing the school when it's cold? A girl's got to work, you know. Now Johnny and Richie have a snow day. I send Johnny outside. "I hate shoveling," he mutters.

That night. The weatherman says an arctic blast is arriving. And maybe a blizzard. Now he's just reading off the Dairy Queen menu.

The next day. The snow looks different when it's this cold. Kind of blue. When the temperature reaches 7, I send the boys outside to shovel. I pay them three dollars to do our house and the neighbors. They magically love shoveling again!

Today. The Twelfth Day of Snow. Another snow day. Or is it a cold day? Our street still hasn't been plowed, which is fine. I enjoy a challenge now that I have my kickass minivan. But I'm beginning to understand why people up north don't like snow as much as we do. I think that after a couple months, it could be kind of a pain. Especially when it's cold outside. But it's only our Twelfth Day. And the temperatures are going to reach the high 20s on Monday. Sledding, anyone?

Waiting on Christmas Eve

2009-12-24T06:26:00.000-08:00

As a kid, Christmas Eve seemed to be all about waiting, and at the time, I thought it would positively kill me.

Waking up to Elvis' "Blue Christmas"...and waiting.

Shaking the gifts, the sound an utter mystery...and waiting.

Accidentally eating a red pepper in my cashew chicken during our annual girls' lunch at the New Peking and laughing at all the funny things my aunts and mom had to say...and waiting.

Wearing something dark red and dorky to Christmas Eve Mass...and waiting.

Smiling as my grandma Mume approved my brothers' and my appearance with a nod of her head (and a hint of surprise)...and waiting.

Throwing our heads back and laughing in that shoulder shaking' silent way reserved for church, as my dad sang Adestes Fideles in his booming "opera" voice and Mume pursed her lips and said, "Well, I think he has a beautiful voice"...and waiting.

Spreading my granddad's damsum plum preserves on hot rolls at dinner while listening to Pavarotti and the Boys' Choir sing Ave Maria...and waiting.

Opening gifts from under this funny little tree at my grandparent's house--which was more like a plastic bush--including a denim zipper bag (my first purse? close enough!) that I loved more than it was probably normal to love a denim zipper bag...and waiting.

Driving home past neighborhoods where the sidewalks were lit with brown paper bags, so that Jesus, Mary, and Joseph could find their way...and waiting.

Home in bed watching out my bedroom window for Santa, with Elvis' "Santa Bring My Baby Home to Me" stuck in my head, and my parents noisily working in the attic (why did they always pick Christmas Eve to reorganize the attic?)...and waiting.

Then...morning. Christmas. The waiting ends.

And begins...Not one but 365 days away this time.

J.J. is singing "Santa's coming to town."

He's asking, "Is it Christmas?"

"No, it's Christmas Eve."

"Oooohhhhh," he groaned.

If he only knew, Christmas Eve--with all its waiting--is the best thing about Christmas.

The Magic Is Overwhelming

2009-12-21T07:37:00.000-08:00

Justin and I were talking in the kitchen the other morning. I had about five hours of Christmas shopping to do and was showing him what he could make for dinner.

"When are you going to do your shopping?" I asked.

"I'm all done," he said.

"So you've bought my present," I said.

"Yep."

"And now you're done."

"Uh huh."

"Christmas must be a magical time of year for you," I said.

No itemized lists with crossouts and write ins. No parking, no lines, no checkout workers who don't understand that while opening a store credit card can save you $20, it can also hurt your credit.

"No it doesn't," one girl told me. "It helps your credit." Like I would take financial advice from just anyone. I only take financial advice from one person, and that's Oprah.

Justin said, "Yeah, but you love Christmas shopping."

I do, to an extent. Just like I love holiday get togethers, to a point. Then I start thinking, "Will this merrymaking never end?"

I suspect Christmas is a little more magical for extroverts. There are literally people everywhere. For them, that's a holly jolly Christmas, by golly. For us introverts, we need a breather now and then. A silent night, if you will.

But Christmas is surely the most magical for children. When I came home from shopping, J.J. said, breathless, "A truck came last year (meaning a few hours ago) and brought a box and we opened it and we looked inside and it was a box and inside

there...

were...

presents!"

I looked at the presents. "Guess who sent these," I said.

"Jesus!" he said.

"Um, no. It was your cousins Brendan and Ian in Boston."

"Oh my gosh!" he said, just as surprised.

I didn't think J.J. was grasping Jesus' role in Christmas. At first, he thought Christmas happened on the first snowfall, so I told him that, no, it happened on Jesus' birthday. Now he was picturing Jesus at the post office, mailing presents.

We went over to our nativity set, where we have these little handmade cardboard painted houses my mom gave me for Christmas last year. I showed J.J. how Mary and Joseph went to every house and nobody would let them stay, so they had to stay in the barn. The angel told the shepherd what was going on. Then baby Jesus was born. At the end, the three kings came with Christmas presents.

He loved it.

"Now it's my turn," he said.

Mary and Joseph went to the first house. J.J. had them ask, "Can we stay?"

"No," said the house.

They got to the second house. The fanciest in the colection, the roof is decorated with strings of shiny blue beads. He had Mary say, "This house has Christmas lights."

Joseph said, "Can we stay?"

J.J. couldn't stand having another innkeeper say no. I mean, how rude!

"Yes!" he said. So Mary and Joseph got to stay in the town's best house--the only one with Christmas lights strung up the night before Christmas was ever invented. It's like the homeowners had ESP. Or had been talking to the wise men.

Then J.J. said, "Jesus was born. The end."

Today, J.J. was going to take holiday popcorn and calzones to people at school. When he woke up, I said, "Do you want to be Santa today?"

He nodded solemnly.

"Okay, get dressed." I handed him his khaki pants and blue shirt.

Tears started streaming down his cheeks.

"What's wrong?"

"Santa doesn't wear these things. He wears red," he sobbed.

I guess he thought I meant, "Would you like to magically turn into the real Santa Claus today?"

I clarified. "You're going to pass out presents at school. You have to wear your uniform to school."

"Could I carry a red bag?" he asked.

"Sure."

"And wear the red Santa hat that's in the attic?"

"Sure."

So he went out the door wearing a Santa hat and carrying a red plastic bag from Target over his shoulder. I even found him a red coat in the closet. Outside, he handed a calzone to the bus monitor.

"Thank you, Santa!" she said.

His eyes twinkled, as if to say, "I knew it. I knew I'd be the real Santa."

Christmas is magical to kids, my husband, and a lot of other people. Seeing J.J. with his bag swung over his shoulder and, earlier, retelling the story of Jesus' birth, only this time new and improved with a nicer inkeeper, I started to feel like Christmas was magical to me, too.

When I came back inside from walking J.J. to the bus, Johnny and Richie were glued to a story on the local news. The news station had given a woman a van to drive her husband and son, who were both disabled. With tears in her eyes, she said something like, "People are so generous, and I never knew it until today."

Maybe that's the magic of Christmas. At Christmas, you see how generous the world is. And every year, it's like learning it for the first time.

Santa Letters Through the Ages

2009-12-16T06:59:00.001-08:00

Dear Santa,

Who in the holly jolly heck are you? Nobody holds me on their lap unless there is a warm bottle of milk involved. I'm indignant that you didn't know that.

Yours Angrily,
A Baby

Dear Santa,

Please bring me a candy cane. Bring it to me in person, because I think I like you. But keep your distance. I haven't figured out your angle yet.

Yours Skeptically,
A Two Year Old

Dear Santa,

I want glasses. The kind you wear to swim. Also: A dinosaur. The baby kind that is real.

P.S. Snow. Because Christmas doesn't happen unless it snows.

I love you.

Yours Believingly,
A Four Year Old

Dear Santa,

I want a Nurf gun and basketball. I need new shoes but I don't want to waste a present on them.

My mom says I can't end it there, so how's it going? Do you like the North Pole? Do you like Rudolf? Do you like Mrs. Claus? I bet you do.

Yours Briefly,
A Seven Year Old

Dear Santa,

How are you? I found out Rudolf is an urban myth. Ha. That's hilarious. I'm sure the eight other reindeer don't appreciate how he gets all the attention since he is not real.

Thank you for my gifts last year. How is Mrs. Claus? Good, I hope. This year, I would like:

A football (junior size with a good grip)
An under armor shirt (The kind that is tight so you can see your muscles. Not that that's why I want it.)
A Taylor Swift or Christina Aguilara CD (I just think they have pretty voices.)
Shoes (My old ones have holes.)

Yours Forever,
A Nine Year Old

Dear Santa,

How is Mrs. Claus? Tired, I bet. Does she do all the work around Christmas? Just kidding. I thought we should coordinate our gifts. My husband and I are giving the boys shoes and sweatpants, so feel free to bring all the good stuff again this year and steal our thunder. Please make sure the CD covers are appropriate for a nine year old boy. Thank you for the gifts last year. They were a huge hit-even more so than the pencil sharpeners and school pants we gave them.

Yours Resignedly,
A Mom

What Christmas (Music) Means to Me

2009-12-15T12:26:00.000-08:00

I thought I’d heard all the Christmas songs. And all the Neil Diamond songs. (I'm a huge fan.) But this year, I heard, “Cherry Cherry Christmas” by Neil Diamond. It’s a new song.

If I were a song salesman, here’s how I would pitch this song:

Are you tired of hearing people say Merry Christmas? Merry, Merry, Merry. It’s all you ever hear. Well, why can’t it be some other word that rhymes with Merry but starts with C.H.?

Look no further. Here’s a song called, “Cherry, Cherry Christmas.” Not that worn out old trope, “Merry, Merry Christmas.” In this song, you’ll hear the phrase “Cherry Christmas,” whatever in the hell that means, 17 yes 17 times.

But that’s not all. You’ll also hear lots of other rhyming words that may or may not relate to Christmas.

Words like choir and fire. True and blue. Wine and Sweet Caroline. These words will come in no particular order, nor will they make any particular sense. They will, however, sound familiar because they’re Neil Diamond’s favorite vocab. words from his other songs.

So…any takers?

Yes, of course every 24-hour Christmas music station is all over it. And so am I. Neil Diamond does melodies like nobody’s business, and if he wants to rhyme a bunch of words from his other songs and call it Christmas music, I’m okay with that.

Plus, he said in an interview that this song took months to write. I love writers who admit how long writing a book or song takes. As opposed to saying, “I dreamed the whole thing and then it was just a matter of typing it.”

I should be happy for those writers. I guess I'm jealous. You see, one night, I thought I dreamed a whole story. So I woke up in the middle of the night and jotted down my brilliant idea.

The next day, I was excited to see what I wrote. Here’s what my notebook said:

I was wrong about Ted.

Like Cherry Christmas, I had no idea what in the holly jolly heck that meant.
But I do hope you and yours are having a Cherry Merry Larry Dairy Frankenberry Scary Hairy Quite Contrary Christmas this year.

Another Perfect Weekend of Wonder and Joy

2009-12-07T06:50:00.000-08:00

Not to brag, but my family had a perfect weekend.

First, I woke up Friday night smelling something burning--always a terrifying experience. I bolted into the boys room--it wasn't there. I checked the basement. That's where it was coming from. I woke up Justin and took the boys to my parents house while he investigated. The fire department kindly came over. They couldn't find anything, either.

The next day, a furnace guy came over. As soon as he walked in, he said, "That's electrical."

Justin's first thought was that it had to be my fault. See, our dryer broke last week, I've been hanging wet clothes all over the basement so that they can dry in the damp, cold air. Our basement isn't finished, so we have a rudimentary light switch, with some wires running up the bare walls.

"Do you think you might have touched the wires with the wet clothes?" he asked.

"Maybe."

So he changed out that switch.

Meanwhile, determining the dryer to be unfixable, he went out to buy a new used dryer. Now, I was a little tired from being up all night the night before. So I was talking to Justin on my cell phone about the dryer and dropping off a present to Richie, who was at a birthday party I'd forgotten about. While crossing the street in the car, I didn't jog far enough to the left. Instead I grazed the curb and popped a tire.

I needed to make some French food for my uncle's birthday party that night. So the kids and I walked to Aldi's, got the groceries, and acted like the tire incident never happened. Except that I had to tell Justin because he was on the phone with me and heard me say, "Oh, darn," or something like that.

When Justin came home, I was making blue cheese balls. Johnny was making chocolate chip cookies for an extra credit assignment at school.

"Welcome to hell house III," I said.

"How fast were you driving?"

He knows I don't speed in the city. I think it's a jackass thing to do. Kids walk to school in the city. Mothers push strollers while holding toddler's hands in the city. It is no place to speed. So that's my little public service announcement.

"I was going like 10 miles an hour."

"The wheel's all bent."

"Well I barely hit the curb. The tire was probably on the verge of popping anyway."

Justin laughed like he was on the verge of insane laughter.

But life goes on. Justin put a doughnut on the car and we went to the party and had a very nice time. I'd only brought one thing and everybody else had brought thousands of things, so I felt bad. But seeing how I can't hang clothes up to dry or drive, I think I did well for my mental capacity.

When we came home, the burning smell was gone.

Sunday morning, J.J. woke up having a bad asthma attack. Which was the worst part of the weekend. After a few breathing treatments, he was fine. But it bothers me because the reason for the attack was a slight runny nose and cough. We've been doing a bunch of preventative stuff for his asthma, but how do you prevent someone from ever having a cold? You can't.

We went to 7:30 Mass. Well, we missed Mass but had to sell discount cards for Cub Scouts and SCRIP gift cards for the PTA. So we went to the church, where an elderly woman came very close to hitting me with her oxygen tank because I didn't have a Target gift card for $35, only $25. Johnny sold one Cub Scout discount card, so we have 19 to go.

That afternoon, Justin found the reason for the electrical smell, a lightbulb in the garage had burned. J.J. and I cooked all day, because there was a bunch of stuff I had to cook for. J.J. likes cooking--especially breaking eggs. I just hope the recipe called for 1/2 a teaspoon of egg because that's how much made it into the bowl.

Justin hooked up the new dryer, which only cost $100. With the cost of fixing the wheel, which broke while talking about the dryer, it's a little more, but still less than a new dryer.

You probably think I'm being a smart alleck when I say we had a great weekend. But I'm not. Our house didn't burn down. If it had, we would have smelled it and gotten out safely. (There was no smoke, so no alarm went off.) J.J.'s medicine worked, as always. For some kids, it doesn't. I popped a tire, but did not get in a wreck. The church lady stormed off rather than hauling off and hitting me. And finally, the dryer wasn't that expensive.

We flirted with disaster all weekend, but in the end calm prevailed. Now, that's a weekend.

Trends

2009-12-03T12:31:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I was the school lunch lady volunteer. A fourth grader came through the line and was cold from being out at recess.

"We can't wear leggings on Mass day!" she said. "So we freeze!"

"Can you wear tights?" I asked.

She looked at me like I was positively insane.

"Nobody wears tights anymore," she said.

"Really? Nobody?"

"Not unless you're in preschool."

Huh. I had no idea how dumb tights were.

It got me thinking about kids' fashion trends. There are the obvious ones: In the eighties, fingertip-less gloves became popular thanks to Madonna. Actually, no thanks. I practically lost all of my third joints to frost bite that year. Then there was Britney's half shirt, which parents of preteens were thrilled about. And now it's leggings, which is a Hollywood trend, too.

Those trends are publicized and marketed. But the mysterious trends are the wierd little ones. They aren't sold anywhere. Nobody makes money off them. They just show up. Like pinch rolling jeans in the 80s and 90s. Where did that get started? And how did it spread throughout the country?

Last year, Katie Holmes wore a pair of pinch-rolled jeans, and fashion bloggers wondered if the trend would make a come back. And everyone was like, "I never wore pinch rolled jeans. I was too cool."

Well, they weren't cool back then. I can tell you that. The cool people pinch rolled their jeans. I have pictures from mixers of kids in pinch rolled jeans and V-neck sweaters. Actually, everybody had the same V-neck sweater. It had stripes along the neck in primary colors. Boys and girls wore it. Always with a turtleneck.

Now, when I see kids, I think, "They dress so much cuter nowadays. The girls have special T-shirts now. They don't have to wear the baggy boy shirts. And whatever happened to acne? Does nobody get it anymore?"

Even the stuff we used to wear--like leggings--look cuter now. Perhaps because they no longer are paired with giant pok-a-dot sweatshirts and enormous hair.

Then again, I remember walking into a Topsy's in grade school wearing Hawaiian shorts (remember jams?), a neon pink shirt, and fruit jewelry, and the woman at the register said the same thing to me. "You kids dress so much cuter nowadays. I never had fruit jewelry."

I guess whatever the trend is, no matter how silly, it looks good because it's new. Even if it's old, it's worn in a new way. Everybody likes bright shiny new things.

That's probably how the pinch rolled jeans got started.

Somebody tried it, and somebody else said, "That's new. How did you do that?"

"Like this."

"Like how?"

"Like this."

"How?"

And then after you'd invested half an hour figuring it out, you decided you might as well wear your jeans like that, too. And so on and so on.

But I am really disappointed to hear that tights are on their way out. I just bought a pair of neon pink ones to go with my fruit jewelry.

If You Do Nothing Else In Life...Sand the Wheel Axles of Your Pinewood Derby Car

2009-11-18T06:20:00.000-08:00

In every job, there is one essential thing you must do:

Doctors: First do no harm.

Sales people: Establish relationships.

Writers: Tell a good story.

In the annual Cub Scout Pinewood Derby, it's: Sand the wheel axles.

If only we'd known...

At our first Pinewood Derby, my son John, like every other first grader, thought he was going to win the whole shebang. First of all, his car was a cheetah--orange with black dots. Everybody knows cheetahs are fast. Also, his dad is a carpenter. So they had all the tools for making a souped up miniature car.

Johnny was jumping up and down before the race even started. And then they were off. Well, most of them were...his car stalled on the track.

I cringed and looked his way. He was making every face contortion imaginable to keep from crying.

The boys around him were saying, "Whose car is that? What happened?"

My husband Justin was volunteering. He took the car off the track and put it back on the starting line with some other cars. When they took off, the Cheetah car again stalled.

I was horrified when I saw Justin put the Cheetah car on the track a third time. Were they going to keep sending it down until it made it across the finish line?

I motioned Justin over. "For Lord's sake, how many times are you going to send that God-forsaken car down the track?" I asked, ever the calm, cool, and collected mother.

"They all have to go four times," he said.

After his car stalled a third time and barely squeaked across the line the fourth, Johnny found a corner in the church basement and let a few tears fall...until some wrestling wolf scouts overtook his corner. Then he went back to his friends and choked back tears for the next hour.

Later, the scout leader interviewed some Webelos. He asked, "What advice do you give to younger Cub Scouts about the Pinewood Derby?"

By that time, Johnny and his friends were pile driving each other by the pizza buffet. I, however, was on the edge of my seat.

"Sand the wheel axles," a fourth grader said.

That was the missing piece. Justin and Johnny hadn't sanded the wheel axles. (If you have a new Cub Scout, I can't stress this enough. Poorly sanded wheel axles = tears running down your first grader's face. You must sand and sand and sand. If you are pressed for time and have to leave the car looking like a chunk of lumber, do so, but sand the axles.)

The next year, Justin had been working overtime and he and Johnny didn't start on their car until the night of the weigh-in. At 6 p.m., Justin had out all his power tools. Johnny wanted a Bat Mobile, so they were welding metal, cutting wood, and of course, sanding the wheel axles.

At 7:50 p.m., the scout leader called to remind us that cars had to be weighed in by 8 p.m.

"They're on their way," I said, trying to sound calm and cheery.

Meanwhile, all holy heck was breaking loose in our house. The bat wings kept falling off. The wheels kept falling off. The wet paint was coming off. Finally, Justin squeezed the whole thing together, like a guy smashing a can in his fist. He held the spray paint over his hand and spray painted the car and his hand. He carried the vehicle over to the church basement, with his whole hand painted Bat Mobile black.

My sister-in-law says life is all about managing expectations. So I told my son the night of the race, "You know, honey, not every car makes it across the finish line. You had a great time making the car with your dad. If it finishes the race, that's icing on the cake."

"Yeah," he said. "But we sanded the wheel axles this year."

Having seen the wheels fall off moments before Justin spray painted the car/his hand, I was skeptical.

Well, guess what happened? They won first place.

Afterwards, Johnny kept saying, "Mom, I can't believe you didn't think we were going to win."

Then he looked at his Dad as if to say, "What was she worried about? We sanded the axles: Problem solved."

This year, Richie and Johnny both had cars in the Pinewood Derby. They were model Cub Scouts and finished everything the night before the weigh-in.

I asked Justin if he'd give Richie the talk about how not all cars make it across the finish line.

"I don't need to," he said. "Richie's car is fast."

Apparently, I was the only one in the family scarred for life by the Unsanded Wheel Axle Incident.

Once again, the boys were right. Richie won his age group and got third overall, and Johnny got second.

Because of my reaction the first year, Justin thinks I'm a ultra-competitive Pinewood Derby mother who will settle for nothing less than first place.

Afterwards, he said. "First and second place. Are you happy, honey?"

"I'm just happy they made it across the finish line," I said.

"I know," he said. "But Richie came close to winning it all. And Johnny did, too." I could see the wheels in his head turning.

I may be happy with the cars crossing the finish line, thanks to the miracle of wheel axle sanding (and I'll admit that I don't even know what that means.) But the boys have left that worry in the dust. For them, the Pinewood Derby means crossing the finish line first. Sanding the wheel axles is only the beginning. They're talking about wedges, the right placement of weights, etc., etc.

They may be in it to win it, but I'll settle for their hearts not being broken. I guess for moms, that's the essential part of our jobs.

Book Fair: Market Research

2009-11-13T05:54:00.000-08:00

I volunteered at the book fair at the boys' school this week. This is a fun job and also good research for my children's writing.

Here is what my research found:

Preschoolers--especially preschool girls--chose books based on their favorite T.V. show. I already knew this because J.J. threw a temper fit when I told him to choose a book for his book fair that wasn't on T.V. Then I realized the concept meant nothing to him. J.J. isn't a big T.V. viewer, especially now that Johnny and Richie have given up cartoons for ESPN (much to Justin's delight). So I could tell he was wondering, "When is this stuff on T.V.? All I ever see is sports." Finally I let him choose one T.V. book and one non-T.V. book.

My problem with T.V. books is not that they're terrible. There are a few good T.V. related books out there. (The Monster at the End of This Book is a great one.) And it's not that I don't understand the appeal of a familiar face. Growing up, one of my favorite books was a Walt Disney storybook that basically summarized my favorite movies.

Don't get me wrong. There are some terrible T.V. books out there.

I was reading a book to a three year old at the book fair. She was so excited about it because it was based on her favorite T.V. show. Obviously I wasn't going to kill the joy of buying a book--any book. But I was thinking, "Sweetheart, you don't have to buy this book. You could write it."

My problem with T.V. books is that there are so many great kids' picture books out there. (The boys' and my favorites right now are Scaredy Squirrel by Melanie Watt, and Spoon and Little Pea, both by Amy Krouse Rosenthal.) So it seems a shame to buy a story you've already seen on T.V.

There were some great picture books at the book fair. Watching the kids choose a T.V. book instead was like seeing them choose McDonald's orange drink over an actual orange. Or an adult pick up T.V. Guide instead of National Geographic. You feel like saying, "Are you kidding me? There's a Neanderthal on the cover. Have you no interest as to whether or not that's your grandfather?" And then I would go over to the rack and pick up People: Style Watch. (I've already read the Neanderthal issue.)

Oh, well. I guess a little orange drink never hurt anyone, as long as we get our Vitamin C, too.

I let my kids read whatever they can get their hands on. Because I don't want them to associate "reading" with "bossy mother." But then I "make them" listen to the great picture books out there. And they end up loving those more. I'm sure the kids at the book fair read good books at home and school, too.

Still, it touched my heart to see some of the preschoolers buy non-T.V. books...Where the Wild Things Are, one about Fire Engines... Well done, younguns. Congrats on not selling out to the man.

