Chocolate Covered Pajamas

Maid of the Mist

2012-02-09T11:24:00.000-08:00

The flooding of the Flower Mound UPS store was caused by my toddler's consumption of a Vita Top muffin, a chocolate confection magically injected with nine grams of fiber and thus sold as health food.
I gave one to Charlotte, now age 2, for breakfast only because I had my girlfriend, Michelle, on the phone from North Carolina. Her husband is recovering from actual brain surgery, which is why I couldn't be distracted even by pouring cereal.
"Give her that and she's going to poop big," warned Michelle.
I was willing to take my chances.
Charlotte squealed with delight upon seeing me rip open the package and, three hours later, she gave me one of her own.
We were at UPS--the one on 2499 in Flower Mound--mailing a box to our cousins.
Charlotte peeked out from behind the rotating greeting card display, pretending to sort Valentine's cards. I knew darn well what she was doing.
I paid for my package to be sent first class--they'll take pity on me and allow me to use the bathroom if I paid full freight, I figured.
I took Charlotte's little hand in mine. We wound our way back behind the counter, past the boxes and the Styrofoam injector machine to the potty.
Remember now, Charlotte is my third child.
This means that I am full of useful information and good parenting strategies, yet I mostly ignore all I know in the name of time constraints and disorganization.
And while I happened to have one spare diaper stuffed into the bottom of my purse, I had no baby wipes to clean up the mess. I was even out of Old Navy receipts.
Moreover, there was no trash can. (And, of course, no Koala Kare changing pad--who changes a poopy diaper during the 32 seconds it takes to mail a package?)
Thus, I found myself simultaneously holding up Charlotte's multi-layered dress, removing overflowing output and trying to clean up her rump while holding the diaper.
Meanwhile, Charlotte had found the store's water cooler.
Strangely, it was placed right next to the toilet.
(This should be the subject of another blog post entirely. For while I will hold poop in my hand and even catch vomit in my purse, I will never, ever endorse placing drinking water within 150 feet of a flushing toilet. That's just asking for cholera.)
Anyhow, Charlotte's wiggling around as I balanced the colossal poop in my palm. She grabbed the water cooler taps and pulled down, spraying frigid purified water into the drain.
"Cold!" she screeches with delight.
The water cooler provided a perfect spot for Charlotte to begin washing her hands. It was, after all, right at eye level.
"Wash-wash-wash-your-hands-wash-them-together!" she sang, spraying water on herself, on me, all over the floor.
I would have to tell Miranda Howland--Charlotte's preschool teacher--that this was a very effective usage of a simple song.
Now, a less seasoned mother would have turned off the tap, but no, I am a veteran mom. I know distraction is my ally; I could easily clean up the floor after I re-diapered the baby and deposited the poop. This running water would provided me with ample opportunity to get my work done.
That idea would have been perfect had I not forgotten that water cooler drains fill up quickly--and overflow.
The puddle at Charlotte's feet began to grow into a pond.
The water cooler was like Niagara Falls.
Gallons of combined hydrogen and oxygen molecules surged through the little plastic taps.
Soon, a man wearing only a barrel would zoom through the roaring foam.
I wondered if barrels were even allowed anymore at Niagara Falls.
Maybe modern-day thrill seekers go cloaked in wet suits?
They used to let you take a boat right under the falls and you got to wear a poncho.
I seem to recall taking a seafaring vessel called "The Maid of the Mist" when I was maybe eight years old...
Charlotte was laughing like a hyena, gleefully sopped.
There was more water on the floor of the UPS store than in my backyard swimming pool.
Miraculously, the baby was diapered, the toilet was flushed and I was no longer holding a poopy diaper, but how those things happened I do not know.
I jammed the water cooler taps closed.
"Swim!" said Charlotte.
The thoughtful clerk who had placed the water cooler next to the toilet had also supplied a year's worth of paper towels atop a coat rack, for which I was grateful.
I sopped up the mess using several rolls.
"Let's go," I said, placing Charlotte on a hip, the wad of soggy trash under my armpit.
"Bye-bye," Charlotte said, waving to the clerks as we stomped through the shop.
Next time, I would know to wear a poncho when I fed my baby breakfast.

Behind the Wheel

2012-01-04T13:31:00.000-08:00

Teenagers get a lot of sass from insurance companies about being the worst drivers on the road. They gab on the phone. They text. They drink alcohol. Mostly they’re just way too excited and inexperienced.
They’re subsequently punished with high insurance rates and frequent stops from the authorities.
There’s probably a lot of truth to all that, but I’d argue there might be an equally menacing threat out there few notice: The 38-year-old suburban mom.
These moms are, by most accounts, boringly safe.
They make their kids were bike helmets, sunscreen, retainers.
But get them behind the wheel of an SUV in a McDonald’s drive-thru with a clutch of 7-year-old soccer players buckled up in back and watch out.
It all starts with French fries.
Mom pays for the promised treat with one hand while changing the CD with the other. She passes the fries back to the third row, head swiveled in the direction of the hungry second graders while warning them to use napkins, the SUV inching forward as her toddler thumps her back from an oversized car seat behind her.
The toddler requests—no, demands—Sesame Street’s “C is for Cookie.”
That’s track 5.
No, wait, track 9.
Oops, wrong CD.
Mom pulls out of the parking lot with two hands shuffling through the seat pocket in the opposite seat behind her, a feat Cirque du Soleil, acrobats would envy.
Boys launch French fries.
Sisters squeal.
There is a great unbuckling and swashbuckling.
Mom’s eyes are riveted on the shenanigans in the rear view mirror. She is making demands, thinking of punishments, wondering where she has gone wrong.
The toddler pelts a sippy cup into the front seat then, suddenly hysterical, requests a lovey from the passenger seat. The lovey slips between the cracks and Mom contorts herself to find it, sunglasses rocking from hair to neck obscuring her vision for an instant.
The cell phone rings.
It might be an emergency, Mom figures, so she picks up.
Soccer practice has been moved to another field across town.
Mom speeds up, makes an illegal u-turn, punches the gas.
The SUV lurches forward.
“I spilled my milk!” squeals a defender.
Mom opens the glove compartment—there is nothing worse than the smell of milk rotting on a triple-digit day—and pilfers a half-empty envelope of baby wipes, two crumpled tissues and a receipt from JCPenney to mop up the mess. She catapults it into the third row while making a left turn.
There is a loud discussion over whose turn it is to clean up the mess.
Mom thinks about the breakfast mess and the dinner mess before that and who it was that left a wet swimsuit undiscovered in a plastic bag for a week. She does not remember and is accused of not paying attention.
Singing breaks out.
The song is Lady Gaga.
Mom joins in because she is actually fun, darn it all.
The kids are singing, opening all the windows, waving at construction workers, at dogs whose tongues wag wet, at serious bikers whose Spanx make them giggle.
The toddler chimes in with “Wheels on the Bus.”
She is louder than all the second graders put together.
She throws up French fries and milk.
Mom prays silently that there are no library books on the floor of the car where the splayed vomit now seeps into the car’s carpet.
Mom roars into the soccer field parking lot, pitches the SUV into park and begins the rescue mission, second graders evacuating like fire ants put upon with poison.
I know all this because I am likely the 38-year-old suburban mom behind the wheel.
Watch for my SUV: I am more dangerous than a teenager.

Click on Your Brain

2011-12-18T19:24:00.000-08:00

From the Dallas Morning News, Dec. 17, 2011

Paul refused to stand up in the sand. He tipped sideways. Tumbled forward. Fluttered backwards.

My second-graders groused as they tried to prop their homemade paper figures of the Christian missionary atop sloping “islands” — boards we covered with shifting white grain and shells.

There was a great flicking of sand. An “I quit!” Some made pleas for rescue.

Of the dozen or so children who attended my Sunday school class that day, not one — including my own 7-year-old twins — could figure out how to make tiny Paul stand tall.

I eventually provided a strategy — dig Paul a hole and glue him in — and we moved on with our craft. That morning, however, a seed of worry planted itself in my mind.

My Sunday school class is made up of incredibly bright, wonderful children raised gingerly by middle-class, well-educated parents in Flower Mound, Highland Village and Lewisville. They attend some of the premier elementary schools in the Lewisville Independent School District. A few have been deemed so accelerated, they are plucked from their general education classes weekly to take part in LISD’s gifted and talented program.

Yet, when I asked this group of leaders to do critical thinking, they not only failed, they balked at even trying.

So when I received a survey from my neighborhood elementary school a few weeks ago essentially asking if I thought it was a good idea to provide my very young children and their classmates with in-school access to technology — iPads, iPhones, iTouches and the like — to do “research,” a red flag went up.

Simply put, I worry that kids will supplant critical thinking with quick clicking in a day and age in which creative, agile minds are necessary to compete globally.

Already similar concerns are swirling around LISD as the Bring Your Own Technology program is phased into the district’s 42 elementary schools over the next few months.

The initiative, installed in high schools last year, aims to “unleash personal technology” but remains optional so that families don’t feel burdened, said LISD Public Information Officer Karen Permetti. The hope is that teachers will engage students in new and different ways, she said.

“The kids love it,” Permetti said. “They say they learn best with technology … and they want more of it.”

Still, I find the issues ominous — and mind you, I’m not an anti-tech ogre.

My children get a kick out of practicing their numbers on Fast Math, a district-endorsed educational website that drills little ones on basic addition and subtraction. And Poptropica.com, which is used by LISD in part to teach history, helped inspire my son’s Halloween costume of the Greek God Perseus.

But technology offers only one type of learning. It doesn’t require kids engage their physical bodies or spiritual selves. They don’t have to negotiate with others or even interact with them.

Moreover, in my experience, programs designed for the very young place limits on their creativity and dominates playtime.

In fact, controlling technology was such a problem in our house that my husband and I eliminated the use of every type — including television — during the school week. None of my three kids wanted to play a board game, make-believe or even go outside when the option of technology and its instant gratification was available.

I can only imagine teaching a classroom full of small kids with hand-held gadgets: You’d have to be on fire to get their attention.

As a mother, a veteran K-12 education reporter, a liberal arts graduate and a taxpayer, I respectfully suggest that technology is a distraction to the real learning that needs to take place in our schools.

I’ll do my part by pushing my precious Sunday school students to think critically. Because I want Paul — and every single one of my church children — to stand strong on their own two feet.

Rain Gutter Regatta

2011-11-15T12:47:00.000-08:00

By William Riekse

On Sunday I went to the rain gutter regatta. Rain gutter regatta is a boat race. But you can only use blowing power to get your boat down the gutter. At first I was scared. But then when I got there I felt a little bit better. My whole cub scout den was there to cheer for me. JD, Hayden, Collin, Jason, Brandon, and Chris were there. First we checked in my boat. My boat was a Texas Rangers boat. Then we played for a little while. Then the cub master told us the rules of rain gutter regatta. He told us to hold a pipe behind your back and hold on to it while you are blowing your boat down the gutter. Then it was time to start. I was up first. I was racing Jason. The guy that told us to start said READY SET GO!! I blew and blew and blew and I was so close to the gutter when I heard a pink! And I saw that my boat had made it to the end of the gutter! I won 2 out of 4 heats! At the end of regatta we got rewards! I got a patch! I want to go to rain gutter regatta next year!

Dude, that's my babysitter

2011-11-14T10:55:00.000-08:00

In seven years of hiring babysitters, I've had one of nearly every kind.
There have been grannies and nannies, sweet middle schoolers and lovely co-eds, cheerleaders who are flirts and quirky actresses in maxi-length tie-dye skirts.
They've zoomed through our lives with their foam crafts and finger paints and pop-up books. They've played tag and baked cookies and watched Disney, women and girls who all truly care about the well-being of my brood.
But my new favorite caregiver is all that and more.
At six feet six inches, our new babysitter has a machine gun laugh, a wicked dodge ball serve and biceps bigger than my head.
My new babysitter is a 17-year-old dude.
I first hired Guy as a lifeguard.
He came to Grandma's house in September to monitor the big kids as they swam while the toddlers and their parents played out front.
Turns out, he lead a series of games for three hours then told me he had "the best time!"
Intrigued, I hired Guy again to lead backyard sports with my second-grade Sunday school class.
He was a complete prince, gently keeping the peace while constructively engaging the entire lot.
I was further sold when he suggested his little brother--a guest at the party--enjoy a bottled water instead of slurping up another sugary Capri Sun.
Guy didn't text.
He didn't talk on the phone.
He plans to attend college in the fall and has already shadowed local fireman and paramedics to get a taste of what those careers might be like.
I was downright smitten when I called him last week to offer up another job.
Still, my cultural bias interfered.
"Would you like to, um, come over to practice sports with my twins?" I asked.
I knew the statement was downright ridicious, especially coming from me, a woman so worried about gender constraints that I carefully provided my son with his own lookalike brunette doll and a pink stroller to push it in.
But my decision to tread softly comes with some knowledge of Texas men.
Unlike the guys I know out East and in the Midwest, the cowboys I'm acquainted with down here are happy to be modern guys--so long as you keep that fact quiet. Sure, they'll play with the kids in the cul-de-sac, switch out the laundry then start the dinner--so long as you don't bring up what they're doing. They'll moonily take their girls to a Daddy and Daughter Dance--albeit in their pickups--or sit down for a school conference--while glancing down the hall to see if other men are around.
I met one man at Kroger in Flower Mound who was eagerly reading the label on the back of jar of baby food.
"Ma'am, can you help me with this?" he politely whispered, eyebrows furrowed. "Does the 'organic' part really matter all that much? I want to do what's right."
Many studies claim that Americans have eradicated gender roles--research that includes Texans. They say men and women share the burden of earning income equally. Child care is evenly split. So, too, is the amount of time spent doing chores.
Still, it seems the guys I know down here like to keep a line of manly demarcation. They'll wear the apron--so long as they can keep their dusty boots and a Stetson in the closet.
Like many Texans before them, they want to forge their own path in their own way.
Meanwhile, I'll never know if Guy would have been offended had I used the term "babysitter."
And guess what? I'm not going to ask him anytime soon.
As long as Guy can outlast my kids in a game of baseball then reheat the mac-and-cheese, I'll thankfully call him "Dude."

Hot Colors for Hot Mamas

2011-10-20T19:19:00.000-07:00

My gal pal Marilee bought her first Orgasm this week.
The cheek color with the cheeky name, that is.
The sparkly, peachy blusher continues to be one of Nars' best sellers and, in my book at least, it remains one of the best named beauty products of all time.
Orgasm has humor, edge and is probably outrageously descriptive if you're a lights-on type of girl.
Consider this litmus test: It made Marilee and I titter in a well-lit Sephora at noon on a weekday. Given that we are middle-aged moms with a couple decades worth of marriage and five children between us, that's saying a lot.
Now, I'd like to offer the creative team at Nars a few additional mom-centric ideas. After all, we're a brand-loyal lot when it comes to cosmetics. If we came of age wearing Orgasm, many of us are still wearing it and will likely try other options if correctly marketed to our demographic.
If you liked Orgasm in your 20s, you'll probably enjoy the following in your 30s:
Overcommitted: This deep plum gives a nod to the time you realized you agreed to host both your husband's work barbeque and the end-of-year swim team party on the same night.
Lost: A glisten-y, bright pink similar to the one that appears when you're running 23 minutes behind for your son's first baseball game and unable to find the ballpark despite the fact that your husband told your there were "clear road markers."
Bedraggled: A simple pale matte with undertones of gray. This is found in nature following family camping trips, Girl Scout cookie sales and Christmas Eve wrap-a-thons.
Verclempt: The perfect little-girl pink. An ultimate selection for piano recitals, the reading of child-authored Valentine's Day cards and high school proms.
Poop: This year-round neutral is flattering for all skin tones but not in an port-a-potty kind of way. Think breastfed baby.
Syrup: Get sun-kissed in seconds with color inspired by everyone's favorite mac-n-cheese dip.
PlayDoh: A new neon that morphs from blue to green to purple when paired with a tempra-stained cardi.
Leftovers: This pinkish-redish-orangeish shade goes with everything and will leave them guessing.
Flu: Let your inner punk rock girl shine with an indie shade that offers blue undertones.
Panic: One swipe of this rust and you'll achieve that I-just-called-911 look.
Late: Sure, it looks red in the compact, but this color actually disappears when applied to the apple of the cheek. Peeking through will be a glimmer of hope and fear.
If the staff at Nars needs further suggestions, they can give me a call. I'll be at home wearing a little homemade blend I call Exhausted.

To Love, Honor and Gift with Cards

2011-10-18T11:41:00.000-07:00

Eleven years into holy matrimony and there’s one thing I know for sure: You need to present an anniversary card.
It must be funny.
It must be given at breakfast on the exact day of your marriage.
It must accompany a review of the blissful event for your children that includes but is not limited to the retelling of one wedding attendant’s accidental plunge into a nearby lake.
While my rendition of The Soaked Groomsman is always met with cackles, I am utterly failing in the funny card department.
This year on August 12, the best I could do was to present my very worthy husband with a humorous birthday card edited by me in black Sharpie to read “Happy Anniversary.”
Believe me, I had tried hard to find just the right anniversary sentiment, but it appears the greeting card industry no longer values the institution of marriage.
Instead, you’ll find a focus on the Big Five life stages: Birth/Birthdays, Graduation, Weddings, Illness and Death.
The options for birthdays alone are nearly endless.
Consider that for $7.50, you can purchase a card complete with a computer chip that allows a watercolor ostrich to belt out Beyonce’s “Single Ladies,” in honor of your step-niece’s sweet sixteen.
Or if you’re on a budget but need something special for your neighbor’s cat who is celebrating a decade’s worth of nine lives, you can spend $.99 on a puffy, glitter-enhanced goldfish card.
There are pictures of cartoon canines for your dog walker’s big day, talking wine bottles to celebrate a member of the Vinophile Club, half-naked models pumping iron to inspire your personal trainer on her 40th.
Recently, I spied a birthday card for “that special nurse as she turns 28.”
Meanwhile, there are few offerings for those of us who have, year after year—often for decades---loved, honored and cherished our spouses through sickness and health.
Those that do celebrate wedding anniversaries are limited. They showcase pastel birds carrying what appear to be tablecloths in their beaks. The saying is always something like “You’re my one true love…I’m glad we share the same nest.”
Sometimes, you’ll get lucky and find a card featuring a photo of two octogenarians drinking coffee at a kitchen table. The tag line might read “I’m so glad we can share our morning rituals together.”
If these are analogies for modern-day marriage, it’s no wonder that American society is seeing a decline in the number of couples who officially declare their commitment at the altar.
The truth is, many marriages are delightful—and delightfully funny. That’s why “Modern Family” won so many Emmys.
There are dozens of themes that emerge over the course of one year alone that could inspire the authors of greeting cards.
If there is a card for the owner of a deceased parakeet, there most certainly should be one that under the heading of “anniversary” that conveys “Thanks for taking that really expensive cruise with my mother and her obnoxious boyfriend.”
Or, how about a 3-D picture of a pack of frozen peas along with the saying “It was so thoughtful of you to pick up that extra bottle of Valium before the vasectomy reversal.”
Hallmark could take a real photo of a couple surrounded by their four small kids showcasing a gloved husband picking lice out of his wife’s hair with a three-inch comb. The message inside could declare, “No matter how many nits you have, I will always want to run my fingers through your hair.”
Even community obligations could take a rather romantic turn.
Just picture a middle-aged couple wearing matching church choir robes with the message “Under this polyester, I am hot for God…and for you. Happy anniversary, Honey.”
Even the inevitable catastrophes that bind married couples to one another are cause for celebration.
I’d suggest a caricature artist draw up a frazzled-looking husband and wife holding up broken pipes in an attic, a waterfall pouring through the roof behind them. The accompanying message could read “Even when it’s all gone to Hell, there’s no one I’d rather live in my SUV with than you, Dear! Happy Anniversary!”
Greeting card companies, take note: While weddings are important, making it to your anniversary every year is even more cause for celebration.
Just ask any couple that’s had a band of noisy squirrels roost in their chimney before their newborn’s bris.