At the book fair, kids in second and third grade were past the T.V. book phase, for the most part. Now they're reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid. I love these books. Some moms told their kids they weren't allowed to buy them because they're inappropriate. They're also laugh-out-loud funny. Perhaps the two go hand-in-hand. It always makes me laugh when people say, "inappropriate humor." Isn't that a little reduntant?

Not that you have to be inappropriate to be funny, but it definitely helps. (I personally think Diary of a Wimpy Kid is pretty innocent, but if I did think they were inappropriate, I would still let my kids read them.) I'll admit, I'm pretty lenient when it comes to my kids and humor. I'll sacrifice wholesomeness for a good laugh any day. It's the best medicine, so it's really a matter of good family health.

Let's see...what else.

Sports, science, and monster books were big with the elementary boys. As a nonfiction writer, this was good news to me.

Ghost stories, fantasy, and pets/baby animals were popular with elementary girls.

Chick lit was popular with junior high girls.

Pokers were popular with junior high boys.

Pokers are sticks with little hands on the end, which allow children to poke each other from a distance. Very, very popular among junior high boys.

That concluded my market research. It was a small study group and I didn't exactly take copious notes, but career wise, I learned a lot. I learned that I should write a book based on a T.V. show that is based on a doll, or a book about pokers. "Poker: The Armpit Saga" would be a hot seller...if it came with a free poker, that is.

Extracurriculars Create Extra Worries...But Important Lessons, Too

2009-10-20T12:55:00.000-07:00

Sending kids off to school is easy. It's the extracurriculars that get you.

For me, the pitfall is: How many should you let them do?

I wish I was the kind of mom who, when faced with a new activity for her kids, would say, "Absolutely not. You have enough going on as it is." Instead, I always say, "That sounds like opportunity knocking. You should do that!"

Richie is a joiner. He wants to take guitar lessons! He wants to learn tennis! He wants to play golf! He wants to join Cub Scouts! Flag football! 3&2 Baseball! The other day he asked if he could raise pot-bellied pigs, and I think there's a club for that, too (4H).

I can relate. I also joined everything as a kid. I wanted to do Ballet! Gymnastics! Swimming! Modern dance!

And I wanted to do each five nights a week. I dreamed of being fanatical about an activity. I wanted to be the kid who woke up at 4 a.m. to go to gymnastics and then ended up quitting school and moving to Russia because that's where they have the meanest coaches who would cast you into the snow if you messed up your back flip.

When I'd hear stories like these on the Olympics, I'd actually get jealous. Why couldn't I be the one with that insane coach? I wondered. That could be me standing on the podium with a broken ankle and skin as thick as a sailor's.

In truth, it couldn't have been. For one thing, I don't like being yelled at. It hurts my feelings. Also, talent-wise, I never got past the cartwheel. And no Olympic gymnast worth her salt does a cartwheel-only routine. Lastly, I couldn't become obsessed with gymnastics when there were so many other things to try. Acting! Volleyball! Irish Step Dancing!

Johnny, on the other hand, likes to throw himself into one thing: football. He wanted to quit Cub Scouts to focus on it, but I wouldn't let him. I wanted him to stick with his pack. Then I made him join a new club because--you guessed it--opportunity knocked. Now, he's over-booked and I'm officially crazy-extracurricular mom.

If we lived on a block where tons of kids ran free, the kids ideally wouldn't do anything. They would just frolick outside with the other younguns. Such is not the case. So this summer, I tried to orchestrate a spontaneous activity. Some kids came over and played Whiffle ball on Wednesdays while the parents sat and talked. It was supposed to be like an old-fashioned pickup game except that I scheduled it. This is the world we live in.

Overscheduling is just one extracurricular concern. Parents worry about all sorts of things in clubs and sports. That an intense coach will take the fun out of playing. Or that supercompetitive parents will. Or not getting enough playing time will. On the flip side, I heard a mom complain that a coach was playing the kids too equally. She thought that not winning was taking the fun out of playing. Coaches (who are usually parents themselves) have other worries altogether, such as dealing with the parents.

I've worried about some of these things, too. But now I see that my expectations were out of wack. I viewed extracurriculars as an extention of school, but they're not.

At school, learning new things, playing well with others, and doing your best have the highest value.

Extracurriculars, on the other hand, are the Wild West. The coaches and parents and players might start out focusing on learning, best effort, and teamwork, but in the heat of the moment, the focus often shifts to winning.

I get it. I keep score. I like to win.

Ironically, I think focusing on winning teaches kids the opposite: Even when it looks like winning is everything, it's not.

The fact of the matter is: You win some and you lose some. You lose some you should have won, and you win some you should have lost. And sometimes, you're just up against better players. But the best is when you win because you learned new things, gave your best, and were a good teammate. Life teaches us over and over that if you do these three things, you've already won. On the best days, games teach us that, too.

On other days, they just teach us to stop overbooking our children. I have to remember that opportunity isn't always knocking. Sometimes it's ding dong ditching.

Football with the Boys

2009-09-23T04:39:00.000-07:00

I only know one football play. Flea flicker. Maybe two. Is the Statue of Liberty play where you pretend to throw the ball but instead somebody (hopefully on your own team) takes it and runs with it? If so, I know that one, too.

Johnny and Richie, on the other hand, know thousands.

So when I'm the quarterback in our front yard, I let them make the plays. The trouble is, I have a hard time following what they're saying. To me, it sounds like, "When you say, 'Down set,' I'm going to go over here and then go over there, then marry a mare, then dairy a dare, then harry a hair..."

I just nod. Then I throw it wherever they seem to be. Usually I'm wrong.

Johnny will say, "Remember? I was going to fake the catch at the sidewalk but really catch it at the bushes."

"But when you got to the sidewalk you said to throw it."

"I said that to throw off the defense."

"I thought you were throwing off the defense by pretending to throw off the defense." I can never remember which he's doing.

With Richie it's a little easier. In the huddle, he covers his mouth with his hands, I guess to prevent the defense (Johnny) from reading his lips. This makes him totally inaudible. Luckily, he makes a series of hand motions that I can usually understand. I'm guessing that Johnny can, too. But I have to say, Richie's verbal fakeouts work pretty well.

The other day, he ran behind me, saying in a John Madden announcer voice, "He fakes the handoff!" He actually faked me out and I almost didn't give him the ball, but he grabbed it and ran for a touchdown.

I call that play The Quarterback Has No Clue.

The Cheese Game

2009-09-06T05:08:00.000-07:00

Last year, when the Chiefs were having a building year, we were offered four tickets to go to the game--twice. This usually doesn't happen, but we were glad it did. (Even though we're hoping the Chiefs are so good this year that nobody gives away tickets.)

So the other day, in the car, Johnny asked, "Do you think we'll go to a Chiefs game again this year?"

"A Chees game?" Richie asked.

Now, for the boys, "Chiefs" and "Chees" sound the same. F's on the end of words are silent. I remember Johnny's teacher, when he was three, said he had a speech impediment, and I thought, "Don't all three year olds? That's why they're preschoolers instead of news anchormen." But the r's and f's are still a challenge.

Richie said, "I've never been to a Chees game."

"Yeah you have," Johnny said. "We went last year."

"I know what a Chees game is," Richie said. "But I've never been to one."

Finally, I realized he was saying "Cheese Game."

"What is a Cheese Game?" I asked.

"It's where they roll the cheese down the hill and eat it," Richie said.

Figuring he had guessed what a cheese game would entail if there was such a thing, I nodded and said, "That sounds delicious."

Then Johnny said, "Yeah, but it's really dangerous."

"Yeah," Richie agreed. "Really dangerous."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because the hill is steep," Richie said.

"Sometimes they fall and break their bones," Johnny added.

"This year the hill was steeper than ever," Richie said.

I was dumbfounded. There is apparently a game that my sons watch every year that involves cheese and broken bones, and this was the first I was hearing of it.

Usually, because the boys like to chat, I know what they're interested in. For instance, I know that the Steelers have won the most Super Bowls. That Pikachu isn't that great of a Pokemon. He's famous because he's Ash's pokemon. I know that, in J.J.'s class, one boy is spending time in time out, much to J.J.'s delight. (Why do preschoolers get so excited when other preschoolers get in trouble? I guess it's just good gossip.)

But now comes a Cheese game I only heard about by chance. I guess, as the kids get older, there will be lots of things they watch or hear about that are a mystery to me. They'll share a culture with their friends, not their parents, which is how all kids are. But this one I had to see for myself. I asked Richie for more details.

He said, "The Chees Roll is as big as the Super Bowl. Even babies go. Even though there are a lot of injuries."

He didn't know where it happened, but I assumed England.

The injuries seemed to be what stuck out the most in Richie's mind. After finding the Annual Gloucestershire Cheese Rolling and Wake on YouTube, I understood why. You can see it here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OpzEF0D2xfE

Questions You Know the Answer To

2009-08-30T05:44:00.000-07:00

Do you notice how some people ask you questions...and then argue about your answer? Like you're a witness and they're the lawyer who doesn't ask questions with wild card answers.

"When does the new Lost season start?"

"February, I think."

"Really? I thought it started in September."

"I'm pretty sure it's February."

"I'm pretty sure it's not."

Well, if you already knew the answer, why did you ask?

I remember Johnny asking my dad a lawyerly line of questions when he was younger.

"Grandad, do you like Shrek?"

"Yes."

"Do you really like Shrek?"

"Yes, I really like it."

"Do you love Shrek?"

"Yes."

"Granddad, have you ever seen Shrek?"

"Well, not exactly."

He was just trying to be polite. You don't want to tell a kid you didn't see the movie that they think is the most hilarious ever made.

J.J. loves asking questions that he knows the answer to. The other day, for intance, he asked me if I have a head.

"Yes," I said.

He smiled big, as if to say, "I knew it."

In church, his baby cousin came in with her parents and sat in our pew.

"Is that Francie?" he asked.

"Yes."

"How did she get here?"

"She, um, rode her bike," I said.

"No she didn't!" he said. "How did she get here?"

"She came with her parents."

He smiled. He knew it!

Whenever a girly toy is advertised on T.V., he says, "Mommy, do you want that?"

"Yes," I say. "I'm going to ask for Bratz pet shop for my birthday."

He nods satisfactorily. He knew it.

Tinkerbell Castle Dollhouse? It's on my Christmas list.

Barbie Blooming Thumbelina? I'm saving up my allowance.

Sometimes I think he takes me for a very tall girl who happens to be the boss of him. I don't have the heart to tell him my Barbie days ended in third grade. Maybe second. It was whenever my friends and I discovered Star Search. The T.V. talent reenactments took all our time. And then one of us always got stuck playing Ed McMahon. Not exactly the role of a lifetime for a third grade girl.

I remember Johnny and Richie asking questions like J.J.'s. It's a kid's way of striking up a conversation.

"Did I have a birthday party today?"

"Yes, and it was fun!"

"Were my friends there?"

"They sure were."

"Did we have a treasure hunt?"

"Yes! And you found the treasure."

I guess grownups do this, too.

When you ask, How are you doing? You know the answer is "pretty good" or, if things aren't going well, "all right."

Unless you ask a good friend. Good friends are never doing "pretty well" or "all right." They're getting laid off. They're going through a divorse. Their baby is biting other babies. Or...they just fell in love! They got their dream job! Their baby is a dream baby! Nothing is so-so among friends.

J.J.'s favorite questions are either/or. "Which do you like better? Salad or ice cream? Potatos or candy? Chicken or chocolate milk? Going night-night or being a pirate?" The questions seem obvious to him...but I think my answers would surprise him, unless he knew that I was an actual adult and not just a girl who looks very old.

Crossing Over to a New School Year

2009-08-20T05:47:00.000-07:00

Second day of school. Johnny and Richie watched for the crossing guard's Cadillac to pull in across the street. Then they bolted out the door in their white shirts with no chocolate milk stains and their blue shorts that haven't faded to purple yet. They sprinted past preschool parents walking their shy kids to school, crossed with the guard, and jogged up to their school door.

Yesterday, I assumed I'd walk them to school, but Johnny said, "We're going to try to get there real fast." I guess their old lady would just slow them down.

Richie said he was the only first grader whose parents didn't walk him in. "Were you sad?" I asked.

"No," he said. "I might as well get used to it."

I saw a glint of pride in his eyes. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd said, "I guess I'm the only kid who can get myself to school without a bunch of grownups hovering around me. Maybe I should be in charge of things from now on."

I wanted to be hover, but I settled for watching from our front yard. We're so close, I can see their whole path, which satisfies my parental paranoia. As they run, Johnny waves, without really looking, at everyone he knows, and when Johnny waves, Richie waves. Then Ed, the crossing guard, walks them across the street.

Crossing guards are the best, don't you think? They're always sweet, friendly people, but they cross you; you DO NOT cross them. When drivers get frustrated that they have to wait for children to cross the street, Ed just glances at them, and the driver is like, "You're right. I'm an A-hole. Of course, the children's education comes before me not being two minutes late. If I'd wanted to get there on time, I should have dragged my lazy ass out of bed earlier."

Sometimes, I think he uses mind control. He looks at traffic, and everybody just calms down.

We had a crossing guard growing up with two-inch fashion nails. When she walked she held them out beside her, like she was walking on a tight rope in high heels. Sweet as pie. We would run to the corner just to have more time to talk to her. But if you were a driver, you better have fallen in line, son. She would hit your hood with the palm of her hand as soon as look at you. That stop sign doubled as a Samurai sword. Back off, jack off! I do love crossing guards, fearless protectors of our children.

Anyway, the kids love school. In a few weeks, their white shirts will be sweaty, untucked and milk chocolate. They'll drag themselves to school in a combat crawl, moaning, "Why is school evvvverrrry day?" But for now, they love it.

Thank You For Your Votes!

2009-08-18T08:28:00.000-07:00

Thanks to your votes, Greetings from Waldo won the Nickelodeon's Parents' Pick best local blog in Kansas City.

It is back-to-school season. Richie and I had his pre-conference today, and he was very shy.

His teacher asked, "Do you like science?"

"No."

"Do you like reading?"

"No."

"Do you know how to read?"

"No."

I was like, Wait to put your best foot forward, son. Good thing you're not on a job interview. I also wanted the teacher to ask if he liked joking around. Then she would have seen his can-do attitude.

His teacher told him they were going to learn about money and have little shops in the classroom where they could spend their money.

Now his eyes lit up.

"Will there be slushies?" he asked.

"Maybe we could have a slushy store," his teacher said, jotting it down on her paper. "Do you know how to make slushies?"

"No. But I know how to make Shirley Temples."

"How?"

"You pour in some cherry juice. Then you pour in some Sprite." He raised is eyebrows as if to say, Nailed it.

People used to ask me, before Richie's birthday, "What is he into?" and I would say, "He just really likes talking." He would have a friend over, and while the friend played with Richie's toys, Richie would lean over the couch and talk for hours on end. Now, I think Richie has found a new area that peaks his interest: buying and selling cherry flavored drinks.

He's already got the buying part down. The boys get allowance for their chores now. Johnny usually saves up for something big, like Madden 2010. Richie, on the other hand, earmarks his entire allowance for the pool snack bar. Slushies are priced at an outrageous $2. (When I worked at a snack bar, snow cones, which have the same ingredients, cost 40 cents. This is what's wrong with our economy today. Well, one of the things. Maybe not the biggest.)

Anyway, Richie brought $6 one day. He bought his friends a round of slushies. My friend was with him and tried to give him money for her son's slushy, but he waved her off. Then he thought about it. She asked if he would at least take a dollar, and he was like, "Oh, all right." With the dollar, he bought a candy bar.

On the way home, I asked, "Do you like buying slushies for all your friends?"

"I don't want to say I like it, but I don't want to say I don't like it," he said.

He said that he liked doing it if he brought enough money, but most the time he was only going to bring $2.25, enough for one frosty malt.

Richie has the prices on the menu memorized. Actually, they all do, even J.J., who tells me he wants $2 out of his piggy bank for a slushy. Two kids Richie's size were standing behind him the other day, and one held a $20 bill. The kid asked me, "Is this enough for two slushies?" Richie turned around and said, "Slushies don't cost $20. They cost $2.00! The most expensive thing on the menu is $3.25! It's dippin' dots." Then he looked at me like, Can you believe these guys don't have the prices on the menu memorized?)

I think he's going to love selling Shirley Temples. Especially when he gets to say, "Drinks are on the house!" every once in a while.

How to Find a Wife

2009-07-30T15:10:00.000-07:00

Richie played blocks for about an hour with J.J. today.

"You're so good with him," I said. "Do you think you'll have kids some day?"

"I don't know if I'll be able to find a wife," he said, shaking his head as if exhausted just thinking about it. "How do you find one?"

"You just look under the couch and under any blankets or pillows lying around. Check your pockets..."

"No really," he said.

"I guess it's like making friends. You go places and do things and sometimes you meet someone you want to be your girlfriend. Like if you're in a play in high school, maybe a girl you like would be in the same play."

"And then you'd say, 'Maybe we should get married'?" He asked.

"Um, I wouldn't say that probably. Maybe you could ask her out to eat. And then if you had fun together, you could go to the park one day."

"And drink milkshakes?"

"Sure."

"Or coffee because you'd be old enough?"

"Yeah."

"And watch your kids play?"

"Um, maybe a lot later."

"Well, I only have two girls who are my friends," he said. "So I don't know if I'll get married.

He mentioned another girl who would be his friend but is too bossy. "And she's always tired," he added. "Robert is sometimes tired, but I like him because he plays Whiffle ball."

That reminded him of something he wanted to do. He looked around for his bat and ball. He looked in the closet and under the couch and finally outside, where it was laying on the grass. I guess baseball stuff is easier to find than a wife.

Road Trip: Then and Now

2009-07-23T06:35:00.000-07:00

Family road trip today.

For you Midwesterners out there, you know that traveling to cooler weather/and or a beach can mean a 12-16 hour drive. Today we'll only be in the car for a paltry nine hours en route to Wisconsin. Plus, since the dawn of technology, road trips no longer are as long as they used to be.

Here is a look at road trips then and now:

Then...We left at 3 a.m. in order to make it to the middle of Kansas just as the temperature reached 90 degrees (at 8 a.m.) Somehow, the wind blowing through our windows made the car even hotter--like a heater blowing on you. We faced the dilemna of rolling up the windows for a greenhouse effect, or leaving them down, for the furnace effect. It made no difference whatsoever which we chose, as both produced the hell-on-earth effect.

Now...We have air conditioning. We drive by cows and think, "Wow. They look hot and bothered. I'm glad I don't have problems."

Then...We entertained ourselves by pointing out any and all animals we saw. "Cow! Horse! Another horse! Another cow! Cow! Another cow! Llama! Llama! I swear I saw a llama!" As our technology improved, we borrowed books on tape from the library. One time, my mom borrowed Don Rickles leaving answering machine messages. You were supposed to record them onto your brand new answering machine, but we thought they were great as stand up routine, as well. When we got bored, we fought. When we got hot, we fought. When we ate too many pancakes at Sambo's and felt sick, we fought.

Now...Kids watch movies on the portable DVD player. When you watch movies all day, what's there to fight about?

Then...We laid down in the hatchback and stared at the stars out the back window. Seatbelts? What seatbelts? Did our car even have seatbelts? We never bothered to find out.

Now...If we see kids on the highway who appear not to be wearing seatbelts, we roll down our windows and yell at their parents, "I'm calling DFS, you idiots!"

Roadtrips have definitely improved, or so I hope. I'll let you know at the end of this trip.

Life's a Beach...until the Seagulls Arrive

2009-07-15T05:02:00.000-07:00

Whenever I go to a beach, I think: "I can't believe I'm here." The ocean is literally where the sidewalk ends, so being there is like stumbling on "once upon a time," or "happily ever after," or even "meanwhile, back at the ranch." It has a storybook quality to it.

We went to Cape Cod with our family last week. We climbed a sand dune to a private beach in the neighborhood where we were renting a house. Mostly, it was empty. If I lived near a private beach, I'd haul my couch down there, and the kids would do their homework on the sand, and I'd fill a plastic baby pool with ocean water for J.J., and make it our little hillbilly oasis.

But apparently people who have private beaches work long hours and cannot spend all their time seaside.

It was chilly, so the boys stayed on the sand. Johnny played football. J.J. and his cousin Brendan filled buckets of water and got the sand wet, which is actually a lot more fun than it sounds. Richie wrapped himself in a towel and took a nap. The grownups read books or watched the waves lap the sand.

One day, we fed the seagulls a couple Cheez-its, which in their minds meant, "Welcome, new best friends. Feel free to stare at us from two inches away for the remainder of our seaside visit. Because that's not creepy at all."

They surrounded us, inching ever closer. The boys' Papa picked up a smooth stone and said, "I'm protecting my clan." And they backed off.

Meanwhile a bee buzzed around Richie and me. Richie is a little scared of bees because he once got stung by 14 of them at the same time. I thought the bee might be thirsty, so I tried to pour a little water on our mat to distract it. But I accidentally poured it on the bee. Frightened, he left us alone...or so I thought.

Well, eventually, everybody left, but I stayed behind to read my book.

At that point the seagulls surrounded me like the The Others on Lost.

"What?" I asked. No reply.

The day before, a seagull had pooped on my head while I was walking the kids over to the public beach to get ice cream. And because the public beach was 50,000 hours away and the poop was nostril-level in my hair, I had to smell it the whole time (even after I rinsed it out in the ocean.) So there is no love lost between me and the seagulls. I, too, picked up a stone, but they were like, "Aww, isn't that cute? The lady whose head we pooped on is trying to scare us."

At that point, I noticed that one of the seagulls only had one leg. I felt sorry for him for a while, but my brother-in-law came down to the beach and pointed out that the seagull squawked at the others and hogged the Cheeze-it crumbs. We figured that's why the other birds ended up biting his leg off.

With that mystery solved, I turned back to my book. But suddenly, the bee buzzed back over and stung my big toe. And proceeded to fall over dead. I hope it was worth it. I hope my toe was to die for.

My thoughts turned from, "I can't believe I'm here." to "The animals can't believe we're here." Really. Humans calling this a private beach. Are they prepared to lay down their lives for it, like a bee. Or even one of their legs, like a seagull?

No and no. Which is why every once in a while the seagulls descend on us, letting us know that while we may be bigger and smarter and the inventors of such seagull favorites as Cheez-Its and Doritos, they can fly. So they'll see whose left standing on the beach in the end. Or, more likely, hovering over the picnic basket.

P.S. It's the last day to vote for best local blog; If you'd like to vote, please go to parentsconnect.com/parentspicks and click on "Kansas City" and "Best Local Blog." Thanks for voting!

Day is Done

2009-07-02T04:44:00.000-07:00

Last day of camp.

Johnny bounded out of bed, pulled on his Chiefs jersey and said, "Quick. Let's get this day over with."

Apparently, he had slept in his shorts and shoes and socks. My kids do this a lot to save time in the morning. Often, I'll walk by their room at 9:30 at night, and they are pulling on their school uniforms. Only boys do this.

No matter how early a grownup's morning meeting, for some reason, he never settles into bed wearing his suit and wingtips.

Richie groggily staggered into the living room. "Are we going to Boston now?"

"Tomorrow we're going to Boston," I said. "Today is the last day of camp."

After getting on his shoes and eating toast, he made his way to the car. Clicking on his seatbelt, he asked, "So now are we going to Boston?"

Time has no meaning to Richie. It's one long journey in which sometimes it's today and sometimes it's tomorrow and sometimes we're in Kansas City and sometimes we're not even on Planet Earth. I love that about him.

On the way to camp, Johnny said, "I have more evidence that this is summer school, not summer camp."

As Detective My Mom is Sending Me to Summer School, Not Camp, he is very close to cracking the case.

"Really? Let's hear it."

"I have a test today."

"Oh."

With that, I pulled up to the--oh, all right--summer school, and dropped the boys off.

When I picked them up, Johnny was carrying a tiny flower pot he'd painted to look like a bee. He called out to friends and teachers and said goodbye. A few people patted him on the back and said, "You'll be back next summer, right?"

"Uh, Yeah!" Johnny kept saying enthusiastically.

Richie was smiling big, but not waving goodbye. He was probably recalling his Speed Stack victories of the day. (Richie can stack plastic cups like nobody's business. After hearing him talk about the game for a few hours every day, we got him a set for his birthday. Now, woo-eee, he sets the dining room on fire with those cups.)

Out in the parking lot, Johnny held the pot high and said, "This is my promise to return next year." Then he pretended to throw it to the ground.

"You know what?" I said. "You guys don't have to. You can go to J.J.'s school's camp."

"Actually, I was just joking," Johnny said. "I do want to go to this camp next year."

"I thought you said it was summer school."

"It is. But I want to see the kids I met next year."

To him, I guess it's not where you go but who you go with.

Richie, meanwhile, who loved the camp, especially the Speed Stacking, said, "I might try J.J.'s camp next year."

For him, it's not where you go but how many new people you meet going there.

Kickin' it to the Curb

2009-06-29T18:23:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, somebody deposited what had to be their entire living room--and possibly their den--in the parking lot across the street from our house.

They seemed to have driven by and said, "Hark! A dumpster! Let's set all the furniture we own next to it!"

Now, whenever I walk by, I can't help but pass judgement on their lives.

I think: "None of it matches. Really, have you no pride?"

Also: "How in the heck many adult men lived in your house to justify needing three corderoy recliners?"

And: "Don't you draw your shades against the blazing sun? Your furniture is so faded! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I've never seen anything like it."

Now, to be honest, until a few weeks ago, we've never owned matching furniture, either. And as for the faded upholstery, we have metal awnings to prevent that...Every month or so, handimen stop by to ask if we want them removed. Whatever do they mean? Are they tacky or something?

Nevertheless, seeing somebody's castaway furniture always opens the floodgates. Even if it's my own furniture.

Recently, I was shocked and appalled to see our old refrigerator sitting on our curb like a crazy Cousin Eddie. It almost counteracted my glee at the horrible machine giving out in the first place, forcing us to buy something that wasn't harvest gold.

We live across the street from a school, so whatever we put on the curb, a parade (a.k.a. carpool) comes by every morning to see it.

The vice principal pulled me aside that day and said the preschool teachers were concerned that a wandering child would get caught inside it.

"Yes," a mother walking by at that very instant confirmed. "It is illegal to put out a refrigerator with its doors on."

I nodded earnestly, but secretly, I was thinking, "Well, they don't have to worry about our refrigerator. The doors don't even close all the way."

Then I was like, "Wait a second. For seven years we've owned a refrigerator whose doors don't close all the way. Seriously. Where is our pride?"

I mentioned we now have matching furniture. We recently lucked into some good fortune. In addition to our refrigerator breaking down (thank God), we got a new-to-us couch set (Thanks, brother and sister-in-law!).

They had received a hand-me-down couch set from her parents, who in turn, had gotten a new set.

I was like, "Hmm. Who could we "gift" with our couches? One is white. Was white. Now is the color of chocolate milk and chicken wings. The other has a pink sparkly paint pen scribbled on the back and the back pillows missing.

These were perfectly good couches, mind you, before we got ahold of them. Three boys + one not so great housekeeper vs. two couches = no contest. In the end, we gifted the curb. Where they looked much worse than they ever did in our living room. Nestled cozily in our little house, I have to admit, I kind of liked them.

But things are different now. Since my youngest is nearing four (sob!), I have a shot at having a nice house. I even have a chance of putting something on the curb with pride. "We won't be needing this fine furniture any longer. Have at it, ladies."

With that goal in mind, I've become bossy couch lady: "Cheetoh's are an outside food, and you know it!" I often exclaim to my bewildered children as they snack.

By the way, where do you get the plastic covers for couches? I think it's a Southern thing. People make fun of them. But you can never be too careful. My plan is to keep the plastic on until they go to the curb. Then I'll bust those puppies open and they'll be gleaming for all the carpool line to see.

You know what I bet they'd say? "Look at those spotless couches. I bet the mother who lives there is a real...um, neat freak. She probably makes her kids eat their cheetohs outside."

Ah, well. Maybe it's better to enjoy your couches when they're inside, with your messy children on your lap, rather when they're on the curb for all the spotless world to see.

Hotter than...

2009-06-23T13:59:00.000-07:00

Every morning, we walk outside at 8 a.m. and it's 85 degrees. No sense stating the obvious, so I think of a lie instead.

"What a refreshing day!"

"Another breathtaking morning!"

"Oh, thank God! Mr. Air's fever has broken. His doctor will be so relieved."

The temperature rises 15 degrees by early evening.

Here's a handy guide:

8 a.m. 65 degrees...4 p.m. a balmy 80.
8 a.m. 75 degrees...4 p.m. a warm 90.
8 a.m. 85 degrees...4 p.m. hold onto your freaking hat.

True to form, it was 100 as the boys and I walked out of day camp today.

We were hot, sticky and miserable. It was the perfect opportunity to tell the boys a sob story from my childhood.

"Did I ever tell you guys that we didn't have air conditioning when we were kids?"

"No."

"Well, we didn't. You know what we'd do to cool off?"

"What?"

"We'd go outside in the blazing sun and fry an egg on the sidewalk. And if it didn't cook right away, somebody would say, 'I guess it ain't that hot.'"

And somebody else would say, "I recken it's just humid."

Johnny nodded his head, believing the whole story. Then he shrugged. "Yeah, but you guys didn't have global warming back then."

To vote for this blog in the Nickelodeon Parents' Choice Awards contest, please go to:

http://gocitykids.parentsconnect.com/parents-picks/best-local-places Click on "Kansas City" and "local blog."

The Ducks of Loose Park

2009-06-22T12:46:00.000-07:00

Thank you for voting for this blog for the Nickelodean Parents' Choice Awards. If you're reading this for the first time, welcome to my world. That probably sounds like a smart aleck comment, but seriously, welcome.

We went to feed the ducks at the Loose Park with my cousins the other day. We hadn't been to the pond in years because for a while, Canadian Geese had taken over.

Not to make a sweeping generalization, but Canadian geese are horrible people. Bossy. Pushy. It's not enough for them to eat the bread you throw at their feet, their beaks have to be inside the bag in order to be happy.

But my cousins are athletic young lads and lasses, so I figured they'd protect us. They brought a bunch of stale hotdog buns. We brought our goose game faces.

Well, surprise! There are no geese at Loose Park anymore. I don't know what people said to make them go away. They don't seem to be easily offended. I used to look at them point blank and say, "We're here for the ducks," and they'd still mow me down for a crack at the stale bread.

Now, poof, they're gone. Maybe they went back to Canada for the summer. Are they even Canadian? Or are they Canadian like fries are French? If you have an inquiring mind, feel free to research that in your own time. The boys' summer camp ends in 0:20. Otherwise, carry on.

I like to see how boys feed ducks. My cousin Eli and oldest son Johnny made it an athletic event. Eli threw the bread across the pond to see who his best running back was. Johnny threw them to the most athletically promising mallards, then noted, "They're not good receivers, but they're good fumble recoverers."

Richie got involved in their squabbles. Ducks don't attack humans like geese do, but among each other, they will stop at nothing to get a piece of a hotdog bun. I can't help but wonder, after a nice hour at the park, how many wars we've started among the water fowl.

Richie observed this and said, "Oh, you're not going to share? You're going to bite each other? Well guess what? You don't get anymore bread. I'm going to throw it over there." Meanwhile, guess who refused to share his hotdog buns with the other children?

He kept saying, "I want the ducks to have them."

I was like, "Do you see any hotdogs? What the heck do you think the rest of us are going to do with the buns?"

Answer: feed them to the ducks.

J.J. loved the duckies. And the birds. I mean, ducks are birds, but he doesn't know that. So he'd be like, "One for the duckie, one for the birdie."

I think it's interesting that Loose Park is not only the most prestigious neighborhood for humans, but the best address for birds, too. Nobody, but nobody is short on the dough around there. Especially not the ducks.

Me? A Nominee? Why, I Nevah!

2009-06-19T11:33:00.000-07:00

I was flattered and surprised to have Greetingsfromwaldo.blogspot.com nominated for the 2009 Nickelodean's Parents' Picks Award.

You can help me CRUSH the competion by voting as often as every day here.

http://gocitykids.parentsconnect.com/parents-picks/best-local-placesClick on "Kansas City" and "local blog."

Actually, unless my mom's vote counts 700,000 times, I don't think I have much a chance, so feel free to vote for any of the great mommy/local blogger contestants who I am flattered to be named alongside. (I just can't use "crush" and "mom" in the same thought bubble. Don't we go through enough?)

If you know K.C., check out the other nominees, too! There are lots of great Waldo and Brookside businesses listed. Go Braldo!

Voting ends July 15.

Thank you to whoever nominated me. (No, I didn't nominate myself, for those of you wiseguys out there.)

Summer Days

2009-06-16T07:57:00.000-07:00

Summer is in full swing. The older two boys are at camp.

Richie loves it, even though he got thrown into cheese sandwich debtor's prison. I sent the lunch money check in the wrong envelope and all hell broke loose. If you don't have a positive balance, they hand your child a cheese sandwich in a baggie--with no side dishes--not even a single green bean. That'll learn 'ya to have an airhead for a mother!

Johnny is on the fence. "It's not camp, mom," he told me. "It's summer school. The teachers even call it summer school."

"Yeah, but isn't one of your classes Speed Stacking, where you make a pyramid with plastic cups?"

"Yes," he said. "But the first word is 'speed,' and I'm slow at it. That's a problem."

Well, there are problems and then there are problems. At least they've made friends, which is really all you can ask out of a camp when you're a kid. If you also enjoy the activities, then that's a fringe benefit.

Reason being: Have you ever noticed that most camp games were created by a crazy person?

"And now we're going to blindfold you and see how fast you can fill a bucket of water with a teaspoon that also has a raw egg on it. But wait! You also need to balance a cotton ball on your nose while naming the left-handed presidents of the United States. Yaayy! Fun!"

Meanwhile, on the home front, J.J. has three new "babies." Pete Cougar (who is a leopard,) Shuga Flack (a horse), and an anteater named Cracker. To J.J., consonant + vowel = great name for your child. If the word also happens to be a snack, that's even better.

Last night, J.J. was jumping on Richie's bed while Richie was trying to sleep. I went in and told him he needed to be a better role model for Pete Cougar and Cracker, and even Shuga Flack, who was lost by that point.

He leaned in and whispered to them, "I'll be a better popcorn."

When I talk, it must sound like interchangeable syllables that make no real sense. Because of that, I love to see how J.J. interprets things.

We say prayers at night, and it goes like this:

Richie: "I pray for poor people."

Johnny: "I pray for our grandparents."

J.J.: "Um, I like French fries, and I like choo choo trains, and I like going to the grocery store..."

He's come up with some pretty cute phrases though, like for petting Ben, he calls it, "softing the dog." And for getting photographed, he calls it, "taking a smile."

He's like the radio show host Delilah, who, instead of asking people who is on their mind, says, "Who is on your heart?" Maybe it's the old lifeguard in me, but I always picture CPR when she says that.

Anyway, I hope you're having a great summer. I hope that your biggest worry is being slow at speed stacking. I hope any bad news about money comes to you via a cheese sandwich. And, because that is probably impossible, I pray that, everyday, you at least get to do something you like to do.

The Very Last Day of School

2009-05-26T19:27:00.000-07:00

Richie decided yesterday morning that this would be his last year at his school.

His friend Emil had moved to Minnesota in the winter, and apparently, everything was shot to hell after that. Richie added that three of Johnny's friends weren't nice to him. (One by my count, but who am I to begrudge a good old fashioned exaggeration.)

And, also, he said, when Emil left, the class took pictures and made a special scrapbook and everyone was really sad.

I said, "So you would like that to happen again, only this time with you being the center of attention."

He nodded his head earnestly. "Yeah," he said. "I would."

So he told his friends yesterday he wouldn't be back next year. He'd be going to J.J.'s school, where everybody is nice and kids don't move to Minnesota.

When he came home from school, I asked him how his friends reacted when he broke the news. (Richie is going back to his old school, by the way, but again, who am I to begrudge a good old-fashioned going away party in which the person isn't actually going anywhere?)

They took it hard, Richie said. At first, his friend Jackson cheered because he hadn't been listening carefully. Then when Richie repeated himself, Jackson exclaimed, "Oh, no!" Richie smiled widely as he re-enacted Jackson's utter disappointment.

I asked Richie, "Do you think they'll be surprised next year when you show up on the first day of school?"

"Yeah," he said. "But I'll probably wait nine years. Then I'll go back."

Later, as he, J.J. and I sat on the couch, he said, "My friends are going to the big school next year. You know why they call it the big school? Because there are big kids."

He added, "At my new school, I'll probably just be friends with J.J.'s friends."

As an armchair psychiatrist, I'd say Richie is nervous about leaving the small kindergarten building to attend the big bad big kid school across the street. So he's decided to go to a new school altogether. A school he's never been to, but apparently sees as a perpetual preschool, where even the big kids don't have a snarky bone in their body.

I suppose the change he can see coming is scarier than the one that's only in his imagination.

Or maybe he just wants that going away party. If only to remind himself he never wanted to leave in the first place.

He Loved Love Songs and Dressed Well

2009-05-11T08:50:00.000-07:00

Of my grandpa who passed away recently, there is so much to say and so much has been said. He had ten kids and lots of friends.

Some would tell you he was a sharp businessman and a great salesperson. (Remember on The Office when Ryan said, 'It's not personal. It's business.' And Michael said, 'Business is personal. It's the most personal thing in the world.' That made me think of my grandpa.

Others would tell you he loved babies and children and big families and hamburgers.

But the two things that stand out most in my memory are that he loved love songs and he dressed well.

People are hard to understand and harder to describe. But every once in a while, you see someone, and the image becomes like a picture you carry in your pocket. Mine is of Papa ironing shirts and listening to love songs.

He loved to iron. He ironed shirts long after he retired and no longer needed to wear a suit, and in fact, long after most people stopped wearing suits to the office at all.

(He also took suits and shirts to several dry cleaners around town. He enjoyed finding the right workmanship at the right price in seemingly the worst neighborhood. After he passed away, tracking down his suits became something of a family sport.)

There's something to be said for looking nice, and I don't just mean presentable. I mean looking like you're going someplace, whether it be in half an hour or 15 years. People take notice.

It's like seeing a limo. Chances are, it's a bunch of kids on their way to prom, but you always look, don't you? You always wonder who it is.

Not long ago, I went with Papa to visit my Nana in the hospital. He was dressed in a well-taylored gray suit. He wore cuff links and wing tips. As I pushed him through the hall in his wheelchair, people parted like he was Moses and they were the Red Sea. Taking a step back, they nodded their heads. They said hello. They said, "Excuse me."

All the while, he smiled and waved like an Irish politician in a St. Patrick's Day parade.

It struck me that perhaps he dressed well so that people would take notice. Not because he wanted attention. But because he wanted to say hello. He liked meeting people.

On trips I took with my grandparents to Colorado, he was never a stranger, no matter what town we were in. There was always somebody my grandpa struck up a conversation with. My favorite "ice breaker" was when he leaned over to a table of ladies and said, "Excuse me, are you nuns?"

Why, yes, they said.

"I thought so," he said, and they talked and talked. Papa loved nuns. But, then, he loved most people.

On these trips we'd listen to the love songs of John Denver and Anne Murray.

This probably won't paint me in the coolest light, but as a kid, my favorite singer was Anne Murray. You know how some kids hung up posters of the New Kids on the Block? Or wore torn T-shirts depicting Guns n' Roses. Or wept at Bon Jovi's "You Give Love a Bad Name." Well, that's how I felt about Anne Murray.

We'd be driving through Western Kansas in Papa's four-door sedan, "You Needed Me" blasting on the stereo, Papa sound asleep behind the wheel.

Nana would look up from her mystery and bag of fresh cauliflower to say, "John, wake up. You're going 90 miles an hour."

He'd come to and reset the cruise control. Sometimes he'd doze off again.

None of this worried me. As a former Air Force pilot, Papa was a better driver in his sleep than most people were wide awake.

Instead, I'd be day dreaming. I'd imagine twisting my ankle on the playground and the only person strong enough to carry me to the nurse's office just so happened to be the cutest eighth grader in the school.

Anne Murray would of course be playing in the background.

And then...he would ask me to marry him.

And since I was only in second grade, I'd tell him I'd have to think about it.

Nana gave me Papa's old CDs. He must have owned 50 Reader's Digest volumes dedicated to love. "The Music We Fell in Love To." "Songs to Listen to on a Winter Night by the Fire." "A Volume That if Your Friends Ever See in Your Possession You'll Never Hear the End of It."

Of course, Anne Murray's Greatest Hits were in there. Justin came home when I was listening to them, and I thought he'd laugh at how cheesy they were. But instead he was like, "Who is this? She is really good." What can I say? Birds of a feather.

You'd think that loving love songs and dressing well are two very different things.

Love, most think, is the most important thing in the world. Those who know that live a happy life, as Papa did.

Dressing well, on the other hand, is considered one of those "only skin deep" things. But to those who dress well on a daily basis (and I so wish I was one of them), I think it means something more. It means being ready to go anywhere. It means being ready to meet people wherever you are. It means seeing every day as a special occasion.

You can't reduce a person, and certainly not my grandpa, to two characteristics. But two seemingly small characteristics can have such an effect on your life, and the lives of those around you. My grandpa always talked about my Grandma with such love and romance.

I remember him listening to an Anne Murray song and nodding his head, as if agreeing with a newscaster. Then he repeated the lyrics verbatim to my grandma, only saying, "You." I can't remember now which lyrics they were. Something like, "That's right. You are on a pedestal to me. So high that I can almost see eternity."

So, you see, every day was a special occassion to him. Because it was another day to be in love.

Health Nut

2009-04-10T04:52:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since my last post. I've been finishing up some projects and trying to drum up new ones. Lest I bore you with my tales of networking madness, I'll just leave it at that.

In other news, I'm trying to get my kids to eat healthy. Until now, I haven't gotten on the healthy eating bandwagon. I mean, I've always had the boys eat apples and grapes as snacks, and fixed a vegetable with dinner (although, admittedly, it was often mashed potatoes.)

But I didn't take it to extremes because so many people already do. They'll make crazy statements such as: "When my kids come home from trick-or-treating, I throw their candy in the trash!"

And I'm like, "You're making some real memories there. (And don't think those memories won't bite 'ya in your skinny butt when your kids grow up.)"

But apparently America's children face a wee bit of an obesity epidemic. Actually, a really big one. So I'm trying to pass on some healthy eating habits to the whole family.

Richie is the easy one. They had a half day yesterday. I offered the boys a roast beef sandwich, and he said, "No thanks. Beef is bad for the world."

He must have learned that at school. I love beef, but I can't argue that it has its bad points.

"How about some white fish?" I asked.

So he ate a plate of baked fish for lunch.

Johnny, on the other hand, is a huge meat lover. I mean, we live in Barbeque Land. He has a vegetarian in his class, and it is such an anomaly to him that he brings it up at least once a week as dinner conversation.

"Olivia would not like this dinner!" he'll say as he chews a huge bite of pot roast.

For J.J., the whole health concept is rocking his world. I've been telling him things like, "You know what's good for your tummy? Apples, grapes, carrots, oatmeal..."

And he's like: "Do you know what's good for my tummy? Cookies!"

I'm like, "Um, not really."

And he's like. "Cookies are good for my neck."

We haven't given up cookies, by the way. I think if you grow up in America without cookies, you feel like a deprived child. Heart healthy...but deprived.

The key is to add, not take away. (Which might explain why my own diet isn't working.) So we're adding fruits and vegetables.

Here's a bad sign of how I didn't do this enough in the past. I put a pile of fresh spinich in a pan to cook it, and J.J. said, "No, you don't eat that. Those are leaves."

And then he said, "We don't eat carrots. Bunnies eat carrots."

But we actually do eat carrots. It's one of those veggies you always have on hand. I guess whenever I put it on his plate, he thinks I'm confused. "You're a bunny right? Oh, wait, no, you're a boy."

I've got a lot of work to do to impart health knowledge to my children. But I think I'm making some headway. J.J. just said, "That's enough time on the computer, mom." Maybe one day, they'll throw away my Halloween candy. (Hey, hands off, kids.)

It's Raining on Our Sunny Parade

2009-03-16T18:53:00.000-07:00

We're missing the parade today. It's the annual St. Patrick's Day parade, and it's always held on St. Patrick's Day, not the weekend before or after, because, hey, in Kansas City we like to take off work in the middle of the week and get our drink on. In the morning at my cousin's pre-parade breakfast.

But there will be no such nonsense this year since everybody in our house is sick, which I'm sure you heard quite enough of in yesterday's blog. I have to share one story, though, about why missing this parade makes me feel so bad.

First of all, we were supposed to be in the parade, and there was going to be a float and everything. (There still will be a float, but we won't be on it, or walking behind it.)

At a different parade on Saturday, the boys decided to watch from the sidelines, where they would get candy tossed at them.

I asked Richie if he wanted to be in that parade, and he asked, "Will I be on a float?"

"No," I answered.

"Then no," he said.

I told him he might not be on the float in Tuesday's parade, either, but he was willing to take his chances. Probably figured he could talk his way on board one way or another. So he's devastated that he's missing the float parade.

As for J.J., I'm not even telling him what's going on.

On Saturday, only Johnny went to the parade because the other two were still sick and contagious (and J.J. was broken out in hives). He went with my parents and came home wearing a plastic shamrock hat. Bustling in the door, he said, "A man in the parade walked by and put this on my head. I didn't even know him." Then he cracked up.

I'd been assuring J.J. all day that he was going to a parade, too, on Tuesday. But by "Tuesday," he thought I meant, "at any moment."

So when Johnny came home wearing that hat, J.J. announced, "I'm going to a poor-ade. And a man's going to put a hat on my head. Ma's going to take me."

Then he went out front and stood on the sidewalk, his hands behind back, and waited. Johnny and Richie were playing football out there but eventually came inside, and I sent Johnny back out to get J.J.

J.J. came in crying. "I'm waiting for Ma to take me to the poor-ade," he wailed.

"It's on Tuesday," I explained.

And now we're not even going because everybody is sick and lethargic. So the parade is totally rained on, as far as we're concerned. In reality it's supposed to be 80 and sunny. I also have a feeling the boys are going to wake up feeling a-okay. But if we went to the parade, they'd fall asleep mid-march.

Anyway, I know this is small potatoes compared to other things. Still, I guess this just isn't our lucky day.

March Madness

2009-03-13T21:15:00.000-07:00

The month of March. I wish it would "the month of March" on out of my life.

For one thing: Daylight Savings. It's as if the time people got together and said, "What would make children as sleep deprived as their parents?"

And this is what they came up with. Now, it's tearing our family apart. The boys were grumpy over this sleep loss, and now they're all sick. There. Are you happy, Daylight Savings?

Another culprit in their sickness: the changing winds of March. One day, it's 20 below, and the next, 80 degrees. Everybody's like, "Isn't this wonderful?" And I'm like, "Yeah, wonderful for viruses that infect children." People have subsequently stopped asking me rhetorical questions.

Richie, J.J. and most others of the world are sick because of this weather. Friday, I took them to the doctor. While the nurse swabbed Richie for strep, I asked the doctor why the weather change made people sick.

What I love about doctors is they don't make up answers.

When you ask most people this question, they're like, "It's not the temperature change; it's the cold that makes you sick. That's why you call it a cold."

And I'm secretly thinking, "Wow. You totally made that up and I'm totally nodding as if in agreement. This is fun. We should do this more often."