There Should Be an App for That

2011-10-03T09:54:00.000-07:00

My new smart phone was supposed to be, well, smart.
Sure, I can download an app to translate whatever I'm reading into Gaelic.
And it's awfully handy to monitor the earthquake threat in neighboring states.
I furthermore find it interesting that I can track the load of bananas bound for my grocer as it moves North from Central America in an 18-wheeler driven by an illegal immigrant.
But if I were designing apps, I would do something practical--Momma practical.
Consider Cleat Finder.
Tap your smart phone once and a red beam would emerge, scanning each room for said sports gear. Upon locating it, the smart phone would beep then automatically dock your kid's allowance. (After all, why am I the one using my phone to find their stuff? Shouldn't they be held responsible?)
For an extra $5 per month, the app would convert to seek out missing Cub Scout socks, Brownie vests, ballet slippers and wayward lovies. Simply categorize your stuff with a quick snapshot and the phone would keep track of its whereabouts.
I'd pay a pretty penny for Snack Sargent, too.
This app would offer the sound of a rumbling belly 48 hours prior to any event to which I am scheduled to bring snacks. It would categorize the nutritional content of each item in my pantry, calibrate to consider how many and what type of food allergies were present in the group I'm feeding then suggest the most nutritious but least expensive option.
If you buy Snack Sargent, you'd get Consensus Chef for free.
This app would allow you to plug in your brood's culinary likes and dislikes then spit out menus every single child in your home would find palatable. It would further send you coupons for the necessary ingredients. And recipes.
Next on my list would be Pants on Fire.
When my kids get into an inevitable he-said-she-said, I could scan their lips with my phone. Immediately, it would alert me to the child who started whatever it was so I could fairly discipline the offender.
I think Lice Locator would also be a hit.
The moment your second grade teacher sends home news of an infestation, simply hold your phone up to your offspring's mop and scan away with the provided blacklight. Should your phone find critters, a pop-up will notify you of nearby pharmacies that have medications in stock. It will also flash a photo of the neighborhood kid that should no longer sleep over.
Many mothers of toddlers would appreciate Pee-Pee Princess.
This app would tell you with the sound of raindrops when your baby has to go. That means you could get into the proper potty position before you miss the Moment of Realization.
I might even splurge on Daily Dishwasher.
This app would keep track of which spouse last scrubbed the pots and pans. It would alleviate any arguments over whose turn it is to scrape the nasty scrambled eggs off the cast iron skillet.
The guys at the apps store sure have a lot of work to do.
Until then, my smart phone will remain in my back pocket. I'd turn it on, but I'm too busy looking for lost cleats.

Where are all the mommas?

2011-09-17T10:31:00.000-07:00

From the Dallas Morning News, September 17, 2011

Julie Blair: Where are all the mommas? At Target, of course.
Photo: Evans Caglage / Staff Photographer

The stranger in aisle E31 had definite opinions about the size of my family. After surveying my three kids, she suggested I try for a fourth child. Doing so would eliminate the odd-man-out syndrome and “complete the set.” Even numbers are key for family harmony, she explained.

While I might have felt such a discussion was intrusive had it taken place at, say, a dinner party or a church function, this was Target. And it was Hot Momma Hour. So instead of being offended, I gave her take serious consideration.

These types of intimate conversations can be heard throughout the store between the hours of 8 a.m. and 3 p.m. Go on any day during this time slot and you’ll find dozens of mommas with their broods who’ve made the pilgrimage to the big box. They go not only for groceries but also in search of something more important: community.

The Target at FM2499 and Chin Chapel Road in Flower Mound has become a de facto country club for those of us staying at home with our children. It’s a place to find exactly what we need between the often lonely rituals of laundry duty and dishes. You can stock up on opinions about preschools, swim instructors and dance companies.

If you need to kvetch about nap schedules — or the lack thereof — you can do that, too. All you have to do is make eye contact with another woman who looks equally exhausted.

Moreover, you can go early: The store opens at 8 a.m., which feels like the middle of the day for those of us who’ve been awake since 5 a.m.

“I go to Target to find people like me,” said my gal pal Christine who lives in Flower Mound and often totes her twins to the store. “When my girls were little, I went in the early morning because I knew I’d always find other stay-at-home moms.”

While our town has a gorgeous, well-used community center and neighborhoods packed with young families with whom to play, Target offers an alternative.

The climate is a steady 73 degrees and fully shaded — you can’t say that for even the most engaging subdivisions.

Moreover, there is no need to clean up the playroom for company or even to brew a pot of coffee — you can get your fix at the Target Starbucks cafe.

My girlfriend Holly, also from Flower Mound, has gone so far as to take her husband and three boys to Target for a weekly play date on Sundays. There’s always something new for them to do in the toy aisle and friends to chat with, she said.

“It’s like religion,” Holly said, “except Target.”

If I were a glass-half-empty type, I would condemn the Target scene as evidence of a culture of consumption, a sad commentary on soulless suburbs designed for cars rather than connection.

Instead, I see the Hot Momma Hour as refreshing: It is a showcase of the strength and ingenuity of the human spirit in an age of technology.

Despite Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter, despite drive-throughs and takeout, despite snarling highways and the absence of parks that keep us from one another, we remain committed to honest-to-God human contact.

We will still seek out and find the community we crave.

That, and a good deal on paper towels.

Julie Blair of Flower Mound is a freelance journalist and a Community Voices volunteer columnist. Her address is onehotmama10153@yahoo.com.

MommaSpeak

2011-07-12T10:15:00.000-07:00

My dear friend Christina and I haven't spoken a full sentence to one another in ages.
In fact, now that I think about it, I'm not sure we've ever rendered a full conversation during the entire course of our wonderful three-year-long friendship.
It isn't that we don't have anything to discuss. We've got six children ages seven and under between us, so there's a lot of mention. Yet, the kids are the crux of the communication problem: Someone always needs something so we're constantly interrupted.
Lucky for us, our language skills have evolved as our kids have grown.
Just as those who text or tweet have developed emoticons and shorthand, Christina and I--like millions of Hot Mommas across the world--dispense with traditional language and lapse into MommaSpeak when we're together.
For example, instead of verbally greeting one another, one of us hands the other a Diet Coke.(Light ice, preferably 32 cold ounces but a warm can discovered rolling around the wheel well of the car will do.)
There is no need to inquire as to how the other's afternoon has gone. I can eyeball the number of bags in Christina's hand and tell if the day has been calm or zany. (One baby bag and clasped purse means that everyone slept well the previous night; multiple Target disposables brimming over with stuff, an errant beach towel wrapped around the neck, two pairs of sunglasses perched on her head means otherwise; an unescorted preschooler holding a Mastercard and car keys assures things are dire.)
With small talk taken care of, we jump right in to important issues.
We speak at the exact same time and in fragments for brevity.
Christina: "...mother-in-law dyed her hair pink which she says accentuate her new tattoo..."
Me: "...decided to build a beach in the baby's bedroom complete with sand..."
Christina: "..ended up roller skating through all that puke..."
Me: "...left for a job in Vietman for six weeks and has no internet access..."
Christina: "...stood on top of the ladder balancing four cans of mushroom soup..."
Me: "...found two albino hamsters running through the pipes in the kitchen..."
Christina: "...hot-wired the toaster in an attempt to curl Barbie's hair..."
Me: "...fed the neighbor's retriever the whole box of enemas..."
The diaglogue is dispensed with such speed that no U.S. military decoder could decipher it.
Christina: "...gottheearplugsstuckinsidethetoilet!"
Me: "...putthecarinreverseinsteadofdrive..."
Furthermore, our discussions are often yelled to one another. That's because we're often not in the same room at the same time and/or we need to be heard over the din.
In addition, our dialogues are interspearsed with the disciplining of a brood member.
Christina: "...locked himself in the cupboard...Mattie, please put the scissors down...before the physician could get into the room..."
Me: "...said she didn't want to do the math problem...William do not put underwear on the baby's head...before she ate the paste."
Our conversations, like most MommaSpeak, usually has an abrupt ending.
Sometimes we say goodbye. Other times, we just chase a child to the potty/car/dangerous precipice.
With the rules of MommaSpeak in play, it's all understood.

Dinner at the Duck Pond

2011-06-02T11:12:00.001-07:00

The Duck Pond could be anyone's Happy Place: Its banks are lush, the waves ripple prettily, the fish bite.
But if you're a toddler who happens to like ducks, well, there's really no better place on Earth.
The Duck Pond has a menagerie that would make most zookeepers envious. There are gaggles of mismatched mallards, half a dozen exotics with Dalmatian-colored feathers, mysterious turkey-like swans, fifteen or so grackles that think they're ducks and two actual giant white ducks that were perhaps released from Easter baskets.
The ducks seem to frequent this pond for one reason: the toddlers.
The symbiotic relationship between the diapered and the feathered has likely been going on for generations: The babies bring bread, the ducks become junkies.
They all waddle about chasing one another with squawks of joy.
Occasionally, one of the aforementioned falls into the pond.
On our last visit to the Duck Pond, however, Charlotte was uncharacteristically disinterested in the fauna.
Instead, she wanted their bread.
"Ooh, food!" she yammered, bending down on stubby legs to finger a piece buried in the grass.
"Ducky bread," I suggested, making my ickiest face.
"Dirrrrrty," Charlotte breathed in her best Christina Aguilara voice.
Then, she popped the bread into her mouth.
As a recovering germaphobe, I choked back words.
"She is immunizing herself," I thought.
I pointed out the goslings to Charlotte in hopes of distracting her.
Charlotte responded by digging through the grass to find another chunk of bread.
Victorious, she pulled forth an usually large mound and jammed it between her cheeks chipmunk-style.
"Blah! Blah!" I said, sticking my tongue out.
I mentally began cataloging the germs that ducks might contain.
"Is Duck Itch food borne?," I thought. "What about Duck Death? How do you get that?"
Charlotte smiled like an angel sent down from Heaven.
Then, she turned on her heel and sprinted towards a pile of rocks. She plunged her chubby fist into a crack, pulled up moldy crust and rammed it into her mouth.
"Mmmmmm!" she said, chewing.
Then suddenly, I was noticing the duck poop.
It was everywhere--the grass, the mulch and probably the bread my child just consumed. Slimy white-green goo coated huge swaths of the grassy landing like icing atop a birthday cake.
Anxiety's heavy hand was pushing down on me.
"How about your crackers," I pleaded. "You have nice, clean fishy crackers in the backpack. Let's go get them."
Charlotte blinked and pulled herself up tall.
"No," she stamped. "Bwead."
"How about the bread we have at home?" I suggested. "I can make you a yummy peanut butter and jelly."
After raising three children, I knew that reasoning with a 20-month-old baby was no smarter than reasoning with, well, a duck.
I changed tactics.
I would offer limited choices that would not include toxic duck bread.
"Do you want cheese or oranges?" I asked.
Charlotte trotted off.
"Bwead, bwead, bwead," she sang.
In the great tradition of the Duck Pond, I waddled after her.
I was still squawking.

Two-by-Two

2011-05-23T11:55:00.000-07:00

I am a big fan of the two-by-two playdate.
Noah, after all, had great results with this on his ark. And as the mother of twins, it works for me, as well: You get a girl for your girl and a boy for your boy and everyone--including the Mommas--are happy for two to three hours.
I have recently learned, however, that I should up my game and screen for children who have been fed large, protein-based snacks prior to playdates to eliminate any latent hunger.
"Hey, are there going to be hot dogs at this playdate?" one six-year-old boy asked me recently after hopping off our school bus with his sister. "Because my mom said there would be hot dogs."
I produced pretzels, cookies and apples along with the promise of hot dogs at 5 p.m., our dinner hour. When everyone seemed finished, I shooed the children up to the playroom and started the dishes.
Twenty-five minutes later, Superman was back in the kitchen.
"So, how about those hot dogs?" he asked.
I offered up the unfinished plate of fruit and reiterated my plan for dinner.
Twenty-five minutes later, our guest returned to pull on my apron strings.
"It must be time for hot dogs!" he said.
"Not yet," I said.
Then, I gave my charge a brief lesson on how to tell time without the use of a digital clock.
Thirty-two seconds later, he poked his head in the door.
"I'm totally ready!" he said. "You must be ready, too!"
I still had lunch and snack dishes to do, five phone calls to make and three loads of laundry on my agenda, but my reserve was faltering.
"How about hot dogs in five minutes?" I asked.
"Great," Blondie said. "I'll time you."
And darn if the little imp didn't come into the kitchen with a sand timer from some long-ago forgotten board game.
"I'll have to flip this five whole times to make five minutes," he said. "I'll turn it over. There. Now, gooooooo!"
What this boy didn't know is that anyone who breathes down my neck and/or whines while I'm making dinner has to help me make it.
"Alrighty, Einstein, I'm drafting you into service," I said, pulling an apron over his brush cut. "Now go outside into the garage and find the outside refridgerator, move the ladder that's holding the crummy door shut, pull out the extra Diet Coke boxes and find the apple juice boxes. Then, grab five and put them on the table. After you do that, go into the pantry and get the ketchup. You'll have to move the rice cooker and the mixer but it's back there. Then, place that on the table. Next, you'll need to get silverware for everyone--that's a knife, fork and spoon for all of us--plus napkins. These can be found in the drawer to your left. After that, you can get everyone to stop playing, wash their hands--make sure they use bubbles while singing "Happy Birthday" as a sanitary precaution--and get them to sit down at the table.
The boy looked at me thunderstruck.
"You can do this," I told him. "I know you're in the gifted and talened program."
"Buuuuttt..." he exclaimed.
"Now move it," I said, a polite smile on my face. "I'm timing you."

The Case Against Justice

2011-04-08T11:03:00.001-07:00

One-shouldered tank tops, sequined bikinis and push-up bras have no place in the closet of a six-year-old.
Yet all three items are marketed--and sized--to young children at "Justice," a strip-mall staple.
The store, which also offers strawberry-scented pajamas, glittery plush animals and key chains for kids who are years away from driving--was initially designed as a gateway to "The Limited" and "Limited Express." These two moderately-priced dress shops seem to be geared for 20-somethings who work in polyester blazers then party in pleather.
It is unclear to me whether the girls who shop at Justice end up at the aforementioned stores, but one thing's certain: Justice clothing has become important in my first grader's daily culture.
"Mom," said my six-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, one day after school, "I know where Justice is."
Mind you, I had never spoken a word about the store. Yet somehow, Elizabeth knew inherently there was something slightly dangerous about it.
And it became cool--fast.
Thus, Elizabeth began building her case.
"Trisha wears things from Justice," Elizabeth pointed out. "So do Tabby and McKenzie."
"Yes," I wanted to tell her, "And such clothing has turned nice children into the likes of pole dancers."
(Of course, then I'd have to explain what a pole dancer is and that would make shopping at Justice look like Disney World, so I simply shut my trap.)
"Mmmm?" I mustered, in what I hoped was a neutral tone.
Mind you, I have--and have always had--a love for a little bling.
My own closet includes hot pink patent leather loafers, a fake 4-carat yellow diamond, dalmation flares. And since I live in Texas, these accessorites are trotted out routinely for daytime wear.
Still, my style can best be described as "polished preppy." My hemlines are modest. My jewelry most days includes my wedding set and small diamond studs. I wear tankinis poolside.
All this means that I have enduldged Elizabeth with a bottle of blue nailpolish. I have agreed to zebra-striped headbands. And when she finally remembers to water the plants consistently, I will take her to get her ears pierced so long as she wears discreet small gold earrings.
I am not foolish enough to think that I can stop Elizabeth and her sister Charlotte from fashion mistakes. There will probably be plunging necklines, ugly shoes, too-sprayed hair. But if these are the only mistakes they make as teenagers, I'll be one happy mom.
But I do draw the line at the sexualization of little girls.
They do not have breasts, therefore, they do not need push-up bras.
Hopefully, no men are glancing at their bottoms, therefore, they do not need low-rise undies to keep from peeking out of low-rise jeans.
They should be strong swimmers, therefore, they should wear full-bodied suits with two straps that hold up under madcap freestyle stokes.
While mothers and daughters have long had disagreements about what's appropriate, I think we've taken a more dangerous step in 2011: We've intentionally taken away sweet innoncence before Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy have even been unmasked.
Instead of allowing our little girls to occassionally try on the concept of being "big" through healthy play in the costume box, we're pushing them into full-time roles that are not developmentally appropriate.
It is an aside that we're taking away part of the fun of being a grown-up: If I had dalmation flares at age six, would I want revel in them at 37?
I can, of course, choose not to shop with or for my child at Justice.
Regardless, my daughter will still be submerged in a culture where such clothing and the roles it perpetuates is both tolerated and encouraged.
I will have to do my best then, to remind my little girl that she's little.
Because you're only six for 12 short months.

Report Cards

2011-01-24T18:08:00.001-08:00

Everyone in my family got a report card this week except for me.
The elementary school sent home very formal critiques of my twins' progress along with a letter from the state describing achievements made by the entire student body; my husband participated in one of those scary 360-degree reviews at the corporation where he's employed. Even the baby's pediatrician handed me a checklist of "achievements" at her 16-month visit.
As a stay-at-home mom, I've gotten my fill of lovely Mother's Day cards and pats on the back from various shoppers at malls, grocery stores and gas stations.
But really, I'd like to know how I'm doing. Right now. Before there are any expensive psychologists to pay.
So, I asked my six-year-olds to develop a rubric to assess my work, then grade me on my efforts.
What, I asked my children, are mothers supposed to do?
"Well, they're supposed to take care of the kids," Elizabeth said.
"And the baby," added William.
According to my first graders, mothers should be held accountable for planning great birthday parties, making sure everyone eats vegetables, reading bedtime stories, cleaning up and doing laundry.
(Noone mentioned the development of spiritual, emotional or intellectual selves but that might be added to the list next year. I am further hopeful that my progeny will also think to include the installment of manners and the ability to obliterate lice.)
Next, it came time to do the grading. I took a deep breath.
I got a perfect score on taking care of the baby. (Did anyone notice that I lost her once today?)
I also took the cake when it came to the birthday parties. My Spontaneous Easter Egg Hunt for 50 children last April was mentioned, albeit not technically a birthday celebration.
"Though you should have gotten us skateboard last year for our birthday," Will added.
I also pulled it out in the nourishment category, which was a complete surprise to me given the loud moans displayed at nearly every meal.
"But you should still make Will eat more vegetables," Elizabeth reported.
On the defense, I quickly told her I make an effort to present them every night. I cannot, however, force him to consume them save inserting an IV drip line.
According to the kids, I am furthermore a wonderful story reader. I was given credit for doing interesting charachter voices even when it is late at night and I'm really cranky.
Moreover, both children interpret the house to be clean. This means I will cancel my naptime dusting tomorrow in lieu of browsing the web.
Then they informed me that I am not perfect.
It would seem there is a significant problem with my laundry skills.
"Mom," said Elizabeth, "We need to talk about this sock problem."
Sock problem?
"You only match about 40 percent of the socks," she said.
I cannot deny this fact: Most people in my family wear mismatched socks on most days in my house. In fact, every bedroom in the house includes a display atop dressers of lonely singelton socks waiting for their mates.
Well, I tell them, I will work on that.
Right after I plan the next birthday party, that is.