Anyway, I asked Richie's doctor, and he said, "It's because your nostrils act like a temperature regulator. They thin when it's warm and they thicken when it's cold. That quick change makes you susceptible to germs, which are also particular to the weather."

I was like, "Get in my ear, correct answer! You know I've been waitin' for ya!"

It turned out, Richie had strep throat and J.J. had an ear infection. Their doctor prescribed medicine, which ended up being bad news. J.J. had an allergic reaction and has been broken out in hives for two days, even after going off the antibiotic. Now he's on a new antibiotic and benedryl.

We went back to the doctor today and watched "Doctor T.V." for two hours while all the other sickies saw the doctor.

During that time we watched a lady bake a healthy snack--chocolate cupcakes (What?) Then a quiz asked, "What fish can positively alter your mood?"

I guessed salmon, and Johnny said. "I don't think it's salmon because they spend their whole life swimming up a waterfall. Then they die. That's sad."

The answer ended up being salmon, so they have been talking about eating the fish, not thinking about their lives."

Johnny's sick, too, today, so it's 76 degrees outside and the boys are sleeping or zoning out on the couch, either sick, recovering or allergic. Johnny's asleep hugging his football, too sick to go outside, which he's wanted to do all day but can't muster the energy.

I feel so bad for all of them, but I suppose if they were able to go outside, their nostrils would thin and all hell would break lose.

Finally, there's the recession. I can't even look at our portfolio. It's up; it's down. And they're still nickling and diming me. Okay, I got that from a Charles Schwab ad.

The real way the recession is affecting me is the lines are longer at Aldi's now. And cuter. There's a lot of skinny jeans and striped shirts and scarves...on the guys. It's like High School Musical 4 in there. It's great that people have switched to a cheaper store, but for many, I think it's their first time in a grocery store of any kind.

The wife will be like, "Hey, honey, will you grab some bananas?" and the husband's like, "No, they're not ripe." And I'm like, "You know, you can take the food home and wait for it to ripen. You don't have to eat it right this second or anything."

On the plus side, people no longer shop secretly at Aldi's because, now, saving money is cool. Once, I ran into a lady I know in Aldi's and she was like, "I'm just here for the cabbage!" like I'd caught her doing something.

I was like, "I'm just here to spy on people and then tell everybody they're poor. And for the cabbage."

But it's a terrible time to drum up freelance work, let me tell you. Those who formerly would shoot me down don't even email me back anymore. I can't imagine what those who used to not respond are doing. Forwarding my emails to everyone in their address book with "What a Sucker!" added in red? I don't know.

On a positive note, I'm pretty sure I wrote a similar blog last March, minus the recession stuff. It's not the best month for our family, but at least we have St. Patrick's Day...to stay home sick during.

Anyway, I hope everybody else's March is fun and your nostril thickness isn't fluctuating that much. Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Driving Lessons

2009-03-06T09:26:00.000-08:00

Recently, my husband and I were watching a T.V. show and the the subject of teaching teens to drive came up.

Well, you know when you say something and you don't want somebody to disagree with you, but you'd like them to at least pause two seconds before they agree with you? That's what happened.

"When our kids are 16, I think you should teach them to dri--" I started.

"Definitely," he said before I could even finish.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.

"What? I'm agreeing with you."

"Are you saying I'm a bad driver?"

Well, this time he waited about 10 minutes. "No," he finally said.

"You are a better driver," I conceded. "And more patient."

"Yeah," he said quickly. "Plus, I think the dad should teach the driving."

This brought back memories of when, 16 years ago, my dad taught me to drive. Or tried to. I had a hard time getting a feel for the gas pedal. Usually I went too slow. Other times, I accelerated for no reason. Come to think of it, I drove a lot like my late grandmother.

By the end of the lesson, my dad and I were both so mad at each other, that I stormed inside the house. He followed me in and was like, "Um, you think you might want to take the key out of the ignition or at least turn off the car?"

While I always knew driving lessons with me were no treat, I never understood the extent of his frustration until yesterday. My mom had found an envelope stuffed with some of my old report cards and other papers. Looking through it, I found a list numbered 1-7. As I recall, these were "notes to self" my dad asked me to jot down after our driving lesson.

1. When turning left, turn into the right hand lane.
2. Stop before stop sign.
3. Stay on right side of road unless kids are in the way.
4. Cut the wheel right when turning right.
5. Move wheel before going forward when turning.
6. Don't accelerate before stop sign.
7. Pay attention to parked cars on BOTH sides of the street.

I mean, my dad must have felt like he was teaching his alien daughter how to drive. "Here on earth, we know when to stop when we see a sign saying, 'Stop.'"

Soon, my mom took over my lessons but would only drive with me in the school parking lot where she would at times be laughing so hard at my chimpanzee-like driving that she wouldn't be able to talk. My great Uncle George also threw his hat into the driver's ed ring. And my older brother, too.

Finally, they all set me loose at the DMV, where on my third try, an older gentleman passed me. I remember his exact words. "Well, sweetheart, you're not exactly queen of the road. But I'll pass you so your mom and dad don't get mad at you."

Nowadays, I think I'm a good driver. After all, I've been driving for as many years that I haven't been driving. Also, I've learned a little strategy called overcompensation. When you're not a natural at driving, you have to drive the speed limit or under, be extra courteous and avoid unfamiliar places. Eating barbeque while driving or trying to be the 117th caller are also not recommended.

I hope our kids get Justin's driving genes. If not, I'm glad he's already volunteered to be the one to teach them. I'll hang on to my Driver's Ed for Idiots list just in case he needs it.

Academy Award Predictions

2009-02-20T08:29:00.001-08:00

Tonight is the Academy Awards. Wall.E is the only movie on the list I've seen, so I don't know who is going to win, but I still have several of predictions about the ceremony:

1. Nobody will have a speech prepared. To me, this is the height of dropping the ball. Seriously, who doesn't prepare for winning an Oscar? Case in point: Raise your hand if you have an Academy Awards speech written or could write one on a moment's notice or would write one if there were a one in five chance of you winning. See? Everybody's hand is raised.

2. An exception: the nonactor nominees, such as the costume designers, will have a speech prepared. And Mickey Rourke. In a prewritten speech at the Golden Globes, he thanked his dogs. Given that most white actors don't even bother to thank their mothers or the Lord, I thought that was refreshing.

3. Somebody will say they are humbled to win an Oscar. As an English major, I'd like to point out that "humbled" and "honored" are not synonyms. Granted, they both start with the letter "h," but don't let that confuse you. You are "honored" to win an award. You are "humbled" to, say, appear in Us Magazine with the headline: "Stars Pick Their Nose...just like us!"

4. If host Hugh Jackman cracks a joke about anyone in Hollywood, nobody will laugh. This makes me think actors hail from another planet on which people don't laugh at others' expense. I've tried to relate to this. For instance, what if a comedian came to a PTA meeting and starting cracking jokes about the other parents at the school? I would be laughing my head off and so would everybody else. Jokes about other people=funny.

5. On the red carpet, the same question will be asked over and over: What are you wearing? As if the viewers are jotting it down on their grocery list. Question for those watching at home: Does it run big or small? Is it machine washable? In contrast, when Kathy Griffin hosted the event, she asked hilarious questions such as "If you don't win tonight, who are you going to fire tomorrow?" But she won't be working the Oscars this year, unfortunately.

6. Regardless of these annoyances, I will watch the Oscars as if my life depended on it. The glamour. The glitz. The tears. Even the over-seriousness. I eat it up like buttery popcorn. I cried when 3-6 Mafia won three years ago for the song "Hard Out Here for a Pimp." Not because I thought the world was going to hell in a handbasket. Or because I think it really is hard out here for a pimp (I would think it was harder out here for a ho, but honestly, I have no idea.) I cried because they were so excited to win. Likewise, I hope Slumdog Millionaire wins because it would be a Cindarella story worthy of a box office hit.

All these things make the bull honky/lack of preparation easy to take.

As for my speech, I would like to thank the Academy, my mother, and Jesus. To the other actors nominated, there must have been some pregnant chads involved because you guys deserved to win. But seriously, they double checked everything and I did win.

Hmm...maybe it's harder to write these things than I originally thought.

In Your Face(book)

2009-02-17T16:01:00.000-08:00

So I joined Facebook. I'd heard it was a place to narcistically show people photos of yourself while nosing into other people's lives. Let me tell you, it is all that and more. I love it!

The best part is that, when you join, you have to ask people to be your friend. I haven't done that since kindergarten, and let me tell you, the answer has changed since then. It used to be across the board no's. Not that anything was wrong with me, as far as I know, but back then you'd show your coolness by being exclusive.

Whereas Facebook, in its awesomeness, shows people how many friends you have. If you have 768 friends, you look like a rock star. Hence, everybody says yes to being your friend. The more the merrier!

I'm friends with 154 people, some of whom who would never, ever be friends with me in real life, so yeah, I'm pretty popular.

Everytime I get that friendship confirmation notice, I feel all warm inside.

I wish I could get an electronic confirmation on everything in my life. "I'm going to get a new client who needs tons of work done. Can I get a confirmation on that?" Confirmed. "My three year old will one day be pottytrained. Confirm?" Confirmed. "My eyebrows will never grow as long (or curly!) as my granddad's did. Please confirm." Confirmed. Yes. Yes. and Yes. Awesome!

I'm sure some people have also denied me as their friend, but luckily I don't have a long enough attention span to keep track of that. There's an option where you can confirm someone as your friend and then covertly delete them. Which is adorable. So mindful of others' feelings.

One of my friends (in real life) says she only lets people she wants to talk to be her friend. If she writes them a note on facebook and they don't respond, bam! she deletes them. She is hardcore.

She says she could care less how many friends she's shown to have on Facebook. Me neither. But on a side note, if she added four friends, then I'd have exactly double the amount of friends she has. Not that it matters, but just as a point of mathmatical interest...

Here is my second favorite thing about Facebook: The list of 25 things. People write 25 things about themselves. I love it. I'm finally getting to know some of the parents at the school who I used to only say hi to in passing.

I think that at the kindergarten orientation meeting, this should be the only thing on the agenda. As opposed to handing out a carpool diagram that looks like the blueprint for World War III it's so frickin complicated.

I mean, if somebody has four sets of double cousins due to the fact that four people in her mom's family married four people in her dad's family, I would like to know that upfront. Because it's just incredible. It's the makings of a TLC reality show.

If somebody sends you their list, you're supposed to send them your list back. I wrote a list of 25 things but then chickened out on posting them because, frankly, I'm a little Facebook camera shy. But I know you guys, so here's my list of 25 things.

1. I have three sons. Being a girl myself, I’m constantly shocked when I walk into a room and they have, say, taken apart a lamp. Why would you do that? I don’t know. I’m not a boy.

2. Secretly, I like when they do crazy boy things. It’s like seeing childhood happen in an alternate universe. I love them to pieces.

3. My husband is from Boston. I like him (love him actually) except for the fact that he beats me at everything: Boggle. Basketball. Word searches. Etc. It’s embarrassing. Especially when you’re a trash talker like I am.

4. My favorite food is sandwiches. I worked at a Subway in college and got a free sub after every shift. This only made my love grow fonder.

5. I’ve written five children’s nonfiction books about: Jay-Z, Ronde and Tiki Barber, Peninsulas, the Alkaline Earth Metals and Wisconsin. They will be in school and public libraries.

6. My favorite books are mysteries.

7. I appreciate an outlandish story. Like when a soap opera character comes back to life. Or somebody floats away carried by balloons.

8. My son’s names are very common: Johnny, Richie and J.J. If we ever had a fourth son, I would name him Vedder Apple Rapid Rewards Sundown. Or Reggie.

9. I have a large purple birthmark on my tongue. Sometimes people ask me to stick out my tongue and show them. This makes me uncomfortable.

10. My mom has nine siblings and growing up, her parents took lots of home movies. In almost every one, my uncle Mike is wearing an Indian headdress. We are not Native American.

11. My husband and I hate sad movies. We saw Million Dollar Baby thinking it was a lady’s version of Rocky. Needless to say, it wasn’t the feel-good flick we hoped for.

12. However, I love movies and T.V. shows that make you laugh and cry, such as Scrubs and Little Miss Sunshine. When you’re like, “Ha ha ha ha boo hoo hoo,” that is the mark of a great show.

13. I have two brothers. One is a vascular surgeon. The other is a public relations representative. They seem to have had an interior career counseling voice that I was deaf to.

14. My family is several nationalities, but we picked one to run with, Irish-American, because it fits our lifestyle the best.

15. When I was growing up, I crossed the street without looking and almost got hit by a car. Now, I don’t let my kids cross the street without a grownup until second grade.

16. As a little girl, I was an old lady. My favorite T.V. show was Murder She Wrote, my favorite singer was Anne Murray, and I couldn’t wait to be my grandparents’ age so I could play cards and watch Cagney and Lacey all night.

17. I have two goddaughters and one godson...that I know of. I love them very much.

18. My friend has a theory that if you grow up with funny parents, you develop immunity to funniness and don’t laugh easily. I think this happened to me, but I do think a lot of things are funny. I guess I’m just laughing on the inside.

19. I don’t understand why people have a problem with pan handlers. When rich people swindle you out of your money, they're all tricky and secretive about it. Beggars ask for it outright. They don’t try to make it sound like a good business deal or anything. They’re just like, “Can I have some of your money? No? Okay.”

20. I have seen the following celebrities at the airport: LL Cool J, Naomi Judd and Alice Cooper.

21. My policy when seeing famous people in the airport is to smile at them and not ask for their autograph, in hopes that they will be like, “Yeah, she’s cool. She didn’t ask for my autograph.” But they’re probably really like, “Oh, she’s doing the smile thing. She wants us to think she’s cool.”

22. The real reason I don’t ask celebrities for their autograph (or say anything to them for that matter) is that my voice shakes when I get nervous. And my hands. And my head. It's a total palsy extravaganza.

23. I cook dinner almost every night and we eat together as a family. Family dinners are not the utopia people crack them up to be, but I still think they’re a good idea.

24. My goal in life is for my kids to be happy, nice people. I think the two usually go hand in hand.

25. I believe in ghosts but have never seen one. Sometimes I get jealous when other people have seen them, which is ridiculous. Why would I ever want to be haunted by a ghost? Answer: So that I'd have an awesome story to tell, maybe even on Facebook.

The Band

2009-01-27T07:03:00.000-08:00

When I picked up Richie from school yesterday, he said, "Hey, I have band practice tonight."

"Band practice?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's at Nick's house. It's rock n' roll."

"Okay..."

"So will you drop me off there?"

Figuring that Nick's mother knew nothing about this, I told Richie it was probably some other day. But he was so adament, that I e-mailed Nick's mom, who I've only met once..."Um, are you having some sort of rock n' roll rehearsal at your house?" I haven't heard back from her.

At dinner, Richie talked more about the band.

Johnny, jealous of his brother's impending fame, said, "How can you be in a band? You don't know how to play an instrument!"

"I know," Richie said. "That's why I'm doing the microphone. Drake's doing the electric guitar. Robert's playing the flute."

"What songs are you guys singing?" Justin asked.

Richie took a bite of his chili and pondered that question. "Probably 'There's a Place in France Where the Naked Ladies Dance.'"

"You can't sing that!" Johnny said. "It's illegal stealing! You didn't write it. Kevin did."

(Kevin is their slightly older cousin.)

"Actually, that song's been around since dad and I were kids," I said.

Richie smiled. "Well, it's not appropriate for ladies. Luckily, mom's not a lady. So she can still come to our concert."

"Mom's a lady," Johnny argued. "'Lady's' just a fancy way to say 'girl.'"

"Oh, I thought you stopped being a lady when you had babies," Richie said.

Johnny shook his head. "No, girls can be a lady anytime. Or a woman. But that song's definitely not appropriate for French ladies." He gulped his milk. "There probably won't be any there, though...Unless they were on vacation."

"Yeah," Richie agreed. "Not unless they were on vacation."

So I guess it's settled. Barring any vacationing French ladies, Richie will be kicking off his concert performance with, "There's a Place in France Where the Naked Ladies Dance."

Now if we only knew where and when.

The Upside of Busy

2009-01-20T08:24:00.000-08:00

Everybody's busy. Busy with work. Busy with family. Busy with committees, a.k.a. the bane of human existance. But you know who's really busy? Toddlers.

If you ever watch them, it's work, work, work. I can just imagine their to-do list: Move stuffed animals from the attic to the middle of the living room. Check. Arrange them in a straight line. Check. Feed them Saltine crackers. Check. Get out a broom and furiously sweep the crumbs until they cover every flat surface in the house. Check. Check.

Honestly, if I owned a business I would hire my three year old because he would get the job done. Assuming the job was to wreak havoc on the office, that is.

I think the secret to toddlers' success is aimlessness. It's amazing what you can accomplish when your goal isn't to accomplish anything at all. Whereas grownups get bogged down by to-do lists, toddlers just do stuff. If they go to the attic for a Captain America costume and find the Easter decorations instead, they'll wear a basket as a hat and call it a job well done.

In addition to getting out everything in the attic known to man, J.J. now has an added job: he's a father.

His cousin Francie had a babydoll at my mom and dad's house, which J.J. took one day and secretly put to bed in the crib upstairs. When Francie was leaving, we all looked for the doll and asked J.J. if he put her somewhere.

And he was like, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

But then he went upstairs to put another babydoll to bed and we found Francie's doll.

He was like, "Oh, you were looking for the babydoll. I thought you said 'favyvall.' Yes, I knew where the doll was all along."

Figuring he must like babydolls, and since it's been my lifelong dream to have a child who is attached to a stuffed animal and/or babydoll, we brought one home from my mom's house.

J.J. named him Ajax, after his cousin in Boston, who is far from a newborn, but it works because J.J. claims his baby already knows how to walk. We all take turns picking up the baby because, frankly, as a three-year-old father, J.J.'s parenting skills are lacking. For instance, if he had to answer this multiple choice question, guess which answer he would choose.

When you bring the baby inside after a trip in the car, do you:

a. Occupy the baby with a favorite toy.
b. Feed the baby.
c. Drop the baby on the floor and leave him there for the remainder of the evening.

Like most toddlers, he would choose c. Which is why "Babies having babies" is a major problem in America.

He is good about taking the baby on outings, though. He and Francie took their babies to McDonald's together, which was really cute. Then, yesterday, we went out for another nutritious meal at McDonald's. Before leaving, J.J. put on his pointy, dark Batman sunglasses, which would be perfect for the batman fan who also happens to have cataracts. Then he picked up his babydoll and was ready to go. To where...I'm not sure. A "Take Your Grandchild to Your Optomologist Day"? A playdate with the Joker and his evil tot? Either would have worked.

Alas, it was trip to the D. When we walked into McDonald's, where we were meeting some families from Johnny and Richie's school, one of the kindergarteners asked loudly, "Why does J.J. have a babydoll?"

I held my breath. Oh, no, I thought, he's going to be embarrassed of his babydoll. His fatherhood days will be over!

Then I looked at J.J., who stared at the boy for a minute. J.J.'s dark Batman glasses rested precariously on the tip of his nose and he held his baby firmly, albeit upside down. Then he kept walking. He had things to do, Happy Meals to order.

That's the good thing about keeping busy. You have no time to worry about what others think. You just keep moving.

The New Year Ushers in Old Superstitions

2009-01-13T06:44:00.000-08:00

I don't believe much of what I hear. I often pretend to believe it...just to be polite. But, in truth, I'm a sceptic. Except in one area. Superstitions.

The more outlandish, the more I believe. For instance, while I have a hard time believing that the recession is going to wrap up this Fall, I have an easy time believing that if I eat a spoonful of black-eyed peas on New Year's Day, I will strike it rich.

Most of my favorite superstitions came from childhood carpool rides. Growing up, it was weird when families instigated a seatbelt rule (this was the pre-safety 80s.) But it wasn't unusual for them to have rules such as:

Hold your breath when passing a graveyard so that you don't accidentally swallow any ghosts. Touch the ceiling of the car, hold your breath and make a wish when passing under a bridge. Otherwise, you'll crash. When you see a Texas license plate, touch three shades of blue, and before the day is over, you'll meet your one love true. (Conversely, if you're walking with someone you love and come upon a pole or tree, choosing opposite sides will result in losing each other forever.)

In the interest of not looking crazy, I left most of these practices behind in my youth.

But there's one time of year that I let superstition reign: The passing of the New Year. The main thing you want to do in the new year is throw away anything broken or torn in your house. Some of you might not have broken stuff lying around, but we do. Keeping it invites hardship. Not to mention it's broken, so when are you ever going to use it?

Then you want to rearrange your kitchen cabinets in some fashion, which invites a reversal of fortune (not recommended if you're already fortunate.)

Then, on New Year's Eve, you bang pots and pans. As a kid, I thought everyone did this; all the children in our neighborhood did, but apparently, it's a Polish tradition, which makes sense because I grew up in Poland. Wait a second, no I didn't. I think it's just one of those traditions that spread all over the world because it's free, only takes two minutes and doesn't require any special effort, making it a mother's dream come true.

I always thought the point of this tradition was to make noise, but I've since learned it's to chase off the old year.

This year, we were in Boston and it was subzero but I dragged the kids out there at 10 o'clock (midnight Mountain Time). Richie wanted to ring in the new year by sitting on the couch and staring into space, but I made him join us.

I didn't want to give 2008 any ideas.

2008: Richie didn't try to scare me away, so maybe I'll just hang around for another year.

Me: Uh, as you can see, all my children are out here clanking away, so take your recession and all the other crappy things you brought with you and get the hell outa here.

2008: Oh, all right.

You might be wondering if all this superstition is working. Not yet.

Some say doing the same thing and expecting different results year after year is the definition of insanity. I think it's the definition of persistance.

If you follow superstition persistantly, eventually, something good will happen. Of course, something good will probably happen even if you don't follow superstions, but you will have missed out on the joy of clanking pots and pans, de-junking your house and finally having your cups and glasses located above the dishwasher, which are good things in and of themselves.

When Christmas Was a Humbug

2008-12-15T08:47:00.000-08:00

With the economy bad and people believing the ripple effect has just begun, it looks like it's going to be a hard candy Christmas this year.

Everybody knows people who've been laid off. You feel sorry for them, and hearing their stories, you imagine how it could happen to your family, too. For instance, I heard that with homes not being built, new residential plumbers are flooding the repair and commercial industries. They're bidding too low, jeopardizing their own finances and those of the people being outbidded. You can see where the same thing would happen to electricians, masons and carpenters, which my husband is.

Sometimes it seems like a matter of hanging on. You hope the recession ends before the ripples reach you.

So it's a little harder to get into the spirit this year. I've cut back on spending, but I wonder if it's enough. We're doing fine now (In our household, we're in a perpetual state of recession, so this feels normal to us.) But what will happen next year? In addition to homes, there seem to be other things nobody can afford--college tuition, health insurance and gas--once the price goes back up, to name a few. I don't know much about bubbles, but there seems to be a lot of bursting yet to be done.

I was thinking about all this when I read a book review for Les Standiford's The Man Who Invented Christmas: How Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol Rescued His Career and Revived Our Holiday Spirits. It's about how Charles Dickens created Christmas as we know it. At the time A Christmas Carol was written, it was a minor holiday, celebrated by some, considered pagan by others.

In this day and age, it's hard to imagine a "minor" holiday. Halloween is a month-long retail extravaganza. Thanksgiving is an automatic day off work. And here in Kansas City, people call in sick not one but two days for St. Patrick's Day, a holiday that doesn't even make it onto most calendars.

So "minor Holiday" is a phrase difficult to wrap your modern brain around. Maybe Valentine's Day is a good comparison. Everybody works/goes to school. At night, about half the people celebrate.

Apparently, back in the 1800s, Christmas was the same way. Then Charles Dickens introduced Scrooge, a man who spent his whole life counting money. Naturally, he didn't have time for Christmas. Christmas was a humbug.

A lot of people at that time agreed. They didn't like its pagan roots for one thing.