Listen Up, Mr. President

2010-11-19T08:25:00.001-08:00

When you live in Washington D.C. as we did for many years, celebrities are not limited to Snooki, Lindsay and Britney. If you really want to get the interns revved up, spot Nancy (Pelosi), Harry(Reid) and now John (Boehner) dining at one of the venerable steak houses near Capitol Hill.
That's why having Roberto Rodriguez come to dinner at our house last night was a really big deal.
Mr. Rodriguez is Special Counsel to the President on Education, a handsome 35-year-old dynamo who advises Barack Obama on national school policy. He is, by Beltway standards, a minor celebrity.
In our world, he's a major one: Roberto also happens to be my husband's oldest and dearest friend, a fellow zoo school graduate from Grand Rapids, Michigan, who once ran the City High Student Council with Jim. (Three cheers for the City High "Pegasi," which was a somewhat dorky yet understandable mascot for Grand Rapids' gifted and talented youth.)
To know Roberto is to love him and in no time at all, six-year-old Elizabeth was perched on his lap as we grown-ups talked politics.
We explained to the twins that Roberto works for President Obama to make schools better.
"Is there any message you want Roberto to give to Mr. Obama?" I asked the kids. "Is there anything we as a country should be doing to improve your school?"
I, for one, could stand to do away with the TAKS tests but then, that's more of a state issue...
William, meanwhile, monkeyed with a paper plate, thoughtfully chewing his tongue.
"There should be more ice cream," he said, all business. "Every day there should be ice cream."
Roberto, ever the problem solver, asked for clarification.
"And should we have hot fudge available?" he prompted. "How about sprinkles? Do we want just vanilla or choclate, too?"
But Will wanted things simple.
"Vanilla would be good," William said.
"Well, that's important to know," Roberto said. "The House is considering the Child Nutrition Bill this week."
Who says officials don't listen to their constitutents?

Louse in De House

2010-10-26T10:01:00.000-07:00

I am a big fan of the story “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie,” the children’s book in which one action leads to another. I think there should be a version for grown-ups called “If Your Husband Goes Overseas on Business.” Here is my version.

If your husband goes to China on business, your daughter will come home with a head full of lice.
If you go to the drug store to purchase a shampoo to remove the lice, there will be only one kit left. You will need two.
If you carefully apply the pesticide, which is supposed to kill anything alive, then spend three hours combing out your daughter’s thick, long hair with an inch-wide metal nit comb, you will notice at the end of your grooming session one very alive louse. He will have very alive friends.
If you call your pediatrician in a panic, he will put you on hold.
If your doctor suggests your massage mayonnaise into your daughter’s scalp as a homeopathic remedy, you do so only to realize that you have been using Light Mayonnaise instead of Regular Mayonnaise. It is likely lice will enjoy Light Mayonnaise.
If your aunt comes to visit you from New Mexico, you will send her directly to a seedy laundromat with 14 loads of lice-infested bedroom textiles.
If your aunt is at a coin-operated laundromat, she will not have enough quarters to get the job done.
If she cashes in her remaining bills for coins, she will run out of detergent.
If you are simultaneously doing laundry at home, your washing machine will break.
If your washing machine breaks, the toilet in your master bedroom will sympathize and begin spraying dirty water soaking your carpet.
If you need to soak up funky toilet water, you will realize your aunt has every towel in the house in the back of her car.
If you get the toilet water cleaned up, you will still need to vacuum up the lice.
If you try to vacuum up the lice, you will realize your vacuum is on its last legs and that you are out of clean vacuum bags.
If you spend a whole entire week raking through your child’s hair with a painful comb, you will feel guilty and let her play with a chemistry set.
If you let her play with a chemistry set, she will spill every single chemical on the kitchen floor where your baby is crawling.
If you spend an hour cleaning the brick surface on your hands and knees, your mother will helpfully dump your dirty mop water into the downstairs toilet.
If she pours the sludge down the toilet, several rags will go down with it and clog the pipes causing the potty to overflow onto your clean floors.
If you find yourself covered in toilet water, lice shampoo, mayonnaise and dead bugs, your husband will call from China and tell you he’s having a wonderful time at the World’s Fair.
If, after a week, you finally get your child cleaned up and the house deloused, you will get an e-mail from a first grade teacher informing you that Friday is Hat Day.
If it’s Hat Day in First Grade, your child will provide a habitat for a new crop of lice.

The Mystery Reader

2010-09-09T11:56:00.000-07:00

Being a Mystery Reader in first grade is a little like volunteering to step on the circus stage--you know darn well something funny will happen with the clowns and that it will likely involve water.
Yet, it is nice to raise your hand and be chosen.
Thus, I marched off to the elementary school last week with my two reads tucked under my arm and a theme: It's good to be quirky.
Mrs. E. turned off the lights as I entered and did a drum roll...surprise...it's Will's mom!
I parked myself in the rocker.
"Our two stories today are about being quirky and how that's a good thing," I told the kids clustered on the Crayola-colored rug. "Who knows what quirky means?"
Noone knew.
"Well, it means being unique in a special way," I said. "Our baby Charlotte is quirky because she likes to do chores. When she crawls, she pulls herself around on her tummy, dusting the floor."
I added that I'm quirky--I drink Diet Coke with my breakfast!
I offered other examples: Our grandma screams really loud when she rides kiddie amusements even though she's in her seventh decade of life, Will's sister separates all her food into categories before she eats them, our daddy can snore so loud you can hear him one floor down.
I then proceeded to read "Imogene's Antlers," the story of a British girl who, wouldn't you know it, grows antlers! I follow up with Dav Pilkey's "Dog Breath," about a canine who saves the day despite needing to brush and floss.
Then it was time to see how well we did with retention.
"Okay, so we know being quirky is a good thing," I said. "Who here is quirky?"
One little boy offered that he's quirky because he wears his hair in a braid on top of his head; another girl lives on a farm with a horse.
Will's friend Sandy has a dog who has really, really short legs but runs surprisingly fast.
They were getting into the swing of things now.
"Ohh, ohh, I have one," yelled a kid in a Cub Scout uniform hopping up and down. "I have a dog who wears a diaper and pees blood!"
Next time I think I will go to the circus.
At least that's a more predictable afternoon.

Crawler Camp

2010-07-15T07:17:00.000-07:00

I've done many crazy things in the name of motherhood, but crawling across the living room floor on all fours barking like a dog with a baby rattle in my mouth might be the nuttiest.
Actually, I wasn't just barking. I was also shaking my head back and forth and sort of growling. Being consheentious, I wanted to get the part of Beagle just right.
The simultaneous goal, however, was to encourage Charlotte to creep, a milestone that at 9.5 months had failed to materialize.
I had pretty much given up on crawling and figured it didn't matter: After all, Elizabeth sat on her tuffet until she was 13 months old then stood up and walked across the room. She's since tested into our school district's gifted and talented program so I figured she didn't miss out on much.
So when all the other babies at Kindermusik zipped across the mats on all fours, I sat back and smiled.
"Charlotte has surveyed our flooring options which include brick and wood," I told another mother, "She's happy instead to relax and preserve her knees."
Not only was the baby thrilled with the arrangement--who wants to look down at the world after sitting up?--but so was I. With Charlotte immobile, I didn't have to worry about scrubbing the floor or packing up the Legos.
Imagine my surprise when my pediatrician raised a red flag--which I dismissed.
(This is my third baby, for crying out loud, let's not rush her! She'll creep when she's ready.)
Then my dear gal pal Michelle M., who is also a pediatric physical therapist, forced me to swallow a cold dose of hard reality.
"Crawling is imperative," she said in her kind doctor-y voice. "It promotes visual perception and strengthens the arms which enables kids to form the correct pinscher grasp used for writing later."
It turns out that crawling as a baby is linked to school success: Kids who don't color or write well in kindergarten generally never crawled.
(Creeping also does a bunch of other important things but I'm several days out from the conversation so I can't remember what exactly, but the gist is that kids must go through this phase to ensure their bodies and minds work properly.)
And what of Elizabeth?
"You got lucky," my friend said. "If Charlotte's not up on all fours and swaying back and forth by ten months, give me a call for clinical assessment."
Michelle's prescription: 30 to 40 minutes of belly time per wake period. This translates to 90 minutes per day.
Now, I will blatently ignore a middle-aged male pediatrician, but I will never, ever ignore the advice of a fellow hot momma with a Ph.D. (I will disclose I've spent thousands of dollars at Michelle's clinic where William worked to quit tiptoe walking--also a seemingly harmless quirk that causes big problems--and thus I know the value of early intervention.)
So, I dutifully spent an afternoon last week rearranging the furniture and laying down a huge foam mat: Crawler Camp would commence immediately.
Charlotte was not pleased.
Four minutes into our exercises and she planted her face into the foam, looking up at me with a pleading look that said "Can I please just have the camp water bottle and T-shirt and call it quits?"
"Listen, kid," I told her, "If you want to accurately pen your incredibly long English name when you're five, you're going to have to do this."
And so we've been at it now for a week. I've alerted all family members to the situation and now even the twins--the biggest enablers of us all--are forcing Charlotte to climb over the Mt. McKinley of pillows. Why just yesterday, the big kids even played Yoga Class with Charlotte, deftly demonstrating the various poses they'd learned in preschool.
Still, no success. And no real interest.
"See, Charlotte," I tell her, "If you can crawl, you can get whatever toy you want."
She rolls her big, brown eyes at me and whines like a dolphin both harpooned and marooned.
Hence my dog act.
If we have to put this sweet cherub through Crawler Camp, at least I'll try to make it fun for her.
No wonder I'm the one sporting rug burn on my knees.