Reading the review made me curious about the history of Christmas.

I knew that winter celebrations were widespread in ancient times, but I'd never known why. On history.com, I learned that, in Europe, people would celebrate the darkest, coldest days of the year because, well, things couldn't get any worse. Not that year, anyway. (Hurray! We've hit rock bottom!) They'd also slaughter their cows because they couldn't feed them through the winter. So that gave them another reason to celebrate. ("The cows are going to die anyway. We might as well eat them.") Add to that the fact that their wine had finally fermented, and voila, they had themselves a carnival.

When Christmas took the place of winter solstices, it was still a carnival-type holiday.

Then, in England and America, it sort of fell out of favor, thanks to the Puritans, who were always a barrel of laughs. Naturally, the Puritans hated Christmas because it didn't involve burning witches at the stake or hitting children with rods. They even banned it in Boston.

But in the 1800s, people like Charles Dickens and Washington Irving and Clement Moore started writing about Christmas and St. Nick. They described a holiday that was about family and giving--particularly to your employees and those in need. People read those accounts and decided maybe they'd like to celebrate Christmas after all.

I think it's interesting that people once scoffed at Christmas because of its pagan roots. To me, it's those ancient roots that show the spirit of the holiday. Even before civilization as we know it, people understood the need to celebrate light in the darkness.

During the winter, food was scarce and sickness lurking. It would have been a great time to retreat to their homes and hope for the best. Instead, they threw a party. They knew, instinctively, what we still know today: That when you have the least to celebrate, that is the best time to celebrate. When you have the least to hope for, that is the best time to be hopeful. When you have the least to share, that is the best time to share.

I'm trying to think of a logical explanation for this. But I can't. It doesn't really make sense. It just makes you feel better.

Look at Scrooge. He had a terrible life. His mother died in childbirth and his father never forgave him. He had a neurotic, serious personality, so he wasn't exactly the life of the party. Really, the only thing he was good at was making money. Logically speaking, that was the best talent he could have. It protected him from being sent to the poor house and the other dangers of poverty. But he was miserable.

He learned that money didn't make him happy. The only thing that would make him happy was sharing with people.

If you ask me, the spirit of giving has gotten a little out of hand, in terms of gifts, at least. Who can afford the $1,500 the average American family spends? Answer: Nobody, considering the average American household debt is $8,000. Sharing time together, on the other hand, and giving what you can is most important during a crisis like this one.

There's a theory that in order to survive the last ice age, humans had to learn to cooperate and share, and that is why we have altruistic feelings today. But I think we've always been this way, and surviving the ice age was just a fringe benefit.

It's one thing to give when you have too much of something, in hopes that, when you need something in return, those people will share with you. But that's not really how things work. Nobody gives a poor person a Christmas present with a note that says, "Hey, hobo, what goes around comes around: Remember that."

They just give. Like celebrating in the dark of winter, it doesn't really make sense. And it doesn't need to make sense. Instead, it makes people happy.

Forever Three

2008-11-29T09:29:00.000-08:00

Why can't they stay little? I think that's the motto for a brand of baby clothing and it definitely crosses the minds of parents and grandparents everywhere

Admittedly, babies are pretty darn cute. Who else gets stopped at the grocery store just so a stranger can ooh and ahh over him and offer his mother unwanted advice.

I know it bugs young mothers, but I think it shows the importance humans place on babies when our elders think, "I don't give a damn how rude it is, I think that baby should be wearing a hat and I'm going to give his mother hell for it."

I have to admit, though, each year the boys get older, I like that age better. It's just so fun when they start talking about the world around them.

For instance, we were watching Lord of the Rings last night and I was like: "Wait a second. I thought elves were short."

Johnny answered matter of factly, "That's a myth, mom. Elves are actually normal height."

But there is one age I'd like to last an extra year: three.

Granted, it's a challenge. They're at the height of their terrible twos. They're supposed to be potty trained. They're starting preschool. It's the perfect storm. You're guaranteed a major disaster at some point during the year.

In other ways, though, three year olds are just beyond hilarious. For one thing, they'll believe anything.

For instance, I'm not condoning this, but Richie was eating a popcycle the other day, and J.J. said, "Where'd you get that?"

And Richie goes, "Oh, this? I got it out of the toilet. There's more in there if you want one."

When I walked in, the boys were cracking up because J.J. had, in fact, checked the toilet for a popcycle and was really disappointed when they weren't in there.

Also, three year olds are always up for anything. They're going swimming this weekend, so I got out J.J.'s lifejacket. I said, "I want you to wear this at the swimming pool."

He was like, "Why wait? I'll wear it right now. Heck, I'll wear it everyday of my life." And he put it on for the rest of the day.

Another thing that cracks me up is the bossiness. If I scold one of the boys, J.J. gets right on the bandwagon. "You know better, Johnny," he'll say, even though he has no idea what we're talking about. He loves when his brothers get in trouble. For him, its the best show in town.

Other times, he'll put his toys in time out. There'll be ten of them in there.

"What'd they do?" I'll ask

"They're in trouble," he'll say, as if that's reason enough.

In the park is the funniest. Some five year olds were giggling and saying he looked like a teddybear, which, frankly, is not the meanest thing you could say about a person. But to J.J., them's fighting words. He started pointing his finger and saying, "I'm not a teddybear! I'm J.J.!"

I think it tickled their funny bone to see somebody who, to them, looked like an angry teddybear, so they kept giggling. Then Richie stepped in and said, "Leave my brother alone!"

And they called him a teddybear, too.

And he called them chicken nuggets. And boy, it was ugly. I'm just glad I wasn't involved in the whole thing.

But the best part about three year olds is their laughter. If you laugh. They laugh. If you laugh louder, they laugh louder. And I've even found that if you do an evil laugh, they'll do an evil laugh, too. It has to be the happiest age ever.

Then they turn four and become very nice children, not bossy at all or tempermental or unreasonable. I always feel a little relieved, but a little nostalgic, too. There's just nothing like a three year old.

Kindergarten Boardroom

2008-11-20T09:37:00.000-08:00

Every week, I volunteer in Richie's kindergarten classroom, and my favorite part is circle time.

Circle time is essentially an employee meeting, with the teacher playing the role of boss. She tells them what work they need to do that day, and they ask important questions such as, "Can I go to the bathroom?" and make insightful comments such as, "I'm hungry."

They're always getting up during circle time, and it's never to do something normal, like blow their noses. For instance, they wear uniforms, and one time, a girl went into the cloakroom wearing her white shirt and plaid jumper and came out wearing leggings and a Hannah Montana T-shirt. Then she came back to circle time like nothing happened.

The teacher was like, "Why aren't you wearing your uniform?"

The girl looked totally confused, as if wondering, "Why would I be wearing my uniform? It's not like I'm at school...or am I? Where am I? What day is it?"

Sometimes during circle time, the picture lady comes. She shows the kids fine art and tells them about the artist. Then she asks questions. Since she is a visitor and doesn't know the kids' names, she points. It always happens that two kids sitting next to each other think she's pointing at them. They engage in a death stare, and I'm not sure how the winner is determined, but eventually that kid answers the question.

Then, for the remainder of circle time, the other kid looks at her like, "How DARE you steal my thunder?"

After a while, a boy usually walks over to his backpack, gets out a toy car, and hides it in his lap. Then another boy says, "So and so has a toy." The teacher tells him to put it away.

Inevitably, the boy who tattled on the other boy goes to his backpack and gets out a toy car.

Another kid says, "So and so is hiding a toy car."

The teacher tells him to put it away.

Then, I kid you not, the second tattle tale gets a car out of his backpack, too.

And, as if she hasn't the same thing 10 billion times, the teachers says calmly, but disappointedly, "Boys and girls, we do not bring toys to circle time. You know better than that."

As a Catholic, this is why I think the saint program is too strict: no kindergarten teachers, to my knowledge, have been canonized. I think all of them should be. You want a miracle: Try teaching a kid who still picks his nose and eats the boogers how to read. I think the pope should just canonize a St. Kindergarten Teacher and if you make it through the year: Boom. You're in.

Back to circle time.

Here's one difference between it and an employee meeting: a table. The kids sit on the floor, so there's a lot of crawling and squirming around. I don't know what would happen if adult meetings were held on the floor. But I'm pretty sure the grownups wouldn't grab their toes and roll onto their backs, like a rocking horse. I also don't think they would get up on their knees and secretly inch forward so that they could be the closest person to the boss. But who knows? Every grownup meeting I've ever been to, there was a table involved.

I'd really like to see, though, what would happen if kindergarteners did attend a company meeting. Like, say they magically became employees at a bank because, I don't know, all the grownups had been beemed into outerspace. What would that be like? Well, you'll soon find out because its the working concept for my 1980s sitcom "Kindergarten Boardroom," which airs on Fridays after Small Wonder. Along with all the other lame shows that reminded adolescents like me the full repurcussions of not having a social life.

Anyway, I don't think the boardroom situation would be as disastrous as you'd think. After circle time, amazingly, 19 out of 20 kids do their work the right way. So obviously, they're listening to directions. Whereas grownups can put on a big show of listening intently while in reality they're thinking, "When was the last time Carla got her hair done. 1982? Ha ha."

So maybe kids would do all right running a bank, as long as their teacher was at the helm. Even if they got out of line, she'd reel them in. I can just hear her now, "Boys and girls we do not give housing loans to people who can't afford them. You know better than that."

Teacher Conferences...Oldest Son vs. Youngest Son

2008-11-10T08:29:00.000-08:00

People say there's a real difference between oldest and youngest children, the former being type-A and the latter being more laid back. I'd have to say those "differences" have a name: mom and dad.

If you don't believe me, here's a little experiment you can do. Listen to a mother and father's conversation after their oldest child's preschool teacher conference. Then, several years later, listen to the conversation after their youngest kid's teacher conference.

So that you don't have to eavesdrop, here is a convenient transcript:

Conversation between Husband and Wife after Oldest Child's Preschool Teacher Conference

Wife: (Sobbing.) His teachers said he (sob sob sob sob) doesn't listen to them. He just does whatever he wants. I think he might be (sob sob sob) deaf!

Husband: Maybe we should have his hearing checked.

Wife: She said he runs around wild, wrestling and roughhousing. I think we should have him tested for ADD, too.

Husband: Maybe so.

Wife: And blindness, while we're at it.

Husband: (Rubs back.)

Wife: I can't believe our son is deaf, hyper and blind!!!!! (Wahhh)

Husband: Let's eat dinner and talk about it later.

Wife: I couldn't possibly eat at a moment like this.

Husband: (Brow furrows. Looks worriedly at son.)

Conversation after Youngest Child's Preschool Conference

Wife: (With sarcasm.) Wow. I was suprised to learn that our three year old is the ringleader of all the roughhousing in the classroom. It's shocking.

Husband: (Laughter)

Wife: He's so perfect at home.

Husband: My favorite part was when the teacher said he put that older kid in a headlock.

Wife: Really? I enjoyed the dogpile in the lunchroom.

Husband: What are we going to do with him?

Wife: Reform school, probably.

Husband: (Laughter) What are we going to do about dinner?

Wife: Sausage sandwiches.

Husband: That sausage is too gamey. Let's order pizza.

Wife: (Shrugs.) Pizza it is.

Now, I hope you don't think these parents have become less caring as time goes by. That they're satified to let their youngest be a brute. Rather, they know that the amazing thing about three-year-old boys is not that they act their age but that they eventually grow up.

As their son gets older, the conferences become predictable: "He is a nice boy, but sometimes gets a little wild when he's around his friends. He has a good speaking voice. However, he needs to work on not using it so much during class." That kind of thing.

Basically, the teacher no longer sounds like a WWF announcer. And you realize that your worrying didn't change anything. Time did.

The Costume as Everyday Attire

2008-10-24T19:34:00.000-07:00

Here is my absolutely favorite thing about kids: Sometimes, they enter a room nonchallantly, looking at everybody like "Hey, what's up?" They hang up their coat, take a seat. Everything's totally normal. Except for the fact that they're dressed like Darth Vader. Or Snow White. Or Buzz Lightyear.

The costume as everyday attire...It's the stuff childhood is made of.

The other day, J.J. wore his Captain America costume everywhere. To a Mexican restaurant for lunch with his aunts. To his cousins' football games. To a family party. Every once in a while, he'd pretend to hold a shield and yell, "Captain America. Save the Day!" But other than that, it was business as usual: coloring, eating chips, throwing fits from time to time. Normal. Only in costume.

Things are probably the same for the real Captain America--ordinary, at least on a personal level. I mean, what are the chances that both his personal and professional lives would be absolutely riveting. For most people, neither is even the least bit interesting. That's what makes it so great! Interesting isn't good, especially at home. If someone says, "The past couple weeks have been...interesting," you're like, "Oh, Christ. What happened?"

So, if Captain America really is in the business of saving the day, odds are, he spends his weekends planting crysanthemums or something. Which beats the alternative of, say, searching for his long-lost father in the ghettos of Hong Kong while dealing with annoying death traps set by his evil clone.

Halloween is basically the same thing, with kids going about their business in costume, all on the same day. This year, our school did this a little early with trunk-or-treat. On Friday, 200 kids trick-or-treated at our car, so I got the opportunity to see them as their characters. I know a lot of them but eventually figured out that saying hi by name disappointed them. They wanted to be their characters.

Richie was this way. He dressed as Anakin Skywalker--the good years. I gave him a sticker, which meant we'd paid for him to trick-or-treat. He looked at it like, What galaxy far far away, long long ago has stickers, of all things? "Do I have to wear this?" he asked.

A while later, he ran into Darth Vader. Basically, this would be like bumping into yourself after you'd already gone over to the dark side--while, in the present, you're still undergoing Jedi training! Um...Awkward.

To make matters worse, Darth Vader was in second grade and challenged Richie to a lightsaber battle. As their swords clashed, Richie had that look on his face we all get when we know that, logistically, we're going to lose a battle but are praying to everliving God it doesn't happen. At least not immediately.

Then, the look changed. He stuck out his chest and allowed that plastic lightsaber to stab him straight in the heart. Then, he staggered hilariously and gasped, "I'm dead! I'm deaaaaaad!" Darth Vader got a big kick out of that. Well played, Anakin, well played.

After their battle, Anakin and Darth sat down and drank hot chocolate with marshmallows floating on top.

Costumes let kids be who they want to be--only in an everyday way. Superheroes may save the day while wearing their underpants outside their clothes, but for dinner, they eat their hotdogs with ketchup like everybody else. Princesses live in a turret and wear satin gowns as everyday attire, but at the end of the night, they climb onto their mom and dads' laps and fall asleep. Even junior high kids, dressed in hoodies, frightening masks and sheer awkwardness, gather with their friends to trade candy after an evening of being scary.

No wonder Halloween has become one of the biggest holidays in our country. An exciting career (whether in the field of saving or destroying the world.) A blessedly boring homelife. Isn't that the American Dream? And you get a bag full of candy, to boot. Happy Halloween, everybody!

The Art of Tattling

2008-10-01T06:55:00.000-07:00

Some things that kids do, there's no grownup version, for most of us at least. Wrestling, for instance. Running around in circles. Yelling. Singing on the playground for all the world to hear. Unless you decide to do any of these things for a living, you pretty much grow out of them.

But what cracks me up about kids is when they do things that adults do, only in a more upfront, in-your-face way.

Take tattle telling, for instance. Today, when I dropped J.J. off at school, three little girls were sitting on the floor reading. Well, a little boy came sauntering up to the front of the room, hands in his pockets, not really paying attention. Then, when he saw what they were doing, he stopped dead in his tracks. Apparently, they were breaking a rule because it was play time, not reading time.

"Ohooooooh. I'm tellin' on y'all," he said.

"What? The teacher said we could read," one little girl shot back.

But he told anyway.

Now let's just pause to think about how a grownup would handle this very same situation. Probably, he would wait until he was alone with his boss and then casually mention something like, "Are Janet, Carol and Kate not very busy with work right now?"

"Why do you ask?" the boss would say.

"Because I saw them reading during work time, and I just thought it was wierd because I'm slammed with work right now. I was surprised that they weren't."

Then, ideally, the boss would give the three ladies more work than they could ever handle. Meanwhile, they would never know who told or even if someone told.

When, you're a kid, however, the whole point of tattling is for the other kid to know it was you.

"Yeah, that's right," kids say. "I got you in trouble. That'll teach you to read when you're supposed to be playing. Punks."

And here's another thing that kids are more upfront about: insults. They'll flat out tell another kid they think he's crazy or mean or bad at kickball or anything else.

As kids, we took turns being on the receiving end of these comments. That's why I can't understand when people say, "If you've got something to say, say it to my face!"

I'm like, "Do you not remember what that was like? Being insulted to your face? In front of everyone? No, sir. If you've got something to say about me, say it behind my back...that way it'll be your problem, not mine. I'll never have to know."

Here's a good thing kids are more open about, though. Friendship. They'll make a best friend in a single day. And then they'll draw them a bunch of pictures or write them notes or dress alike. Obviously, grownups can't do this or else it would totally freak the other person out.

But it's nice when kids do it. It shows their honesty and straight-forwardness goes both ways. From the hilarious tattle-telling to the precious declarations of friendship, straight-forwardness is what makes kids kids. Well, that and the running around in circles, roughhousing and singing at the top of their lungs.

Rough Housing

2008-09-29T18:38:00.000-07:00

I started out the school year dropping J.J. off at school in the morning and breaking down in tears. He was crying; I was crying.

Now, I have a new routine. When I pick up J.J. in the afternoon, I attempt to sneak out of the classroom before any of his teachers can talk to me. I mean, they see me, but the important thing is not letting them pull me aside. So, ideally, they're conversing with a dad about his kid's food allergy. Or trying to find somebody's blanket that needs washing. Or something.

This new routine is due to the fact that J.J. has become quite the tough hombre since he started preschool. Now that he's comfortable in his new school, he's partaking freely in his favorite passtime: roughhousing.

"J.J. knocked over four kids at one time today," his assistant teacher told me the other day.

Another day, she said, "Whenever somebody falls down or even bends down to tie their shoe, J.J. dives on top of them. Like a dogpile."

And, another day, "I've been telling J.J. he needs to be a leader, not a follower. He's been hanging out with some boys who've been acting wild, and he's copying them."

"Oh, don't kid yourself," I wanted to say. "If he was the leader of that pack, things would be a lot worse." But I'm not going to sell out my own kid like that, so instead I said, "Yes, I'll talk to him about that."

J.J.'s assistant teacher is so nice that she always tells me J.J. means no malice; he seems to be playing.

Which is why I told him, "J.J., when you want to play with your friends, say, 'Hi, how are you? Let's play.' Don't piledrive them!"

And: "When someone ties his shoe, that's not your invitation to dive on top of him."

You know, tips and pointers that, for grownups, totally go without saying. But since he's a three-year-old boy who loves to wrestle, I have to say it.

He looks at me and says, "Uh huh. Uh huh. Kay!" But for all I know he's agreeing that jelly beans should, indeed, be our next president. I mean, he seems to have no idea what I'm telling him.

I've tried everything to stop this rough housing. I've even banned wrestling and tackling in our home, which nearly killed me because where else are my sons going to learn the fundamentals of football prior to the fifth grade season?

So far, nothing has worked. Then, this morning, while J.J. put together a puzzle, I saw the assistant teacher pull another parent aside. Of course, I eavesdropped because this father's son is like the quietest, nicest boy ever. So I thought, "Oh, what'd he do, not participate in the classroom discussion?"

But she whispered, "He's been hitting. Not a lot, and he's certainly not the only one. There's about four others..."

So we're not alone...I thought with relief. Even Quiet McShy's been in on the game. It doesn't excuse J.J., but at least it puts things into perspective. He's a boy. Boy's tackle. I'll try and try to teach him that there's a time and a place. But until it clicks, I'll continue to count on other parents to run defense for me, having nice long conversations with the teachers, while I wave and walk J.J. out the door.

Break a leg, Bo and Susannah

2008-09-22T07:55:00.000-07:00

I sent Bo and Susannah off to their big job interview today. They're the characters in my first romance novel. I stuck them in the mail without so much as a hug and a kiss. They can hug and kiss each other on the way to the publisher, I guess. I wish them well.

Or I thought I'd wish them well. As it turns out, the emotion is a little stronger than that.

Granted, the trip to the post office wasn't Sobfest '08 like J.J.'s first day of preschool was, but it wasn't a simple business transaction either.

See, as a writer, that is my mantra. It's not personal. It's just business. I think that's what the mafia says before they kill someone, but I don't mean it like that. I just mean that writing is how I make money, so if a book doesn't get bought by a publisher, it's not something to cry about. It just means I need to make more sales calls.

But that's not really how writing works. You do get attached to your characters and stories, and it's very hard to sell a book. So there is some emotion wrapped up in it.

Still, I convinced myself that sending off the manuscript was no big deal. After all, I don't even know if the editor will buy it. She liked the first three chapters, but there are 12 more where that came from and who knows if they'll make the grade.

I should have known mailing off the manuscript was a big deal, however, because this morning, my obsessive compulsiveness was in full force. As I printed the manuscript, I checked all the pages to make sure they were in order. I peered into the envelope several times to make sure it contained everything it needed. And, though I'm not proud to admit it, I even washed and rinsed the rubberband that holds the papers together.

I don't know what I was expecting. The editor to say, "Look at this rubberband! It's hideous. Into the trash with that manuscript!"

On the contrary, the editors I know are nice, reasonable people who have no bias whatsoever toward clean rubberbands.

Still.

At the post office, I got my favorite postal clerk, who walked me through the ordinarily simple process of mailing a letter. But keep in mind, since this is my first novel manuscript, it was more like mailing a baby. As I faltered with closing the envelope, she took over with the gluestick. (Note to self: put her on the Christmas calzone list.)

I choked back my tears and even resisted the urge to ask for a minute alone with the envelope. Like I said, she is my favorite clerk, and I don't want her to think I'm quirky.

But if I did have a minute alone with the package, I would have said:

Bo, Susannah, you know I love you. I'm sorry I created so many obstacles for you throughout the novel. The secret baby, for starters. I think you're better people for it, however. I, too, have changed in the course of writing this story. I always wanted to write a novel but didn't think I could do it. You taught me that I can. In fact, I'm starting a second one tonight. I will never forget the two of you, and in closing, I believe in you. So do me a favor and sell this book.

When I got home, I thought about what an agent said at a conference I went to. Don't make your goal to be selling the book. You can't control that. Make your goal to be finishing the book.

I thought, Gee that's a nice sentiment. Unfortunately, groceries and Catholic school don't pay for themselves. And nobody says, "We accept Visa, Mastercard and finished manuscripts." It just doesn't work that way.

But when I held the tall stack of paper in my hands today and slid it into the envelope. When I put the envelope on the scale at the post office. When I got back home, knowing the fate of my story was out of my own hands, I finally understood what that agent meant. I felt like I had accomplished a goal. I wrote the best story I know how to write.

And mailing it off wasn't "no big deal," as I expected. I mailed off something I care about. I guess it would be like a grandma mailing off her "something borrowed" to her grandaughter, and hoping that, not only will it get there safely but that the marriage will be a good one.

I hope that the editor likes the manuscript, and not only that, but that people will read it and feel good.

Family Meeting

2008-09-08T15:15:00.000-07:00

Two weeks into the school year, things got hairy at home. I've been working a lot, so I wasn't exactly staying on top of the laundry and house work. And the boys didn't have their morning routines down pat.

The situation escalated throughout the week until, by Wednesday, nobody left the house happy. It was as if the front door wouldn't swing open until every last one of us was miserable.

Johnny never had the right shirt clean, for instance. For his uniform, he can wear a red golf shirt to school, but on Mass days, has to wear a white button down collar shirt. Apparently, wearing a button down collar shirt on any day but Mass day is the most mortifying experience a second grader can endure. As the week two wore on, we ran out of golf shirts and he left the house in tears and a button down collar shirt.

Another day, Richie was running late and threw a fit in the school hallway.

"I'm not sending you in that classroom throwing a fit," I said.

"I'm throwing a fit because of you!" he retorted.

Never one to bite my tongue in public, I said, "Don't talk to me that way. You are not the only person in this family. If you all helped me, we'd get out of the house on time."

Well, who should be standing there as I'm yelling at my crying child in the hallway than That Mom.

You know That Mom. She's like the opposite of a camcorder...always there to capture your worst moments. No parenting mistake goes unrecorded by her: The over or under-disciplining, the eyeroll behind your child's back, the cussword dropped on the school playground. The untied shoes. The unbrushed hair. The forgotten lunch. Etc. Etc.

It goes without saying that she was also there when Johnny walked to school crying. And I'm sure, since we live across the street from the school, that she hears the commotion inside as well. "Who spilled the milk!" "J.J. you need to go potty on the potty!" "Richie! Put on clean socks!"

I know what she must be thinking, "Wow, every time I see those Heos children, they're crying. I wonder if something is wrong with their mother."

Damn right something is wrong with their mother. Namely, she's doing all the work.

So I called a family meeting. I couldn't wait to lay into my kids--and possibly my husband, too--at this meeting.

I'd say, "First of all, no more crying on the way to school. You're making me look bad."

And, "I am sorry if you are unable to wear the shirt of your dreams each and every day. But your brother is still being potty trained and clothes with pee on them have priority in the laundry."

And, "If you want to be on time in the morning, start working toward that goal at 7 a.m., not 7:59."

Yes, it would be a great meeting, for me at least.

But I decided to clean the house first. Richie and Johnny offered to wash the floors in the entire downstairs. They seemed excited about it, so I said, what the hay? That gave me time to clean the rooms, at which point I found several uniform shirts cast behind beds and under couches and what not. I did the laundry, and more uniforms magically appeared. I reorganized the boys' dressers so there was room for uniforms. Basically, I got organized. Feeling much better, I was ready to have the meeting.

Wait a second, though. Did I really want to yell at my children? It had been an emotional week. Everybody was starting new things, from J.J. to me. Some waterworks and temper tantrums were to be expected. And: They'd just washed all our floors--something they actually wanted to do...more than I could say for myself.

Still, should I really be blamed for every little thing that goes wrong in the morning? I'm trying to work plus write four different books that have deadlines by the end of the year. Money for those books will go to our family. Couldn't somebody else wash the shirts, for a change? How about J.J.? He seems to have a lot of time on his hands.

Then, again, I thought of all the meetings I've been to through the years where everybody got scolded. From sports to newspaper meetings, they weren't very fun. It's fine if you're at work or school, I guess, but I didn't really want to hold a hostile meeting at home.

So I took a different tack.

At the meeting, I thanked the boys for helping me clean the house. I congratulated everybody for surviving the first week of school and work. Then I bribed the children.

If they clean up their toys and clothes every day and lay out their clothes at night without complaining, they get $1 at the end of the week. If they do it without being asked, they get $2.

The allowance was Justin's suggestion. It's definitely made our mornings more peaceful. I'll be honest, I felt pleased as punch with myself and Justin. But I bet you can guess who wasn't there to witness our brilliant parenting moment. That Mom.

First Week of School

2008-08-28T04:43:00.000-07:00

This doesn't get any easier, does it?

I dropped J.J. at school on Monday. He was the only kid crying. In fact the only other person sobbing uncontrollably in the building--shoulders heaving and everything--was me.

"Is he the baby of the family?" One teacher asked.

"Is this his first time at school?" asked another.

"Did it go okay?" my friend asked in the parking lot.

Yes, yes and no.

On the way to work, they kept playing tearjerker songs like "Another One Bites the Dust." But I didn't change the station because, in solidarity with J.J., I was going to cry for a solid half hour.

I wish I could say that I got there in the afternoon and everything was okay.

Well, J.J. was okay, but his teacher told me--in front of a captive storytime audience--that she told J.J. she wasn't going to listen to him cry like that. Then she said that he'd probably cry every morning for the rest of the week.

You know how people say, "Tell me the truth and don't sugarcoat it?"

I'm the opposite. I'm like, "Rewind and this time, mince your words. More euphamisms, please. This isn't a spelling bee, so there's no need to spell it out. Trust me, I can read between the lines."

This is the midwest, we're supposed to be experts at this. So why was this teacher giving me a play by play? And why wasn't she going to listen to him cry? What was she going to do, run for the hills everytime a kid in the class gets a boo boo, either on their knee or in their heart?

In the hall, he stood with his backpack as big as he was.

"Did you have fun at school?" I asked.

"I had fun at school," he said, laughing.

Was he laughing because of the fun, or was he joking about having fun?

Day 2

When J.J. started crying, a little girl said, "Here he goes again."

In tears, I headed for the principal's office. I told her about how the teacher had tattled on J.J. in front of the whole class, and for what? Crying when his mom left him at school for the first time.

She said they were working with the teacher on understanding separation anxiety. I asked if J.J. could switch to the class where they already knew about separation anxiety. The one where I walk by and see ladies cradling crying children on rocking chairs. She said to give it a week.

Day 3

I read a book in the morning to J.J. and the little girl sitting across from him, who was probably four.

Afterwards, she asked me, "Do you go to work?"

"Yes," I said.

"Why do you cry when you go to work?"

Hmm, I guess my waterworks on Monday left quite an impression.

"Well, I like going to work," I said. "But I feel sad leaving my son because he's sad. If he cries today, will you help him? Like look at a book with him or something?"

She thought about that. "If I have time, I will," she said. "If I have time."

Jeez. What was on this little girl's agenda? A debriefing with the Tooth Fairy? A power lunch with her teddybears?

When I left, J.J. cried, but not as much, and the same went for me, too. But as I left, I thought about why it was so hard to leave my son, even knowing that I'd be back soon. He might have one teacher who doesn't understand separation anxiety (a concept my eight year old is familiar with), but his other teacher seems very nice, and I love the principal...so it's not really the school I'm worried about.

Well, part of it is that J.J. wasn't expecting to go to this school. He assumed he'd be attending preschool across the street from our house, which is a pretty reasonable assumption. It's just that it's too expensive there.

You know what it is? When you leave a child who's crying, it magnifies how long you'll be gone. You feel like you're parting for 1,000 years.

I've tried to think about people who have it worse. Like soldiers leaving their families not for hours, but for years. And the Chinese gymnasts, who were taken from their homes at age three simply because they showed promise on the pummel horse.

This strategy never works. Even knowing that other people have bigger problems than you, your's appear bigger because you're closer to them. It's a simple matter of perception.

Still Day 3

When I picked J.J. up at the end of the day, the little girl who was pressed for time was leading the class in the alphabet. J.J. was quietly smiling up at her, as if thinking, "She is putting on quite a show."

Well, I guess that little girl had things to do, after all.

When J.J. saw me through the window, he started laughing. So did the boy next to him, even though he didn't know what they were laughing about. I walked in and sat down behind J.J. He sat on my lap, and now the girl (and the teacher) were helping the class count to ten. J.J. was loving it.

Afterwards, I signed him out, and his teacher (the separation one) said, "You know, after you leave, he's happy. He does a good job. I know it's hard for him--and you. I went through the same thing with my kids when they went to daycare."

"Thank you," I said.

I guess she knew about separation anxiety after all, but had forgotten.

As J.J. left, the same girl who said, "Here we go again," waved to him, along with some other kids. "Bye, J.J.," they said.

He turned and waved to them, laughing, "Bye bye."

Maybe this does get a little easier.

Pack Your Bags, August

2008-08-22T05:16:00.000-07:00

August...why do we even have it anymore?

It used to be the month where kids got sick of summer and begrudgingly admitted that, yes, they were ready to go back to school. Now it has become back-to-school-o-ween...one long string of back-to-school nights, pre-school orientations and clothing sales.

School starts midmonth; the pool doesn't open until 4 p.m.; aloe is hidden behind weekly planners and protractors.

My kids have "star of the week" at school, where they bring in their favorite things, such as television. Well, summer used to be the star of the year. In June, families looked forward to vacation and kids didn't let a day go by without getting drenched at least by the backyard hose. July brought an easy rhythm of pool time and cook-outs. In August, even as people got sick of summer, they were forced to embrace it lazily because it was too damned hot to do anything else.

Now, with air-conditioning, we've pretty much shown August the door. "You have been replaced by September," we've said. "Here is a box for your hammock and sun tea what-not. Security will escort you out."

August is thinking, "September is such an upstart, with it's sharpened pencils and coordinated skirt and sweaters and box of 48 crayons. La dee fricken da. I hope your crayons break!"

That gives August an idea. It vows to melt the crayons the next time they're left in the car, but quickly decides it's too lazy to follow through. Instead, it naps in the sun and gets a huge sunburn.

This is also the month where moms are still dispensing drops for swimmers ear and slathering on sunscreen at the zoo--trying at the last minute to fit in all those 100 degree magic moments, while attending school committee meetings at night for things that aren't going to happen until next year. All while continuing to work.

Add to that potty training and constant denial that your youngest child is starting school (more on that next week), and voila you've got a little-known condition called seasonal retardation.

August is no time to write that novel you've always thought about, for instance. Or to take an I.Q. test. Or even to keep track of time.

The other day I looked at the calendar and it was August 6. The next time I checked, it was August 16. I lost 10 days. In the meantime, I had taken my to do list from the sixth and made an arrow to the next day. Over and over and over. Do you know what happens when I shirk my responsibilities for 10 days in a row? Apparently nothing.

But all that has to change. School beckons. It's good for me because now I can get some work done. But I feel a little nostalgia, as far as the kids go, for longer summers. They've been shortened for a reason; kids have to be smarter nowadays because the world is a lot more complicated, what with Tivo and Facebook and everything.

I do feel sorry for August, though, a month that I think has a beautiful name and important purpose, or at least used to.

Typically August went out with a bang. It didn't gradually morph into the next season, like November becomes winter and May becomes summer. It's like February. It's the end of the season and it's also the most dramatic weather of the season.

Hot to the last, it asks you, Do you really want summer to last forever? Begrudgingly, you say no.

Until now. This month we've had cooler weather. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. But as a writer, I see some symbolism here. August has been bought out by Fall and now has the temperatures to prove it. My kids don't want to go back to school. Even parents universally answer the how was your summer question with: "Busy. And too short."

So goodbye, August. You were a lazy month and not much good for anything. And for that reason, we will really miss you.

Amateur Hour at the Park

2008-08-16T13:33:00.000-07:00

I'm not a perfect mother. I let my kids watch PG-13 movies. I yell. Other times, I let them be too wild. They've been known to cuss, too.

On occasion, I watch them walk past my door while I'm folding laundry. "Where's mom?" they ask, and I don't say anything. I assume that if they really wanted to know, they would turn their heads rather than just hoping to trip over me.

I mean...my door is wide open and we only have six rooms in our house, so it's not like I'm hiding in the west atrium or anything. Still, sometimes I feel like a slacker mom.

The good news is, when I start feeling down on myself, watching strangers interact with their children does just the trick.

The other day at the park, for instance, it was amateur hour.

A 12 or so year old boy told his mom, "Fine, if you won't let me do that, then I'll call you a lardbutt for the rest of the day."

Wow, I thought. It's all over for that kid. He should have started running before he said that...you know, to get a head start.

But here's how his mom responded: "Well, how would you like it if I called you a lardbutt? It would probably hurt your feelings."

That was it. Then the kid laid down next to his mom and stared at the sky.

Next, a different mom came rollerblading over to a table, where her husband was napping and her children were sitting on the bench. "Who wants to walk next to me while I rollerblade around the park?" she asked.

Her two boys were like, "Um, no thank you."

"Fine!" she exploded. "Then just sit there and get fat!"

They looked at her politely, but blankly.

She stormed off, but then whirled around. "Is that what you want? To sit there and get fat?"

I'd be thinking, "Yeah, pretty much...considering the alternative."

Finally, one of them walked with her, probably because they seemed to be very nice boys. Their dad, by the way, never woke up through any of this.

Next thing I knew, a boy in a different family (not the lardbutt family,) yelled at his mom in a really mean voice, "Fine, then I'm leaving!"

That boy's tone of voice wouldn't exactly inspire an apology from me, but his mom said meekly, "I'm sorry."

For a minute I wondered...do nice parents have mean kids and vice versa?

It can't be. I know lots of nice parents who have nice kids and surely there are plenty of mean parents who have mean kids.

I just don't understand how you could hear your son call you a lardbutt and not get mad. Or why you'd tell your kids they're going to get fat. As if they care.

If I told my kids, "Would you rather have a million pounds of candy and be so fat that you're asked to join the circus...or have no candy and be fit and healthy?" they would definitely choose the candy. No contest.

Speaking of my kids, you're probably wondering what they were doing through all this. I have no idea. I could see them (very clearly from up on my high horse.) J.J. struggled to climb up something. I thought about going over there, but eventually he figured it out on his own. I couldn't hear them. For all I know, they were calling each other lardbutts.

I guess it's easy to be a perfect mom when my kids are out of earshot. But, frankly I needed a break from them. Maybe these moms did, too. (Sleepyland Daddy sure did--and he took it.)

In truth, we all need our quiet time. We all get frustrated with our children. Sometimes we're too strict, other times too lenient. The important thing is to go to a park every once in a while and watch other families. Trust me, you'll immediately feel better about your own.

On the other hand, I know our family has served this exact purpose for other families at the park. I like to think of it as a self-righteousness co-op. So if you don't start feeling better about your family, rest assured that somebody else is feeling better at your expense. Hopefully, it will be your turn next week.

It Boggles the Mind

2008-08-01T04:56:00.000-07:00

My son John, my husband Justin and I sat down for a friendly game of Boggle last night. If you haven't played this in a while, it's the one where you shake up the letters and make words with letters that are next to each other.

I must admit, I was overconfident going into the game. I'm a writer; my husband is more mathematically inclined and my eight year old just learned how to read, so yeah, I had it in the bag.

But my husband, whose number one goal in life is to beat me at every game on the planet, had a surprise strategy.

He plays the caveman version of Boggle. Arrange letters to make a sound, and declare it a word.

This actually works. Who knew that ooh and haha were endorsed by Webster himself?

Haha: n. A fence, wall, etc. set in a ditch around a garden or park so as not to hide the view from within.

Yes, come to think about it, we were just talking about that at our neighborhood book club.

Diane, I just love your new haha.

Well, we didn't want to mask the view from within the garden.

Of course not. The view is wunderbar. (Also in the dictionary as an alternative to wonderful.)

Thank you. We're having a wunderbar time now that we have our haha. More tea?

We play where if you challenge a word and it's in the dictionary, the challenger has to subtract a point. Still, there were times where I'd challenge every word starting with Noa (the abbreviation of Noah, according to Justin, which wouldn't work anyway because there are no proper nouns!!!!) and ending with nont. Which is "nont" a word.

Challenging ha ha and ooh cost me the game. Then I let Justin convince me that otir, though not an animal, is, in fact, a word. I later found out this was a bluff.

Johnny also was a surprisingly good player. He found beet. "You know," he said. "Like I beet you in basketball." And "Peat," which he said was short for Peter. (Do we need to review the definition of "proper noun"?)

Justin won the game. (Or can you also spell it wun? I don't know, why doesn't he write it on his Boggle sheet and find out?!)

I demanded a rematch.

In the second game, sadly for Justin, hoo and hals, which he defined as an abbreviation of halls (because who has time to write an extra L anymore?), were not in the dictionary, so I won.

By this time, Johnny had dropped out of the game, and was getting a kick out of watching us challenge words.

Afterwards, he said, "I never knew haha was a word." Summarizing the definition, he said, "Haha. It's what the farmer said when he saw a hole in his garden. Ha. Ha."

Well, I'm glad he learned something about our language.

I learned something, too. It's a big dictionary. As it turns out, you don't have to know what's in it, you just have to know how to win. My husband does a wunderbar job of finding a way to win any game.

Little does he know that I intend to read the entire dictionary before our tie breaker game number three. He'll never see it coming, not even if we build a haha in our garden.

Our Summer is Literally in the Toilet

2008-07-22T13:25:00.000-07:00

I've heard that in Germany, people potty train their one year olds. Calm down, I used to think. You're making the rest of us look bad.

But now I'm beginning to see the wisdom in their ways.

Because otherwise it's Potty Training, meet the Terrible Twos. You all should get along great. You're both the worst thing in the world.

Sigh.

We're on day seven of potty training. Or shall I say potty nothing.

Basically, J.J. and I sit in the bathroom and read board books. You'd think we were at the library. I wish.

With Johnny having swimmer's ear and J.J. "trying" to go potty every hour and temperatures in the triple digits, we're practically shut-ins. Any day now, a church group is going to drop by to sing Christmas carols and rake our yard and dedicate three hail marys and an our father to us.

Just to get my toddler in the bathroom is a huge ordeal. He throws fits. I throw fits.

All the books we read end with the kid going potty. Three cheers! So and so's a big boy! Rah rah rah! Sis boom bah!

There is no happy ending to our story. Instead, ours would go: Sadly, the little boy never got potty trained. He couldn't go to preschool and his mom couldn't go back to work and they all starved and I hope you're happy. The end.

Speaking of books, mine keeps getting rejected. When you're a writer and you get an envelope addressed to you in your own handwriting, it's never good news. Good news comes in phone calls and e-mails.

On a happy note, I got assigned three more work-for-hire books. Now, my dream is for the topics at our church trivia night to be: Wisconsin. Peninsulas. The Alkaline Earth Metals. Because that's what my assignments are.

I also sent off the first three chapters of my romance novel to an editor. Now I wait and see if she wants to read the whole thing.

Hmm...maybe my next assignment could be...How to potty train your three year old while becoming a billionaire best selling novelist. Children would probably find that topic a bit self-serving, however. Not to mention unrealistic.

The old saying was, "Nobody goes to kindergarten un-potty trained." It was to remind moms there wasn't a big rush, back in the days when kids didn't go to preschool.

Now we have early childhood education, and in Kansas City, it's free.

So the new saying among preschool teachers is "Lots of preschool parents claim their kids are potty trained. What a frickin' joke."

Well, we still have a little time.

Beaches

2008-07-15T06:37:00.000-07:00

We went to Boston to visit family and at the end of the trip we all went to Cape Cod together. I love going to the beach, not just for fun but also because there's nothing like it in Kansas City.

Sure, we have swimming pools, but they're not the best for people watching usually. Now, when I was a child going to the pool where my uncle was manager, there was a man named Triple-A who wore a two-piece bikini and swimming cap, and he didn't even stand out because a host of other crazy characters flocked to my uncle like birds to St. Francis.

But the pool I take my kids to is boring. It's mostly families, and if I wanted to see a lady chase her children around, I would just look in the mirror.

We have a river, but unless I had to ship some lumber down south I wouldn't exactly hang out there.

I went to a country club with my friend once. That was interesting people waching. In the middle of the weekday afternoon, some children had both their mothers and fathers watching them from the deck. Who was working in those families? Their money. That's who.

The beach is different. It is a true gathering place--not just for people with kids.

One thing I noticed, after we'd gone two days in a row, was that everyone had assigned seats, or so it seemed. The four older ladies with savage tans sat farthest from the water near the dunes and made bets on whose umbrella was going to blow away. The family that got the group rate at the tatoo parlor sat in front of them. We were in the front row, chasing our children with spray-on sunscreen, and next to us was a male sunbather wearing short black shorts who brought only a towel. (Hello? Is it amateur hour? You're supposed to bring other stuff to the beach, not just something to dry off with. Like chairs and hard boiled eggs and what not. I'm not be from New England, but even I know that.)

But the best part of the beach is how it brings out the kid in adults and the adult in kids. Grownups, like my husband and brother in law and father in law play in the waves. Kids, on the other hand, immediately see that there is a job to do.

They look at the sand and say, "Must dig giant hole." Or, "Must create elaborate castle." Or, if they're J.J.: "Must collect heavy backbreaking rocks for mom and dad to haul around in a bucket."

Reason being, kids can't get enough of the sand.

If you are a grownup at the beach, you notice how sand sticks to your egg salad sandwich, clings to your skin and burns your feet. You obviously have an appreciation for it; if you wanted to visit the ocean and not deal with the sand, I suppose you'd go to a harbor.

But if you are a kid, there is no downside to sand (Unless you're my son, Richie, whose eyeballs magnetically attract it.)

Sand, to most kids, is magic. It makes hours disappear.

If you sit on the sand, you can't help but dig or build something. This is true not just for kids but for grownups, too.

Kids will play with sand anywhere, not just at the beach. The backyard at the house where we stayed was all sand. One morning, I was sitting out there reading, and my three sons and nephew were playing in the sand. They each had either a horseshoe, a stick, a bucket or a badminton racket, and were plowing these through the sand, looking like insane farmers. They did that for about an hour.

I'd like to convert our backyard to a big sand pit. Our kids would never be bored again (though Richie would most likely go blind, eventually.)

Johnny's favorite beach on the trip was a small one that disappeared at high tide. It was actually a river that led to the ocean--an estuary I think. Everytime we went, a little boy his age was there, and they searched for hermit crabs and jellyfish and minnows together.

At low tide, people lined up their colorful metal folding chairs and watched the colorful sailboats going by. Then, as the day wore on and the beach disappeared, they did, too.

We stayed. The disappearing beach is a wondrous concept to me. I love that a beach can disappear and reappear two times a day. In contrast, the only thing that affects our swimming pool is adult swim.

But it also strikes me how little progress the tides make, considering how big the ocean is. When high tide comes in, it eats up, what, 50 feet of sand? Whereas in the ocean, there are parts so deep that sunlight can't even get down there and so dark, fish don't even bother growing eyes anymore.

And yet, for the most part, that water stays in the ocean day after day. Storms and tsunamis not withstanding.

Although, in fairness, the mountains stay in the mountains, and the plains stay in the plains. Mainly in the plains. They say nothing stays still, but moves too slowly for us to see. Who knows where it will all end up?

For instance, millions of years ago, we had an ocean in Kansas--and maybe beaches, too, but nobody ever went because the water was filled with sea monsters. Then one day, that ocean up and went away. Well, it was more like one eon.

I guess in the eyes of the universe, the middle of America seems as small as the beach we went to. And an eon seems as fast as a day. Sometimes the land is underwater. Sometimes it's dry. It just depends on the time.

Is Your Fish Hook Half Full or Half Empty?

2008-07-01T13:32:00.000-07:00

They say that pessimistic people are more in tune to reality than optimists, but that doesn’t make me proud to be one.

I can’t help it. I was born a pessimist. Some folks say you can change your outlook on life. I’m guessing those people are optimists. They think, "Sure I could change my point of view, but why would I want to? I’m already an optimist."

In truth, the idea that you can change the way you think is optimistic at best. Delusional is more like it. See, I told you I was a pessimist.

But while I will never be an optimist, I wish I was. So it gives me great pleasure to listen to my son Richie process things. With the slightest suggestion, he’ll change a minor disappointment into a great triumph, and a small failure into success of mythic proportions.

And I get to be a part of it.

The other day, we went fishing at a little pond inside a little zoo. The people behind the counter gave Richie his low-tech fishing pole and a can of worms.

“Mom, can you put the worms on the hook?” he asked.

“No, but you can,” I said.

A mom watching us from nearby narrowed her eyes at me and sighed like a martyr. “If you bring your pole over to where I’m standing, I’ll do it,” she said with a frown.

What? Where did she come from? And why was she acting like we were putting her out? The worm was the one putting its life on the line. Literally.

“No, no, we can do it,” I said, meaning he can do it. “Thank you, though.”

So, Richie put a few worms on the hook, which the fish ate without getting caught.

Then I remembered, from back when I was a kid and baiting a hook didn’t make me want to throw up, that you have to sort of tie a knot with the worm and stick it on the hook in more than one place. I figured this was beyond Richie’s age level, so I did it myself.