EPILOGUE: Baby Charlotte began doing an Army crawl at 11 months. She first dragged herself to an electrical outlet then scooched over to the wastebasket to lick it. I abruptly canceled the meeting with the PT but now worries she is going to pull a lamp on her head... I should be more careful what I wish for...

My Mother's Table

2010-06-01T12:35:00.000-07:00

My mother, for all her efforts to become a good cook, rarely serves up a meal without a side of apology.
"I'm worried this might be a little overdone," she'll say, plunking down plates of puckered chicken before us. "And I didn't quite get to these green beans in time but they should still be OK," she'll add, spooning out vegetables no decorated EMT could resuscitate.
Ketchup is often offered as triage.
So is salt, the "seasoning" of choice in her kitchen.
If things are really dire, she'll microwave a can of mushroom soup and slosh it over the top of whatever cut of meat needs help.
Her best strategy remains distraction, which is where the leprechauns come in.
My mother's table scapes are legendary. This is why, in part, her dinners remain extraordinary culinary events and a hot ticket any time during the holidays.
Sit down at one of her tables and you feel like you're in Disney World.
Depending upon the season, there are dozens of artfully arranged Easter bunnies, cupids, Santas, birthday hats, or ceramic rainbow sculptures lofted at differing heights atop boxes draped in antique lace and textured cloths. I've even seen her tastefully combine plastic flip flops, Styrofoam sun visors and multicolored bandannas in a centerpiece caterers at The Plaza would commend.
But that's just the beginning.
The placecards--and there are always placecards--are not simply small signs denoting your seat. Often, they hold clues about the life of the guest, which is essential, she believes, to the ice-breaker phase of a dinner.
At her events, you might be seated next to "World-Class Litigator," or "Museum Docent" or "Airplane Connoisseur." Even small guests get provocative cards like "Amusement Park Designer."
Sometimes, guests are given a part they're supposed to play.
One Christmas, my mother did a Texas theme and we were all given nicknames: We enjoyed the company of "Tall Richard," "Kitty Jo," "Jim Bob," "Big John," and "Little Jewel."
These monikers were extended to our stockings, which also were marked with the aforementioned names and hung on the backs of our dining room chairs.
There is silver, too, lots and lots of silver sprinkled between crystal goblets and linen napkins adorned with thematic napkin rings.
My six-year-old daughter Elizabeth always checks the silver sugar bowl to see if Memaw is serving white or brown sugar. She likes to clink the tiny tea spoon aside the bowl with a pinkie raised. While some grandmothers would flinch at the mere thought of young children nearing their pretties, my mother encourages use so that kids can learn early on to appreciate them.
"They're antiques," she'll say. "They've been through generations of kids and have held up just fine."
This is often a launching point for stories of people past and present.
You see, the real entree at my mother's table is not the roast but the conversation.
She knows something about everyone and makes connections for and between her guests, engaging them in ways few others could. My mother is fundamentally curious and asks curious questions. She mixes in ideas big and small, massaging the dialogue like a baker massages dough until the dinner becomes a party and the party evolves into a night to remember.
"Good God," she'll say after an evening, "Your father and I were up late again! The Smyths were at the dinner table until 2 a.m.!"
Of course they were.
My mother's meals are more nourishing than those served by five-star chefs in world-renowned restaurants. That's because she never fails to make her guests feel special, funny, smart, comforted and, well, full--even if you were noshing on that weird green Jell-o salad she serves in spring.
My mother's birthday was June 1 and for the occasion, I bought a clutch of ceramic pink flamingos. I set my table with pink polka dot plates then sprinkled dyed pink feathers throughout my table scape.
The food was a downright disater: The menu included stringy Hawaiian chicken and a birthday cake topped with crystallized icing so sweet it made dentists up in Oklahoma shiver.
"Ohh, this is delightful!" my mother cooed as she ate a forkful. "So, William, I hear that your tables were turned upside down in kindergarten today. What was that all about?"

Elizabeth's Journal

2010-05-22T16:55:00.001-07:00

It is hard to imagine anything more exciting to a six-year-old than losing a front tooth, which is why when the blessed event occurred the Tooth Fairy left a message in pink glitter glue, a smattering of pink fairy dust on the floor and a five dollar bill carefully folded in the tooth pillow.
But today Elizabeth topped herself: She spontaneously lost another bottom tooth without any of the usual wiggling--only two days after losing a front tooth!
"Look what came out," she screeched, rushing down the stairs with the evidence cupped in her right hand.
For the record, she's lost five teeth. This means she now shares strained baby food with her eight-month-old sister Charlotte.
Elizabeth proceeded to make the necessary phone calls: Mewmaw and Papa, Grandma Nan, Aunt Jamie.
"You must come see my smile, Memaw," Elizabeth crowed into the phone while lounging on the couch. "I am adorable."
Then, she documented the event in her Dollar Store notebook.
Below is the entry as copied directly from the page.
(Of course I read it! But that's another blog post entirely...)

Day 4
I lost my tooth egan! Wow, I cant bulev it!
I lost my tooth!
I lost my tooth!
I can't bulev my self!

Such an entry would make even the Tooth Fairy chortle.

Boy Love

2010-05-01T18:42:00.001-07:00

"No one will play with me at recess."
It was a statement of fact, bravely put forth by my small boy.
The huge hazel eyes searched mine.
My own eyes stung as I commanded every cell in my body to stay steady.
I did my best to soothe and strategize. Later, I inquired of the kindergarten teacher: What did she see? After all, I was under the impression that William is--and has long been--well liked by just about everyone. He's kind, intelligent and quietly funny. He blends well with many different types of kids and enjoys them all. His teacher confirmed this and explained that he always plays with classmates at recess.
Yet despite being busy, Will still felt lonely.
I knew exactly why: He needed a Best Friend.
Just as all little boys should have a dog, they need a Best Friend. All boys should have a special companion who can appreciate the fine art of mushing gross uneaten food into a carton of chocolate milk. They need a person who can repeat a fart joke with a cackle then cheer them on as they execute a flying two-footed leap off a swing when their moms aren't looking.
And while William has a built-in buddy with a twin sister who loves him like a turtle loves its shell, he doesn't have a best buddy--yet.
I had been hopeful there would be a match when he started preschool at age 3. While there was plenty of fun to be had, there was noone special who stuck; the second year of pre-k left us with many good memories but no real contenders for Best Friend.
I hoped that kindergarten--and a boy-heavy class of 19--would offer up an opportunity. But with six weeks left in the school year, I wasn't seeing a match yet.
In the meantime, we continued to play with lots of different children and kept up ties with our preschool pals. I invited 40 kids to the twins' sixth birthday party but shelved my hidden hope for a Best Friend for Will this school year.
Then just today, I heard the cackle I'd been hoping for.
It rose up from my backyard like the first Texas bluebonnet of spring--bright, tall and full.
Charlie Schwartzman--a friend from preschool--was running in hot pursuit of Will. Together they tore around our biggest oak tree, Will in the lead while weilding a Nerf gun. My boy was was laughing like a heyena, open mouthed, tongue wagging.
Even after Charlie tackled his pal and, apparently, licked his ear, Will was grinning.
After the Schwartzmans left, Will pulled me aside.
"Mom," he said, "Charlie said he likes me best. He likes me. The. Best."
Charlie, I think it might be mutual.

The Hot Pink Egg

2010-04-07T19:40:00.001-07:00

Elizabeth and I make up stories together every night as we lie beneath her pink quilt. Generally, they feature a mouse and we call them 'Mouse Tales.' The feature below is tonight's story, written down by me for posterity. It is a deparature from the norm in that it features a spring hen. (Whoever heard of a mouse sitting atop an egg? Then again, that might be another story...) I rarely have more fun than when 'writing' with Beebs; few things thrill me more than her love of words.

Once upon a time in a field growing really tall spring grass, there lay hiding a hot pink plastic egg.
A hen came upon the hot pink plastic egg.
She looked to the left.
She looked to the right.
"Where is the mother of this poor hot pink egg?" the hen asked. "Why, this little thing must be cold. I will warm it and wait for the chick to peck it's way into the world."
So the mother hen fluffed her feathers and carefully arranged herself atop the egg.
She enjoyed the afternoon breeze.
She enjoyed the sunset.
She enjoyed the sparkly stars as they popped out around the moon.
The sun came up and the mother hen flopped off the egg to inspect it.
"This little chick is a late riser," she said. "I will try to wake her up."
So the mother hen knocked on the hot pink egg.
Nothing happened.
She knocked again, louder this time.
"Little chick, are you home?" the mother hen asked.
There was no answer.
So the mother hen used her strong beak to crack the hot pink egg in two.
"Oh, my!" she exlaimed.
There lying in the center of the hot pink egg was a very small bunny dressed in gold. She wore a pink bow tie and smelled very, very sweet.
"Why, you are not a chick at all!" the mother hen exclaimed. "You are a lovely little bunny."
The mother hen cocked her head with a smile, fluffed her feathers and gently wrapped her warm wing around the chocolate bunny.

Soccer Stars

2010-02-23T11:09:00.001-08:00

In Texas, you're behind in sports if you don't start prior to potty training.
People have been telling me this for years but I shrugged it off. I know things are competitive down here in the Lone Star State(see "Cool Moms" posted below) but, seriously now, what insane people put toddlers on the soccer field before they've give up their sippy cups?
It would appear there are many.
In fact, by the time the Big Dawgs creamed the Lightening Bolts last Saturday, it appeared the winners had been on the field together for three years.
A pint-sized Pele and his pal--a wringer for David Beckham--along with their five-year-old teammates, pocketed at least ten goals during our 40-minute game in ice-cold conditions.
I say "at least" because at some point I stopped counting.
Luckily for the parents of the Bolts, the referees don't keep score for the Under Six league. Had they tallied the points, I know that my own sweet William would have sobbed so hard his father would have had to have carried him off the field in a puddle.
While the coaches of the Dawgs were telling their players to "Defend #4! Close in on #7! Cut around #2!" my husband--Coach Jim--and his buddy, Coach Steve, were yelling and pointing "Run LEFT, Honey, run LEFT!" in an attempt to ensure our kids were at least aiming the ball into the correct net.
Reid looked up from the play puzzled; Elizabeth stopped altogether in her tracks; Jack ran over to the sidelines to look for a cookie.
Mind you, our kids are not idiots.
On the contrary, they were holding tough after only one practice. The others had been cancelled due to snowy/soggy/frigid weather. Moreover, some of the kids had never watched a soccer game before, much less played in one. We were still figuring out how to put on our velcroed shin guards, discussing how the game is played, learning what in the heck the whistle was all about.
But by half time, Aiden was kicking big, Reid was defending the goal and Jack, having been fortified by M&M-filled baked goods, was running after the ball with a determined look on his face.
Alas, the opponent continued mounting goals on us.
Not that that mattered to Sydney and William who were defending their fellow Bolts up in the stands. (Yes, there are stands for the Under Six League in Texas.)
According to Sydney's mom, one of the Dawgs was talking trash about the Bolts to Syd and Will.
"We're still winners if we try our hardest," William told the Dawg.
"Right," said Sydney, who then went on to expound on the virtues of good intent and hard work in a manner that would make her kindergarten teacher proud.
Apparently, this sussing shut up the Dawg, who agreed that everyone would be a winner despite the score.
It's true that we lost the game. Yet in the end, we won.
No matter the tally of the season, I think we've already gotten our money's worth.
Go, Bolts!

Cool Moms

2010-02-15T11:48:00.000-08:00

Whoever says my middle-class North Dallas suburb lacks cultural diversity need only glance at my twins' elementary school.
Why, we have Overprotective Moms. Overscheduling Moms. Overbearing Moms. And, my favorite Mom type of all, Moms of the Oversmart.
Ahem.
Gifted and talented.
And while I am certainly among the many Ugg-booted, cell-phone weilding throngs who idle in a SUV at kindergarten car line, I am proud to say that I do not fit into any of these categories.
After all, my five-year-old twins engage in only one sport per season (that's soccer this spring, as both football and hockey were deemed unsafe). They engage in free play (from 3:30 p.m. until 4:47 p.m. M-F at which point we adjourn to an organic, homemade meal served on BPA-free plates.) They are smart, but not so smart as to be weird. (I permitted William to yell "POOP!" for 12 consecutive minutes yesterday but only after he agreed to name the organs that aid in digestion.)
The final proof: When asked to provide evidence of my children's giftedness for our school district's G&T program, I limited myself to one typed page per child. I recognize that it would have sufficed to simply fill out the two lines provided on the form, but because I am a professional writer, I believe some level of perfection is expected. This accounts for the six hours I spent crafting the essays. (Thanks to those of you who edited them! I owe you each a Starbucks!)
I might add that I was ultra cool when the twins and I ran into the G&T admissions officer outside an Ulta beauty supply store last week. I could have gone on and on about how William correctly identified the nation of origin of the story "The Little Red Hen" as England just the day before. I could have added that Elizabeth is reading "The Mouse and the Motorcycle"--a third grade chapter book--all by herself.
But I'm not that kind of mom, so I didn't mention any of it.
No, I kept it casual: I told the teacher how we're enjoying "Brain Quest" at dinner each night. The "game" is actually a fan deck that offers dozens of questions about history, mathematics and science.
"We challenge each other to see who can answer fastest then my husband and I expand upon the concepts," I told the teacher. "We've completed the kindergarten and first grade cards, so we've moved on to second grade. The cards would be such a welcome addition to your curriculum."
The educator smiled and mentioned something about finding a hairbrush.
I'm sure she took the time to text my advice to the head of the curriculum department as soon as she made her purchase.
In fact, I'd bet my Uggs on it.

The Night Before Christmas

2009-12-27T18:07:00.000-08:00

'Twas the night before Christmas it was half-assed at best,
The big kids were fighting, Charlotte was biting my breast.

The stockings were hung, all seven trees dressed,
but this year the gifts lacking bows looked distressed.

In lieu of gift tags I'd Sharpied the names,
in the upper right corners I'd attempt some new game.

No sleep I had had not one darn silent night,
worse yet my pre-pregnancy pants were still way too tight.

We went to church anyhow to celebrate the main event,
I sat there wondering if Mary had ever felt this spent.

We departed in peace to a cold winter night,
to fix Santa his treats, then have a bite.

It would be Chick-Fil-A or maybe some Kraft,
thought I knew Dear Husband would prefer a cold draft.

When what to our wondering eyes did appear
but snow in the South flakes big, cold and clear.

Our twins went wild, they skidded and shrieked,
their interest in Santa was gone, in getting wet it peaked.

Elizabeth made angels, William went down the slide,
the babe went to bed while I got the Tide.

The moon rose up high, they claimed to be tired,
we knew in our hearts, however, that they'd be long wired.

We gave baths and read stories of magic this night,
it took much work before we had them in bed snuggled tight.

Then the effort began for Dad and myself
as we'd not yet done everything we should as good elves.

We ran out of tape and paper so cute,
I had to hide one Santa gift in an old cowboy boot.

At last we retired, though we knew it'd be brief,
for our newborn holds the position as Commander-in-Chief.

But as my eyes closed that cold Christmas Eve,
I thought to myself, I am so pleased.

For I am a woman rich with family safe and warm,
who care not how my clothes fit or how my hair is shorn.

Perfection has its virtues here in the 'burbs,
but not at my house this year, no, it sure won't be served.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!