God, I hate killing worms. When they wriggle around after you stab them through the hook, it makes me feel terrible.

Anyway, the fish still got the worm a few times, but finally, Richie hooked one. He yanked the pole up, and the fish flew through the air. His eyes widened in excitement…and then in disbelief when the fish fell off the hook and back into the water.

He frowned.

But I knew it would be easy to turn that frown upside down.

“That’s okay,” I said. “We would have had to throw it back in anyway. Because it was a baby, and we weren’t going to eat it.”

His eyes lit up. “Yeah, and you would have been too scared to touch it!”

“Yeah!” I said. “So it’s a good thing it jumped off the hook!”

“Yeah!” he agreed.

By the time Richie called his dad to tell him the good news, the story sounded like this:

“I caught a fish today. But we had to throw it back in because it was a baby. And guess what? We didn’t have to throw it back in because it jumped back in!...Yeah, and mom almost threw up!”

Okay, I don’t think that last part had to be characterized in a positive light…but whatever. I may not be an optimist, but watching my son be one is just as good.

The June Solution

2008-06-27T10:48:00.000-07:00

For most of last year, my boys had an uneasy truce. As long as they spent seven hours apart each day at school, they were fine.

Now, with both of them home for the summer, everywhere is battleground.

It usually starts because, like magnets, they crash into each other. Or, because, like tiger cubs, they swipe at each other with their paws, which leads to wrestling. Or, like monkeys, they swing from trees and land on each other. Aww, look at the cute tiger monkey magnets, wrestling in the aisles of Wal-mart! How adorable!

Seriously, I don’t need this drama when I’m trying to pick out face cream.

Usually when they fight, they — and I — get grounded from video games, computer and T.V. for the rest of the day. But I wanted to do something different this time. Something that would really sink in.

Grounding them for a longer time wasn’t an option because, frankly, I didn’t do anything, and did not want to be punished with bored kids who already didn’t get along.

So I told them I’d let them know their punishment by the end of the day.

In the meantime, we went to a lake with my friend. It had a sandy beach, so the boys were busy collecting seashells — or lakeshells, actually — and making balls of clay with the mucky stuff they found under the dock. They got along great, until the end of the day.

When I thought about what to do, I realized I’d already found the solution to my problem in an in-flight magazine. On the plane flying to Phoenix earlier this week, I read an article about the best T.V. doctor, best T.V. space commander, etc…and the best T.V. mom. Can you guess who it was? June Cleaver.

It said that when Wally and Beaver were fighting, which—rewind--when did that ever happen? Must have been the same episode that Ward ran off with Mrs. Haskell and June got hooked on pills.

But what she did was make them write letters of apology to each other.

On the way home from the lake, I told the boys I’d made up my mind.

“Don’t you want to think about it longer?” Johnny asked. “So you can make it really bad.”

Meaning, “Don’t you want to put this off until tomorrow, when you’re sure to forget about the whole thing?”

“No. When we get home, you need to write two-page letters of apology to each other. Richie, since you can’t write, you need to tell Johnny what you want to say, and he’ll write it for you.”

Richie smiled. “I want to say, ‘I’m sorry you have bad breath.’”

Johnny laughed.

“No,” I said. “It’s not listing bad things about each other and saying you feel sorry for them. It’s saying you’re sorry for what you did.”

Back home, Johnny wrote, “Sorry I back flipped onto you.” He read it back, laughing to himself at the wonderful memory of that particular fight. Then he filled page two with “sorry” written in different sizes.

Richie drew two spiders. Then he wrote “E” and crossed it out, writing “AHE Vii. Svos svos,” instead.

Johnny read it back to Richie, and he laughed. When Johnny finished his letter, he drew a giant tick and wrote a story about it. Richie grabbed it and said, “I’ll just copy yours. He wrote, “The evil tick sucks blood.”

“That’s not my letter!” Johnny said. “It's a story about a giant evil tick!” Richie laughed.

Leave it to my boys to turn June’s idea into a complete joke. Oh, well, at least they were laughing together instead of fighting. I went to fold laundry.

When I came back, Johnny had finally helped Richie with his letter, which said, “I am sory I frode sand at you.”

Throwing sand was the last thing Johnny and Richie did to each other. If I’d pressed them to write about the Wal-mart wrestling match, they probably wouldn’t have even remembered it. So much for my June Cleaver strategy.

Then I turned over Richie’s second page (the one with the spiders.) It said, “I love you.”

They were probably laughing when they wrote it. Still, they haven’t fought today. So I think it helped them to say it, even if they were joking around about expressing it in a letter.

The Blame Game

2008-06-27T10:25:00.000-07:00

The other day, J.J. started blaming his misfortunes, or rather, my misfortunes, on others.

I don’t know why he decided to do this. It’s not like he cares what people think. If he did, would he dump chocolate milk powder all over the kitchen counter in the middle of ant season? I think not.

But whatever the reason, he walked into the living room with a look of exasperation. Then he pointed an accusing finger at the thin air. “No, no, kids!” he said.

Uh oh. I didn’t like the sound of that.

Taking me by the hand, he led me into the kitchen, where Nestle chocolate was piled neatly — much like an ant hill — on our already infested kitchen counter.

“Who did you say did this?” I asked.

“Kids,” he said.

“So you mean to tell me some kids walked in off the street and dumped our own chocolate on our own counters, even though you were the only one in the kitchen?”

He looked at me as if he couldn’t believe it, either. The nerve of young people these days. “No, no kids!” he repeated, wagging his finger.

“I think you did it,” I said.

But that didn’t register with him, because a week later, he did the same thing to my mom.

After she and the boys made chocolate chip cookies, my mom put one in front of J.J. and told him, “Don’t eat the other cookies. They’re for Richie and Granddad.” Then she left the room.

By the time my mom went back in the kitchen, all the cookies were gone. J.J. covered the crumbs with the tablecloth and said, “No, no, dinosaur!”

When I came to pick them up, my mom told me what happened.

“No, no, kids,” J.J. said. Then, realizing he was getting his lies mixed up, he said. “No, no, dinosaur.”

“A dinosaur ate the cookies?” I asked. “That’s bad.”

“That’s bad,” he agreed, trying not to smile. “Dinosaur bad. Dinosaur eat this house!”

That’s when I realized he was enjoying this. He relished blaming somebody for something he did.

The funny thing is, I think he convinced himself that the dinosaur really ate the cookies. The other day, he found an empty package on the countertop.

He said, "Where the cookies?"

I shrugged. "Maybe the dinosaur ate them."

He shook his head with disdain. "No no, dinosaur," he said, and threw the package in the trash. But this time, he wasn't smiling. It's one thing when dinoaurs come into the kitchen when you're in there. But when they start hanging out with other people, they are no fun at all.

Happy Birthday Richie

2008-06-27T10:12:00.000-07:00

Well, I had some technical problems, but am now up and running, so am going to post a few columns. The first one was supposed to be for Richie's b-day, which was a few days ago.

At Christmas or before Richie’s birthday, people sometimes ask what his interests are. Um…I say, thinking hard.

I run through the things boys are usually interested in: Cars. No. Sports. Not really. Superheroes. Not anymore (or so he claims). Trains. Never.

Why can’t I ever think of anything?

Then, after he invited a friend over the other day, it hit me. The friend was quietly playing with J.J.’s Thomas the Train set, which Richie can’t even look at, he’s so uninterested in it.

But Richie didn’t care that this was what his friend wanted to play. He only cared that he had a captive audience.

Resting his chin on the back of the couch, he said, “Yeah, Robbie’s my friend. But not so-and-so. He’s a jerk. He told me I stink. So I said, “No you stink.” Now we’re enemies…but Robbie’s nice. Why is Robbie friends with so-and-so?...You can come to my birthday…It’s at a spray ground…Don’t worry. It’s not a baby place…Do you like Superheroes? I don’t. Except for Iron Man and the Incredible Hulk. And the Flash. And the X-Men. And the Green Arrow. And…”

Richie talked to his friend like this, nonstop, for two and a half hours. The friend didn’t mind. I guess it would be like having a talk radio show playing in the background.

Meanwhile, I finally realized what Richie’s interest was: talking.

The other day, he told me, “Sometimes, when I talk for a long time, I don’t even breathe.”

Ya don’t say. I never noticed that.

But oh the things he says.

The other day, we were at a festival, and you could sign a card to the U.S.A. basketball team. Basketballs literally surrounded us, so I assumed he knew what I meant when I said, “Do you want to say something to team U.S.A.?”

He thought I meant the government. “Dear Mr. President,” he said. “Please bring corn dogs to everybody’s houses.” Then he cracked up.

Saying things out of context is his claim to fame. The other day, J.J. fell off his little toddler car and cut his hand — where he had the stitches. It was bleeding, and Richie said, as if he was Dr. House cracking a medical mystery, “I think he has…blood pressure.”

But mostly he talks about his friends. “I like Drake,” he said. “Even though he doesn’t look like me.”

This week, Richie had his birthday. For his special dinner, he asked for salad, sausage on a bun and cherry pie. He actually hated salad until he saw his best friend eat it at lunch. Now, he can’t get enough of it. Happy birthday to a person whose primary interest is…other people, which is a pretty good way to be.

Minor Surgery

2008-06-06T05:50:00.000-07:00

J.J. had his surgery yesterday to remove his extra finger and toe. It went fine. In fact his recovery went a little too well, as he was in maniac mode an hour after we got home.

"Let us carry you," we kept saying as he climbed down from the couch yet again to play Blocks! Choo choos! Trucks!

"I get mo go fish crackers," he announced walking into the kitchen to climb up on the countertop.

"You still have more goldfish crackers in your bowl," I reminded him when he was halfway there.

I didn't want the surgery done. I think that if God gives you six fingers there might be a reason for it. Maybe at some point in your life you'll need an extra finger. Say you're a concert pianist. And your husband hears something he's not supposed to while on a trip overseas. Now, your child is being held captive in a mansion overseas, where you happen to be a party guest. And the only way to save him is to play "Que Cera Cera" over and over and over. (This exact thing happened to Doris Day.)

You say, "God help me. If I have to play this stupid song one more time, I'll need six fingers and not just five."

And he'll say, "I gave you six fingers. But your parents knew better. So you have them to thank for that."

Usually, when I have thoughts like this, I seek out second opinions. Because, believe it or not, thoughts like these occassionally do not shake out in the real world.

As it turns out, the more likely scenario people thought would happen was that J.J. would come to us as an adult and say, "I'm forty-five years old and still wear mittens. Why didn't you get my finger removed at the same time as my toe?"

See, the doctor said he'd always have too many fingers to wear gloves. But to me, that's a glove problem. If your hat doesn't fit you, you don't get part of your head removed.

But Justin thought he would get the finger caught on things. Others thought he would get made fun of.

Kids make fun of each other no matter what, I argued. Yeah, but you don't want to give them extra ammunition, they said.

I said, having a sixth finger is unique. My aunt said, "He's unique because he's J.J. He doesn't need an extra finger for that."

I was out of excuses.

So we had the surgery.

I worried about it for two years. Anesthesia is nothing to joke around about. What if something bad happened? And to think that we could have bought bigger shoes and specially made gloves.

I wanted him to be burly enough to withstand it. When he started looking like a man-child, I thought: he's ready now.

Again, nurses or doctors would tell you that removing extra digits is no big deal. Just do it already. My parents as teachers lady even suggested that I see a psychiatrist when I told her that I was putting off the surgery until J.J. was bigger. (Gee, just what every mother wants to hear: Maybe he's too young to have surgery. Or maybe you're insane.)

I spent the whole night before crying about the surgery, even though I knew we were going to get there and see a kid who was horribly sick or injured and I'd feel terrible about making such a big deal about it.

That's exactly what happened. There was a little boy who was J.J.'s age having his ninth surgery because he'd been run over by a riding mower, leaving a hole in his leg. In the waiting room, his mom said he was just starting to feel better when they had to bring him in for this, which was supposed to be the last one.

When we went back to talk to the doctors, the anesthesiolist was everything I would want in a dream anesthesiologist: nice. handsome. And most importantly, in his 70s. He'd been doing this since the ether days. He knew the routine.

He was the one who carried J.J., kicking and screaming back to surgery. "It'll be okay," he assured us. And I really believed him.

In recovery, J.J. kicked his feet and tried to pull out his I.V. If he was a baby, I would have passed out at the sight. But since he's two, I see him act like this on a daily basis. They gave him some medicine and he was fine.

What upset him the most was the incongruity of his feet. He cried on the way home, as if to ask, "Why in the name of everliving God do I only have one shoe on? Why? Why? Why?"

Really he was saying, "Shoe on! Shoe on!"

Then we got home. People brought him balloons and goldfish crackers. And he was good to go. "Play blocks!" "Play choo choo!" "Play coloring!"

Just like that.

The next couple days were worse, with pain and the nausea from the medicine. But now he's walking around like nothing happened. When his bandage fell off his hand to reveal about twenty stitches, he didn't even blink. We did what the doctor said and replaced it with a bandaid and neosporin. Hardly the remedy I'd expect from an amputated finger, but I'll take his word for it. J.J. liked it because they were Spiderman bandaids.

Come Thursday, the foot bandage will come off, too. He'll be able to wear any shoes his heart desires.

You know, the things you worry about usually turn out okay. It's the things you don't expect that really hurt. Like the poor little boy and the lawn mower. Or so many other things. And you're sitting in the waiting room thinking, "I wish we were here because of an extra finger."

J.J. had taken to calling his little finger "baby" and kissing it goodnight. I think when you're a mom, you don't want to lose any part of your child. But it's just a pinkie finger. One that wasn't even supposed to be there. Maybe J.J. won't even notice that it's gone.

Summer Greeting Card

2008-05-30T06:14:00.000-07:00

Summer is upon us. Technically, it's still Spring. But when "tornado-producing super cells" are a weekly occurance and 4 p.m. is the hottest part of the day, let's face it, Spring is not happening this year. We got a long winter, and now, as the consolation prize, we get an even longer summer. I predict triple digits in June, based on my doppler radar vision.

Christmas greeting card are popular, but I thought I'd write a summer one, as things are much more exciting when we come out of hibernation.

Richie was stung by a swarm of bees, after stepping on a hive. My mom managed to swat most away (he was at her house that day) but he was still stung 10 times. "Am I going to die?" he asked.

He had a fever and sleepiness the next day, but the doctor said he would be fine. He's not allergic.

But he looked so sad when I got to my mom's house and he was sitting on the sink with his shirt off, my mom covering each sting with a baking soda paste.

There's a certain heroism attached to multiple bee stings, though, and this comforted Richie, at least. My baby niece was also outside at the time. Luckily, my mom's friend drove by and saw the commotion. She got out of her car while it was still running and pushed the baby stroller out of the fray.

Later, my brother thanked Richie for taking the bees on all by himself, thus saving the baby from being stung. Then he looked at J.J., and just to include him, said, "You, too, J.J."

Richie's eyes darted up from his lethargy. "J.J. didn't get stung," he said.

Johnny said, "I did."

"You got stung once. I got stung 10 times," Richie said.

Just to set the record straight.

At about the same time, J.J. went on Singulair, which has changed his life. No more asthma attacks as of yet. He doesn't even have a runny nose anymore. He seems to feel better all around. Except that with summer comes water, a liquid that J.J. thinks should only be used as a drink, not as entertainment.

Johnny finished out the school year with a field day that included a fire truck spraying all the kids. Children react to being sprayed by a fire truck like it's the beginning of the world. They run. They scream. They lie on their bellies and pretend to swim in the puddles. It's like a fun version of mass panic.

J.J. was horrified by the spectacle. He watched them and wept. "Why would anyone subject themselves to that?" he seemed to wonder. Thus begins another summer with J.J. sweating out our time at the swimming pool without getting so much as a toe wet.

He's going to school next year, and we had our meeting at his preschool. He had me carry him through the halls and he threw a fit when he tried to play with a puzzle and the teacher said, "We have a rule. You can play with whatever you'd like, but first you must learn how to do it properly."

I think J.J. stopped listening after "we." His favorite word still being "me." I just hope something magical happens when he turns three that makes him ready for school. Potty training, maybe.

And marking the true beginning of summer: the end of new T.V. episodes.

Lost aired a season finale that left a big question. Those who got off the island said that the others in the plane crash died. Why did they lie?

Here's Jack, the leader of the plane crash victims, "answering" this: "Do you have any idea what would happen if we told people about the other survivors?"

Me: "Uh...they'd get rescued?"

Too bad I wasn't on the lifeboat to tell him this, because the thought didn't cross anybody else's mind, apparently. They're all like: "Oh my gosh. You're right."

Right about what? He didn't even answer his own question.

With the distraction of T.V. out of the way, I can focus on finishing my second children's book and first romance novel. Will they ever get published? Probably not. But if I don't set aside time to work on them, they'll never get written, either.

I've never heard a story where somebody wrote 10 books and none of them ever got published. It's more like they wrote 10, and the 11th got published. Hmm...I need to start writing shorter books. A couple board books maybe. Bee. Allergy medication. Firetruck. School. T.V. Book. There it is, our summer, so far, in six words.

Boys' Books

2008-05-18T05:23:00.000-07:00

I belong to a children's writer's group and they send a monthly magazine. In the most recent issue, it talked about how boys typically like different books than girls. Not just books with boy protagonists, but different types of books altogether.

I could see this growing up.

Teachers choose novels for their classes to read. My brothers used to hold up the book so that they could read the blurb on the back and basically reword it. That was their report.

At the same time, I picked up a biography of Jackie Robinson off their bookshelf, and one of them had written on the inside cover, "This is the greatest book ever written!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Wouldn't you know, the article said that boys like biographies. It said that, in general, they also prefer humor, horror, adventure/thriller, informational, science fiction, monster/ghost, sports, war and historical."

It's been interesting for me, as a mom and writer, to see what books my sons choose. For Johnny, it's all non-fiction, and J.J. seems to be leaning that way, too. Unless the story involves trains with faces and office politics. (Have you ever read a Thomas the Train book? Those choo choos are always sucking up to their boss Sir Topham Hat and trying to get each other fired.)

Richie likes make-believe stories, but when I let him choose one recently, he picked up a humorous story about monsters, then switched to a book about pirate school, and settled on two friends battling a T-Rex. Monsters. Adventure. Sci-Fi.

As a kid, I was a typical girl. I liked Cindarella and even more so Rapunzel (What the heck kind of hair did that girl have growing out of her head, I wondered. And where could I get some like it? I would have loved to have 50 foot long yellow rope hair.)

But my sons' taste must have rubbed off on me, because every children's book I've thought up would be more appealing to boys than girls. Disasters. Insects. Rats. (Did you know that rats have taken over the world's islands and, of the birds and reptiles that have become extinct, rats have been responsible for 40-60 percent? As a kid, I wouldn't have known, nor would I have cared. But I think boys would care about this a great deal. And the fact that many ships are rat infested. And that throwing rats overboard doesn't help matters because they are excellent swimmers.)

I'm grateful that I have boy readers. It means I get to see the other side of the story world. I've read about princesses, now I get to learn about frogs.

On Friday, I got a glimpse of how boys and girls discuss their difference in taste. I watch a little girl in Johnny's class for a couple hours each week. She's super girly. One day, she gave me an invitation she had drawn for a party at her house. And that's not girly. But then she started bringing me sketches of what I might see at the party.

One was of a little girl in a stylish dress with a rainbow behind her. She held it up. "I might wear a dress like this to the party," she said.

Well, the other day, she was making a grocery list: cat food, blueberries, etc., when Johnny and Richie started telling her about the movie Jurassic Park III.

After listening for a while, she sat up primly and said, "Hmm. That sounds inappropriate."

"It is!" they said enthusiastically. "Three people get eaten by dinosaurs!"

"Inappropriate," to a boy, is a good thing, I guess.

During the movie, I asked, "Why didn't they just recreate the nice dinosaurs for their Jurassic zoo? Why did they have to bring back the raptors and T-rex?"

Johnny looked at me like I had no business sense at all. "Because then no boys would come," he said.

There you have it. If you want boys to come to your zoo, make it dangerous. Likewise for if you want them to read your books.

Mother's Day Award

2008-05-09T11:29:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in my dirty house, fantasizing about Mother's Day. (I asked for the opportunity to clean uninterupted for four hours, meaning no children. Justin's been working around the clock, and I've been busy with work, too, so it looks like the History Channel special about what happens 17 years after humans no longer inhabit the earth. Bears are eating out of our cupboards and weeds are growing out of the floor at this point.)

I was thinking, instead of the ads where people wake up to a car with a big bow around it, I'd like to wake up with a dumpster outside with a big bow around it. That would be the best Mother's ever because then I could clean the attic, too.

I was wondering whether these hopes and dreams were healthy for a woman my age when I got an e-mail from my mom.

She said that she had gone to a company dinner, where she thought she was going to be mentioned for having worked there for 25 years. But then she found out that they honor their 25-year anniversary workers the following year. So after working there for 26 years, they get honored for working there for 25 years.

She added that she also almost was honored by our local CVS pharmacy. She bought something there and the girl said, "Wow. No wonder you're one of our top 10 customers."

"I am? What does that mean?" my mom asked.

The girl said that it meant that the CVS employees almost sent my mom a Christmas card with their picture on it.

Seriously, what will it take for someone to give my mom an award?

So I decided, in honor of mother's day, to give out an award called Mom/Employee/Drugstore Customer of the Year. The qualifications for the award are that you have to spend x amount of dollars at your local drugstore, you have to have worked at your company for 25 years (not 26) and you have to be a great mom. I'm pretty sure my mom has this in the bag.

Often times writers only write about their mom if she was eccentric or just plain wierd. My mom is the opposite. She's very normal except for the fact that she is one of the funniest people I know. If you ever sit down next to my mom, I can guarantee you won't get stuck talking about the weather.

If I ever make it as a storyteller, it will be because of my mom.

In her job, she heard people's stories all day long. She wasn't in the traditional jobs in which that happens--being a reporter or a hairdresser. Rather, she was an occupational therapist who visited people in their homes.

My mom always had two stories for us when she came home. A tragedy or hardship that her patient was facing. And something funny that happened to her that day.

This made me wonder, when the whole world suffers so much, why do funny things always happen to my mom? Of course, she has had her share of hardship like everybody else, but I think the reason why she has a funny story at the end of every day is not because she is blessed with an inordinate amount of comic relief in her life but because she sees humor everywhere.

A good sense of humor is something that people take for granted--like having straight teeth. But it's a whole outlook on life that says, "I know that life can be hard and people can be difficult, and life is often easier for the difficult people, but I'm going to enjoy it anyway."

Now, my mom supports me in my own storytelling career. She leaves a comment every time I post, sometimes anonymously, so that it will look like I have fans outside my immediate family.

On the actual Mother's Day, I'm going to spend it with my mom. She is not only a great mom but also gave me a sense of humor. Whenever something annoying happens, such as a doctor who throws a temper tantrum alongside my toddler, I think, if I can just get home and tell somebody, the story will transform into something funny, just like my mom's stories did.

Happy Mother's Day, mom.

Has the Whole World Gone Crazy? Or Is it Just Me?

2008-04-30T06:22:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've found myself on the Abby side of the Dear Abby column and on the mannerly side of Miss Manners. It's like the rest of the world has gone crazy.

This is a strange feeling for me. Usually, I get the sinking sensation that the whole world has gone sane.

I won't go into everything that's happened, but here are a couple things:

I was walking over to the school the other day when a man I know said, "I was noticing that your yard looks terrible. The grass is real long and there are a bunch of dandelions."

The wierd thing was that he said it at a red light. So after I said, "Thank you for pointing that out," he had to stand there in awkward silence and then walk over to the school trying to start an even more awkward conversation.

"Your yard looks terrible." You don't lead with that. You save your rude comments for the end of the conversation, like this:

"Blah blah blah...Oh, look at that. Another red light. I always get stopped at red lights."

"Me, too."

"Isn't it a nice day?"

"Beautiful."

"Well, here we are at school. In closing, I would like to say that your yard is horrendous and your weeds are a disgrace. Good day and good ridance!"

See, that's much more dramatic. Even I know that. And I don't care if people have carnivorous plants growing in their yard so long as the humans in the house act polite.

Then I took J.J. to the doctor because he had a bad cough. It was a substitute doctor--not his real one. Anyway, he is afraid of doctors and cried the whole time.

First the doctor said to him, "If you stop crying your mom is going to take you to McDonald's and get you French fries and a choo choo train."

McDonald's wasn't even serving lunch yet and they never give away trains!

When that didn't work, she said, "Do you want me to give you a shot?! If you don't stop crying, I'll give you a shot."

So J.J. turned to her and said, "Let's be honest, Doc. If I don't stop crying, all you're gonna do is make more empty threats and promises. Am I right? Or am I right? Or am I right."

I'm kidding, of course. J.J. doesn't even talk, let alone talk smack. But he was thinking it. I just know it.

And trust me, those things aren't even the half of it.

You know, I usually feel like I dance to the beat of my own drummer. But now, I feel like I'm in step with the normal people. I feel like I'm on the left side of the insan-o-meter.

Or are the normal people the ones who will stop at nothing to stamp out dandelions or convince children to stop crying? Well, I guess we all have our opinions about who is normal or who is crazy. The important thing is to keep your sense of humor. Because in reality, I think we're all a little of both.

We're Going to the Zoo Today

2008-04-21T17:41:00.000-07:00

No matter where you are, if you have little ones at home, a tiny radar goes off in your head on the first sunny and warm weekend of the year: Must go to zoo, it says. Must go to zoo.

And so, whether you have a prison tatoo or are wearing a "Jesus Christ Died for You" T-shirt--or both, you head to the zoo with great expectations: a fun day with the kids. And you leave with no one in your family speaking to each other.

By that time, the sun beating down on your tired back has proved to be too much. Especially for the children. As we left the zoo Sunday, for instance, Richie was loudly weeping all the way to the car. "The car is too far," he cried. "The car is too far."

Sometimes, it's the grownups who are throwing a temper tantrum.

I remember being at the zoo one day and some kids asked their grandma to buy them Doritos. In response, she yelled, "You kids are driving me crazy!"

And they looked at her as if to say, "But Grandma, you already were crazy."

As a kid, I remember going to the zoo on 100 degree days and staring at the seals swimming in their pool. It was the most insanely jealous I've ever felt in my life. And yet, I bring my own children in the summertime. It's just what you do.

Sometimes it's fun. Other times, I have to admit, a trip to the zoo can be more stressful than you would think.

This weekend, we went at around 2:00 on Sunday. From the looks of things, Tube Top Day at the Zoo was already in full swing. Anyone pushing a stroller while wearing a tube top and eating a corndog got half off their Fosters beer. Just kidding. It wasn't Tube Top Day--but do you remember when they had that at Royals games? If you wore a tube top to the stadium you got--I don't know, something. A sunburn maybe.

But the tube tops are just an observation and didn't cause me any stress, per se.

It was J.J.'s hour-long fit he threw when I took off his sweatshirt to prevent him from overheating in the 80 degree weather. The elephants cheered him up, but he was looking for something even bigger. "I want to see the dinosaurs," he kept saying.

He refused to ride in the stroller so we meandered along the path. It took us three hours to see about as many animals. When I finally wrestled him into the stroller, he put his feet down, like Fred Flinstone brakes.

But what made the trip worthwhile was the mangabies, which had a little baby. It would hop a couple feet away and then run back to its mother and hold on for dear life.

Have you ever noticed how well behaved other species' children are? Boys and girls and puppies are the only trouble makers, it seems. And yet, they are the most lovable of all. I wonder why that is.

I was sure the mangabies would be the highlight of the boys' day, too, since they were oohing and ahing over it. But when I asked Johnny what his favorite part of the zoo was, he said, "The ice cream."

"What about the baby monkey?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah, that was cute," he said. "It was my third favorite part."

"What was your second?"

"Probably the corn dog."

Oh, well. At least it sounds like an animal. And I'm sure everybody had more fun than they let on. Either way, we'll be back. It's what we do.

Fairytale Weddings Only Happen in Real Life

2008-04-17T07:06:00.000-07:00

A lot has happened since my last post, all of which I planned to write about: my friend's big wedding, a visit from Justin's brother and sister in law, a different sort of experience in the hospital waiting room, and the fact that J.J. has fallen so in love with goldfish crackers that when he gets to the end of the bag, he spills them on the floor and rolls around in the crumbs. Alas, time got away from me.

And as with a letter to an old friend, sometimes there is so much to write about that you don't know where to start, so you don't. Time gets away from you.

So I'll write about the first thing I was going to write about: big weddings. Some people call these "fairytale weddings," but I think fairytales give weddings a bad name.

Cindarella's marriage, for instance, seemed shaky at best. Here was a couple who based their entire relationship on whether a glass shoe fit. Who cares? As soon as you stand up, it's going to shatter anyway. "Yay, it fits. Boo, I need foot surgery."

And as for the prince, his sole criteria for a soul mate was her foot size. I imagined him talking to his friend, the Duke of Count Chocula, or whatever: "What is my ideal woman? Well, she would have tiny little baby feet. And...well, that's pretty much it. I mean, ideally, her carriage would resemble a pumpkin, but that would be icing on the cake."

But in real life, I love fairytale weddings. I love how everybody wears a white wedding dress--which is a fairly new tradition. In the old days, you would wear your Sunday best, be it blue or red or yellow. Then Queen Victoria wore white to her wedding, and the color stuck. Now, it's something everybody does no matter where they come from. Whether the bride and groom take the city bus or a Bentley to their wedding, you can bet that there will be a white dress involved.

I also love how the bride's people and groom's people spend so much time together leading up to the wedding, that they become fast friends. To the point that after the wedding, you feel like, "Where has my social life gone? I used to go to parties with people and champagne and brie cheese. Now I'm sitting at home watching 'The Wedding Singer,' What the hell happened to me?"
Speaking of wedding singers, I love them, too. I know some people like cutting edge music or obscure musicians, but give me a nice melody anyday. I think most people feel that way. That's what wedding singers sing. And I love how there's always one song that everyone on the dance floor throws their heads back and sings the chorus. At this wedding it was "Take On Me," by A-ha.

Most of all, I love the part in weddings where the priest says, "Now you may kiss the bride." It's always romantic and endearing, no matter how many times you see it.

So that's what I love about real-life fairytale weddings. Unlike Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, when the prince fell in love with the princess while she was asleep. What is he going to say when they get in their first argument: "You know, I liked you a lot better when you were comatose."

At my friend's wedding, the priest talked about how she and the groom already had successful careers and happy lives. They married for love alone, not because that was the way the story was supposed to end.

I guess that's what I love about big weddings. They have all the trappings of a fairytale, but you know that when the wedding is over, there really is going to be a happy ending.

Anyway, I just wanted to write something, so that you wouldn't think that now I only write when I have something to brag about, in which case the entries would be few and far between. You might have thought, because of the last two posts, that the theme of the blog was: "Awesome things that are happening in my life right now, for you to read about and enjoy."

But don't worry, good luck comes in small portions when you're a writer, so once again the theme of this blog is the less specific: "Things that are happening."

Erma Bombeck Contest

2008-04-08T06:43:00.000-07:00

I found out this week I got an honorable mention in the Erma Bombeck Global Humor contest for my Pottery Barn essay.

Here is the link:

http://www.wclibrary.info/erma/2008winners.asp

I submitted this one because some of you said you thought it was funny, so thanks for your input!

Children's Article

2008-03-24T14:45:00.000-07:00

My first children's article was published today in The Christian Science Monitor.

This is the link:

http://www.csmonitor.com/homeforum/kidspace.html

The article is called "Court for Kids: It's Your Turn to Be the Judge."

I'm very excited about this because I've tried to get an article in this newspaper for about a year. Also, the story provides evidence that I really am a children's writer. I only wish I had this proof when I went to talk to Johnny's class last week.

A little advice for writers: do not volunteer to talk to kids unless you have a book in hand. They will think you are lying to them. One little girl asked me, "If you're a writer, why haven't I ever seen any of your books?"

She had a point. The only evidence I had to show them was a book about the Beastie Boys, which I didn't write, but is similar to a book I wrote that is coming out in 2009.

But it was very fun to talk to the class. My presentation was called "How a Book is Made" and the kids played the roles of editors in New York and illustrators. Johnny volunteered to be an editor but was disappointed that he didn't get a speaking part because the second editor accepted the manuscript before he got a chance to look at it. If only that would happen in real life.

The funniest part about talking to kids is when you ask a question and whoever raises his hand with the most enthusiasm and confidence--you can be pretty sure that kid doesn't know the answer. Nor does he even have a guess. He just tells you, "I don't know."

I think it's refreshing for someone to raise his hand to say, "I don't know." You don't see that much outside of grade school.

***

One person who doesn't say "I don't know" about any subject is Richie. On Easter, we had a private suite at church, a.k.a. the cry room. There, Richie told us what Easter is all about.

"You know Jofish?" he asked. "Jofish who knows God?"

"Yes," we said.

"Well, Jofish and Mary, they ate a tree. And they got in trouble...wait a second...no it wasn't a tree..."

"Was it an apple?" Justin asked.

"Yeah, they ate a poison apple and they died. And Jesus came back to life."

There it is. The story of the Bible in 50 words or less. I can see Richie in class, listening to about five seconds of what his teacher said...back in December...and figuring, "Okay, I get it. Mary, Jofish, they had the baby, I assume they ate the apples, too...Hmm, I like carmel apples the best..."

Later on in the day, my cousin Hannah asked Richie, "Are you trying to say Joseph?"

"Yeah," he said. "Joiss, Jofish, Jofiss, ahhhhh, How do you say it?!"

Hmm...I think you pronounce it Adam.

The Vaporizer

2008-03-19T15:23:00.000-07:00

J.J. woke up in the night wheezing for air a couple nights ago. He caught his breath after Justin held him. It has happened a couple times in the past, and I always thought he was coming down with something. But this time it was worse, and when J.J. woke up, he wasn't sick. I took him to the doctor and he said it could be asthma, which runs in our family.

If it happens again, we're supposed to give him an inhaler. If the medicine is effective, it means he has asthma. In the meantime, he needs to sleep with a vaporizer every night.

When you're a little kid, getting a vaporizer is a big deal. To the boys, it was like Christmas all over again.

They looked at it from every angle and argued about where it should go. J.J. was proud when I put it right by his bed.

"Can I be in charge of filling it with water?" Johnny asked.

"Sure," I said.

"Should I also be in charge of giving J.J. his medicine?"

"Absolutely not. But tell us if you think he needs it."

But they also had concerns.

Richie asked: "Will we be vaporized?"

"Do you want to be?" I asked.

"No."

"Then I don't think so."

Johnny asked: "Will the water form a cloud and rain on us?"

"Do you want to be rained on?"

"Not really."

"Then probably not."

Johnny asked, "Is asthma a serious disease?"

"Well, it's treatable with medicine, so that's good," I said.

The vaporizer seemed to help, as J.J. didn't have any trouble in the night. I hope it was just a fluke, but only time will tell.

Romancing the Novel

2008-03-07T20:14:00.000-08:00

Remember how I told you I'm writing a romance novel? Well, it's not going so hot. Or heavy, either.

My husband likes the book, so that's good. He's even reading other romance books to research the genre. Or so he says.

Also, my mother in law likes it, which means a lot because she reads several romance novels a year.

But they are relatives.

I once had my mom read an article I wrote about a library meeting and she said, "I laughed. I cried. When is the movie coming out?"

So family members are not the toughest critics.

A few nights ago, on the other hand, I went to a critique group, and let's just say they weren't feeling the love. In fact, a few times, they were laughing because my story was so bad. They said they weren't laughing at my book, but I've got news for you, if someone says, "I'm not laughing at blank," they're laughing at blank. I might not know how to write a book, but I've been to junior high and have a doctorate in being laughed at.

But as they gave me pointers, I started laughing, too. I felt like saying Simon Cowell comments to my own book. It needs a lot of work.

For instance, here was one suggestion: Don't have the heroine describe herself as being beautiful. That sounds vain. Also, don't have her recap the compliments others have given her in the past. Another tell tale sign of vanity.

You know, the sorts of things that might have occurred to me if, I don't know, my head wasn't stuck in my ass.

So it's fixable.

But driving home, I couldn't help but ask myself how much time I was going to spend on this gamble. Writing takes time. Revising takes even more time. I knew I'd have to revise...but not rewrite the whole book. And the bad news is, a lot of people write and revise three or more books before even getting anything published.

I realized, maybe writing a romance novel isn't the best career move in the world. It's not cost effective, as we say in business. Maybe I need to get a haircut and get a real job.

All my children will be in school next year. I'm referring to my sons, of course, not the soap opera. I have to decide, can I keep up this freelance writing gig?

Now typically, when the going gets tough, I cry. But that night, "You're So Vain" was playing on the radio, which happens to be my favorite song, even though I've never met anyone who I thought was vain. (Except for the heroine in my book!) Maybe I don't have vaindar.

As this was playing, I thought of the people who've led me to my career as a writer: my kids. They are why I've stayed home and freelanced, as disastrous as that has sometimes been. And they've taught me that when the going gets tough, you don't have to be tough. You just have to keep trying.

I think of Richie learning his ABCs in one week after getting a bad report card.

And I think of Johnny, starting off first grade feeling like he didn't have any friends. And now he considers himself to be one of the most popular boys in the class. Wait a second, am I detecting something on the Doppler vaindar? Oh, who cares? At least he's self-confident.

Then I think of J.J. He acted like a neanderthal at the beginning of the year. And now he's saying, "Peas" and "Tankoo."

They've taught me that things do get better. You just have to stick with it.

Maybe Justin and his mom like the manuscript because they see it as a diamond in the rough. Or a cubic zirconium in the rough. Or at least a pair of those birthstone earrings kids buy at the dime store for $3.50. Well, I never bought them because then I couldn't have afforded seven Kit Kat bars. But I thought about purchasing the jewelry several times.

So I've been tinkering here and there with the book. Just kidding. I've been obsessively making changes to every chapter morning and night. I hardly even watch T.V. anymore if that's any indication of how out of hand this has gotten.

I hope to sell my first manuscript. Not the second or third. Maybe it's vain to think I can. Maybe my hat is strategically dipped below one eye. Maybe my scarf it is apricot.

Or maybe I'll just feel really heartbroken when everybody rejects the manuscript and all my hard work goes down the toilet and I have to start over.

Well, nobody said romance was easy. Like anything worth doing, it takes time. You know, like watching T.V. takes time. And only time will tell if this will work out. If I give up now, how will I ever know?

What Kind of Mother?

2008-03-07T04:38:00.000-08:00

Growing up, I rode in a lot of carpools with other people's moms. It made me wonder what kind of mother I wanted to be when I grew up. Of course, I wanted to be nice and funny, like my own mom, but I also knew that I would have to be my own person.

So, there was the mother who cussed a red streak, along with her junior high age son, and I thought, maybe I'll be the cussing mom.

Then there was the mom who made citizen's arrests when people turned left at no left turn intersections. Riding in the car with her was like being in a high stakes police chase. Maybe I would be mamacop.

One mother sang with her children in harmony on the way to the grocery store. I knew I couldn't be that mom, as much as I wanted to, because I have a terrible voice.

And I definitely didn't want to be the mom who flew off the handle at everyone in the car just when you least expected it. Although, I think we all take turns being that mom.

There was the mom who talked frankly with us about a mean girl we knew. "You know what her problem is?" she asked. "She's a bitch. And that's all there is to it." And after that, the girl's mean remarks didn't sting quite like they used to. Maybe I would be the mom who tells it like it is.

Then there was the high class mom. My friend's dad lived by the barter system, just as my dad did. Meaning that instead of paying him money, clients might give him something instead. So my friend acquired, through this client, a winter coat. It wasn't the style the other kids were wearing, and my friend wondered if it was a good coat or a dumb one.

Then a mom came up to her and said, "I love your coat." And my friend knew that she had the best coat in the class--maybe even the whole school. Maybe I wanted to be the mom whose opinion of your coat really counted for something.

I finally decided to be cool mom. Not to be confused with crazy mom, who thinks she's 16 and has cocktail parties for teenagers. But the kind of mom that kids really like to talk to.

But, come to find out, I'm bad cop mom. Being the chess club parent, I oversee a group of 35 kids that have just spent a full day sitting still and listening to their teacher. My task is to convince them to do that for two more hours. I'm constantly trying to get their attention to lecture them about good sportsmanship and what it means to really listen.

I'm the kind of mom that, as a kid, I would have made fun of ruthlessly at recess. The strict mom. The serious mom.

But this has taught me something. Maybe we don't get to choose what kind of mother we are at any given time. We have to be the kind of mom the situation calls for. For now, I'm strict mom. Maybe someday I'll be the mom that kids talk to. Or at least the one who knows a good coat when she sees one.

Learning My Lesson

2008-02-29T06:08:00.000-08:00

When I started out being a mom, I thought I'd teach my kids how to read by age 5. I mean, I know how to read. So how hard would it be?

Also, not to brag, but I was an early reader. My parents read me Dr. Seuss and voila, I knew how to read. But that's pretty common among writers. We peak at age 5.

During the year that all the kids were home, at ages 3, 5, and baby, I was going to prepare them for kindergarten in the busom of our home. They would go to school reading, shining examples of my motherly dream.

I even bought a book that was supposed to have your child reading within a year. Maybe I should have been skeptical when, in the introduction, it said something like, "No matter how ballistic your kid goes over having to work on this book, still make them do it. They'll get used to it."

Nobody in our house ever gets used to anything. Richie is five years old and I still have to remind him that his pajamas are in the top drawer, where they have been since his birth. Every night Johnny asks me, "What are we going to do tomorrow?" even though my answer is always the same: "We're going to eat breakfast, go to school, come home, watch T.V. or play on the computer, do homework, eat dinner, read a book and go to bed."

It's like they're waiting for the day I say, "You guys are going to clean some chimneys and then I'm going to sell you to the circus."

Sadly, they would probably like that plan. It would be something different!

Anyway, I worked on the reading book with Johnny for a while and finally gave up. I have enough mama drama without fits over reading time.

They sort of learned the alphabet--or at least one letter in it. For Johnny, it was J, Richie knows B, and J.J., E. If we had 23 more kids, they'd have it down pat.

So Johnny and Richie went to school, the victims of my horrible teaching skills. And that was when the miracle occured.

While Richie hasn't grasped the concept of criss-cross applesauce during circle time, his teacher said he scored very well on his kindergarten preparedness test.

"He did?" I asked, not hiding my shock very well.

It's not that I don't have faith in him. It's just that, knowing the environment he grew up in, I thought it would take him years to catch up.

Then Johnny came home from first grade and said, "I know how to read now," and he read Sam the Minuteman. Just like that. That book is practically a novel. I would use a bookmark if I read that book.

So--ehem--I guess I was a pretty good teacher after all.

Kidding! I think we all know who the heroes in this story are. School teachers.

Don't get me wrong. Some mothers do a wonderful job preparing their kids for school. Others mold their children into geniuses while homeschooling. But for moms like me, who consider getting through lunchtime to be a major success, teachers have our backs in a major way.

For this reason, I'm sending J.J. to school next year at age 3. It's simple division of labor. The teacher will teach him the ABCs and I'll stick to what I know how to do: writing.

My dad, who coached grade school football for many years, said he could never figure out how teachers maintained discipline without making kids take a lap. I grew up in a house that really respected teachers. I remember one time, I came home and said that my teacher was wrong about a spelling word on my test.

"I'm right. The teacher is wrong!" I told my dad.

I even looked it up in the dictionary and showed him that the spelling on my test was the same as Webster's spelling.

"See, I'm right," I said.

"No, the teacher's right," he said. "The dictionary's wrong."

Today, I think parents sometimes give teachers a hard time. But I'll always admire them. And I now realize that the most important thing I can teach my kids, when I send them off to school is: "Be good. And listen to your teacher."

Family, side by side

2008-02-22T05:31:00.000-08:00

The boys' nana, aunt Erin and baby cousin Brendan came in town last weekend. We went to Kaleidoscope and Union Station. Ate barbeque. Hung out. Watched the weathermen have a cow over the inch of snow heading our way. You know, all the things we like to do in Kansas City.

We ate breakfast. Well, people do that everywhere. But did you know that biscuits and gravy are a regional food? My mother-in-law and sister-in-law ate them for the first time this visit. I almost cried for them. They'd been deprived for so long. Then I remembered that they could eat lobsters, steamers and fried clam bellies year round, so I dried my eyes.

J.J. and his cousin Brendan became best of friends. Here's how you know that boy toddlers are best friends. They yell really loud. Then they hug each other really tight. And then they fall down. This is the equivalent of girls giving each other friendship bracelets.

Brendan--who is one--also had a good influence on J.J. and our other children that don't know the alphabet. He could name every letter. Now J.J. is trying to do this. To him, every letter is E. When we read an alphabet book, he's like, "E. E again. E. E. This letter is E is well. E. E. E. E. E." But its a start.

But you know how it is with toddlers. Most the time they do their own thing, only side by side. They're like little office workers in imaginary cubicles.

Pretty soon, it was the last night of the trip.

We said prayers in the boys room. I prayed for safe travels for everybody.

Johnny said, "And I pray that their flight gets cancelled."

It was a possibility. The airport was shut down a few days earlier because of snow.

I explained to him that Nana and Erin and Brendan wanted to go home to see Papa and Uncle Jon.

He said, "Couldn't Papa and Uncle Jon just move here?"

He asked, "If school is cancelled, will their flight be cancelled?"

His best case scenario was school would call and say there was a snow day. Then the airport would call and say they were having a snow day, as well. Then the president would call and say that all Bostonians must move to Missouri by order of law.

Earlier in the trip, Johnny was getting nervous because time was ticking away.

He said, "I wish seconds were minutes."

"Why?" I asked.

"So that I could spend more time with Nana."

"Make sure you're spending time with her and not on the computer the whole time," I said.

Their Nana gave them Webkinz and Johnny and Richie were hooked.

These are stuffed animals that have their own online world. You play games to earn kinzcash. Then you use that to buy them food and things for the pet's room.

Richie bought his a bowling ball. Then he set his sights on a Frigidaire.

"I'm going to buy my Webkinz a refrigerator," he said.

"I'm going to fill my refrigerator with donuts."

"I'm going to sell my swimming pool and buy a refrigerator."

A new refrigerator was all he talked about. He sounded eerily like me.

He did buy a refrigerator and filled it with donuts. Then he bought miniature cowboy boots and a cowboy hat for his little frog Webkinz. Yeehaw!

Johnny, meanwhile, bought a sofa, glass top coffee table and clock for his Webkinz. It was like a My First Bachelor Pad furniture set.

One game you can play to earn money is Triple Strike Solitaire. This happens to be one of my top three favorite solitaire games.

Johnny wanted me to play this to earn him money. He bought a T.V. and had been watching a cooking show. Next he wanted to buy a stove to try the recipes.

Maybe I shouldn't do this for him. In the real world, when you need a new appliance, you--and only you--earn money by playing online solitaire for eight hours. I'm kidding. That's only if you have an office job. Otherwise, you put it on the credit card.

I just can't help myself. I can say no to black jack and slot machines. But if they had a solitaire table in Las Vegas, they would have to cut me off.

He bought the stove.

And he got his wish for a snow day. Only it happened two days late--on Thursday instead of Tuesday. The flight wasn't cancelled.

Johnny was left with the promise that as he got older, he could stay in Boston for a long time with his grandparents.

I kept thinking during their visit, if Johnny wants to spend time with his Nana, then why is he on the computer? But I think big kids are like toddlers when it comes to family. They don't care what everybody is doing, as long as they're doing it side by side.