Favorite Things

2009-11-18T19:56:00.000-08:00

The hunky guy outside the toy store was definately checking me out.
He smiled, for crying out loud and--get this--lifted an eyebrow appreciatively.
Huh.
I looked down at my Fourth Trimester self: Nasty black leggings, spit-up covered T-shirt, spare tire sizeable enough for people to wonder when I'm due.
Did I mention that I recently got a pin-head haircut that had the effect of making me look like the "before" picture in a Jenny Craig weight-loss advertisement?
Hot Guy sauntered over.
"Hello," he said in a throaty growl. "Tell me about your buggy. It's really something."
Girls, this is what happens when you're 35 years old and you live in the surburbs: Men pick you up for your stroller.
I must say, my buggy is something to be admired.
It is an aubergine Bugaboo Frog, as seen rambling down Rodeo Drive being pushed by celebrities. It sports a comfy, full-sized bassinet, rugged oversized rubber wheels that can traverse either sand or sidewalk and a souped-up suspension system the Princess and the Pea would admire.
My girlfriend Donna sold it to me used for $350. Lord knows she probably had to take out a home equity line to purchase it new.
I have been fantasizing about something similar since I was in Scandanavia five years ago and developed a bad case of Pram Envy. At the time, I was pushing a Graco Duo Glider, a horrible 70-pound lug that made the worst grocery cart like a Mazarati.
As it turns out, baby gear in general and the vendors who provide such stuff have come a long way since 2004 when my twins were born. Not only has Bugaboo brought the pram back to America, but I've been pleased as punch to find half a dozen new inventions and people who make toting/cuddling/entertaining Lovey much more convienent.
Consider, for instance, the Sleepy Wrap.
I had half a dozen slings for my twins that promised to do everything for me but pay for their college tuitions. Unfortunately, I have no sense of geometry and could never master the art of hanging said togas securely enough to ensure I wouldn't drop my children.
Somehow, the people who make the Sleepy Wrap took the challenge out and produced a stretchy piece of fabric and directions for using it that actually make sense. You can swaddle Junior in a number of positions and be reassured he won't end up falling through a trap door onto the black top. The positions deliver: Charlotte takes one look at her wrap and promptly passes out cold. Furthermore, the wrap works on all body types, even that of my strapping husband who is broader than a double door. It comes in several stirring colors, too, so you can add a little hootzpah to your Fourth Trimester black separates.
My next favorite item is the Brest Friend nursing pillow with terry cloth tarp.
Mind you, I was prejudiced against this find due to its ridicious pun-y name. Yet, after I trying it at the behest of my lactation consultants, I ran down to the closest Babies R Us and bought one.
The tall foam pillow boosts Teensy up to your boobs so that she can properly latch on. A seat belt wraps around Momma's waist so the pillow won't slide or sag, as others do. Moreover, the broad platform is so dense you can carry Baby from your rocker to her bed allowing you to transfer her easily without waking her.
The terry cloth slipcover is washable and includes a thoughtful pocket for stray pacifiers.
Once you've spent enough time with the Brest Friend, you'll want to get yourself some Soothies.
My gal pal Jeannette rushed me these breast pads in the maternity ward when she learned Charlotte was chomper.
Made of some type of miraculous space-age cooling gel, these little gems slip inside your nursing bra and heal the damage done by overzealous suckers. Better yet, they are reuseable and smell sort of herb-ly which cancels out the scent of fear you'll likely emit, especially if you're a first-time mom.
After you get your mammaries under control, you'll realize you are starving. And when the neighborhood casseroles run out, you might want to check out Subway.
I have long overlooked the fast-food giant (again, I have a problem with ridicuous advertising campagains, which in my opinion, includes the ever-cheesy Jared.) However, I shouldn't have been so snotty: It turns out the chain just started offering substantial breakfasts along with a variety of healthy luncheon sandwiches. My favorite condiment is the sweet onion sauce which adds an element of fancy to any cold cut. Believe me when I tell you you won't want to be cooking anytime soon and that Subway five times in three days is no sin.
After her lunch and yours, you might want choose to memorialize Cherub.
For a fresh take on baby pictures, I met with Toni Elmer of Urban Photo.
The Dallas-area photographer and mother of four is an endlessly patient baby whisperer and hugely creative. Her artwork has appeared in glossy magazines and celebrates the unique traits of your little one. For instance, she pointed out that Charlotte's cavemanlike black arm hair is dainty and sweet rather than cause to a visit to the estetician.
Moreover, Toni does home visits which means she can catch your child on her best behavior. In my case, she waited for nearly an hour as Charlotte enjoyed a meal atop the Brest Friend.
It turns out that Toni isn't the only one who will come to you.
A breastfeeding crisis at 5 p.m. on a Saturday night gave me cause to ring the women at the Nesting Place, a Southlake breastfeeding support center and boutique. For a $100 fee, a veteran lactation consultant hustled through traffic to diagnose Charlotte's case of tongue-tie. She gave me now-and-later strategies as well as written instructions so that I wouldn't have to rely on my sleep-deprived brain to recall them.
Once all that was taken care of, Charlotte could relax in her Fisher-Price Hoppy Bouncer. Of all the baby seats I've owned--and at one time I had one chair per room--this new option offers up the best angle for a remarkable $34. It supports Little Bit's floppy neck yet is reclined just enough so that she can nap comfortably. The seat also offers optional battery-powered, soothing vibrations and a removeable playtime bar with small toys to spy. While the froggie motiff might be too cutesie for those with modern sensibilties, note that you'll soon be too tired to care.
Now, if only the baby engineers would dream up a solution for eliminating the effects of sleep deprivation. That would be one product I'd definately buy.

Sleep

2009-11-15T19:04:00.000-08:00

I crave sleep like an alcoholic craves booze.
I'll take it anywhere, anytime. Standing up. Sitting down. In the shower with water streaming down my face.
I came to last night around 7:30 p.m. under Elizabeth's pink coverlet. She was patting both my cheeks with her chubby hands.
"Mom! Mom!" she whispered, "Wake up! Wake up! You stopped singing!"
Apparently, I had been lying comatose for some time, having ceased my alphabet lullaby somewhere around "L-M-N-O."
Frankly, I'm surprised I made it past the letter "D."
To my chagrin, staying up all night with my eight-week-old baby is making my tired.
This is hard for me to admit because I was all huff and bluster prior to giving birth.
"Oh, how bad can it be," I yodeled to my girlfriends, "I had twins the first time around!"
It's true that with the twins I averaged about three hours of sleep per night for about six months. It was miserable. It was insane. It was, in fact, the paramount reason we waited five years to even consider having another child.
But with "only" one baby--a singelton in the nomenclature in the world of mothers of multiples--I figured it would be better.
And it is.
I'm getting four and a half hours of sleep each night.
While the pediatrician promises me Charlotte's nights will get longer, I know from past experience there's no real promise in that.
After all, I was just last year asking Elizabeth's preschool teacher how to get her to stop the night wakings.
"Once you have children, you'll never sleep well again."
That gem came from my godmother who, I clearly recall, was once so exhausted in the early 1980s that she spread out her mink coat on my grandmother's living room floor and commenced to snore her way through an otherwise roaring Christmas party.
"Oh," she said sometime around midnight, "I just needed a little nap."
Well, I need a little nap, too.
I don't even need the mink: Just let me lie down on the brick kitchen floor and drape a napkin over me and I'll be thankful.
Oh, no.
It that crying I hear?
I may not be able to sleep but at least I can dream, right?

Family

2009-10-14T11:59:00.001-07:00

It is essential that every kindergarten student draw pictures of their family.
And at Week 6, we've done just that.
William brought home his version yesterday.
It included Mommy (in clothing thank God vs. nearly naked...see previous post), Daddy, Sister and Baby.
There was a further unidentifiable person.
It didn't look like Papa.
Or Mema.
Or Dana, our loyal and beloved housekeeper.
The black stick figure had short black hair so I assumed it wasn't Grandma Nan who is, most of the time, a redhead.
The hair sort of fit Aunt Jamie, but given the lacking presence of Uncle Sean and Cousin Malachi, I figured it wasn't her.
Puzzled, I referenced William's tagline.
It read "Werkmon."
I guess that's how you know your new home is a lemon: Your five-year-old son includes your plumber in his family drawing.

Three

2009-10-12T10:48:00.000-07:00

It was long understood that Baby Charlotte would change the mix in our house, but none of us really knew exactly what that would mean.
So when she arrived on September 18 at 8:01 a.m. at a hefty 8 pounds 1 ounce, we all waited with baited breath.
"Mom," whispered five-year-old Elizabeth, "Do you really think you can handle all three of us?"
I quickly dodged the question because, no, I'm not really sure I can handle this.
"Oh, Honey," I told her in a reassuring voice pilfered from an old episode of "Leave It to Beaver," "I have more than enough love to go around."
It is questionable, however, whether or not I have enough patience, time and/or cash.
Really, Elizabeth, all I know for sure is that I have a party-of-five Halloween trick-or-treat theme and that credential seems hardly the skill necessary to usher three fragile spirits from childhood to adulthood without any of us ending up in psychotherapy.
So, I'm going minute-by-minute here, from one poopy diaper to snack time to tempter tantrums to searching for a beloved lost teddy. Then suddenly it is 2 a.m. and someone is chomping on my boobs with the force of an automatic staple gun.
When you live this way, funny things happen.
For instance:
One five-year-old spends an entire weekend wearing a bike helmet. Mind you, her getup was enjoyed at playtime as well as at family meals.
Those family meals consisted of varying brands of cold cereal.
After one dinner, another child washes his Wii video games, literally submerging them and scrubbing them with soap.
The baby, meanwhile, meets the three-week mark without an actual bath.
I do shower--so I don't offend said newborn--and realize I literally have nothing to wear but a variety of nursing bras. I dodge around the house in them shirtless accompanied by ratty pajamas bottoms for several days.
My mother loans me a black T-shirt covered in rhinestone dinosaurs. I actually try it on.
Inspired by the shirt, I read the kids "Danny the Dinosaur" at bedtime while standing up nearly naked and nursing a fussy baby.
William decides he should be the one reading the stories instead. He insists upon a fourth-grade chapter book about the adventures of a mischievous wolf pup. It is two hours past bedtime.
Forty minutes later, he has successfully read said book (!!) and in doing so settled the baby down.
"Look Mom," he said triumphantly, "I read Charlotte her first book and put her to sleep! It's magic!"
As messy as it is, he just might be right.

Intercoms

2009-09-16T12:18:00.000-07:00

I am 48 hours away from delivering #3 and, in an attempt to scratch one last thing off the list before becoming a shut-in, I waddled into the local Tom Thumb to receive a flu shot.
Despite my timing -- 2 p.m. on a Wednesday -- there was a line for the shots.
"Twenty-five minutes," the pharmacist said. "Come back then."
I dutifully filled out the legal forms then padded to the fruit aisle. I picked up strawberries, swerved to the dairy case for some milk then stood in the protein bar section for half a century while contemplating the benefit of adding fig paste to my diet.
But being in the last stages of gestation and tragically forgetful, I completely forgot about the one thing I'd come to get: the flu shot.
Checking the time, I rolled my now-full cart into the check-out line, chatted with one of my favorite clerks and asked for carry-out service.
Then, I happily conversed with the customer behind me. She noted that her own bulging stomach was post due. The shopper was looking forward to a home birth.
She was buying one lone carton of Ben & Jerry's -- double brownie supreme -- which I supposed would pass as pain management for women stronger than I.
Still, it was a lovely pint, so delicate there on the rotating belt. It spun like a ballerina again and again, its chocolate-y goodness floating towards the infra-red scanner to a soulful ballad only a pregnant girl could possibly hear.
Suddenly, there was a crackle as the all-store intercom went on. A loud voice boomed forth:
"WOULD THE HEAVILY PREGNANT WOMEN IN THE PINK-STRIPED DRESS PLEASE RETURN TO THE PHARMACY FOR HER FLU SHOT?"
Four aisles of customers began hooting and pointing at me.
I blinked.
I am, you see, so "heavily pregnant" that my ears are now apparently affected.
"That's you, Honey," said a nearby clerk, giving me a nudge.
"I REPEAT," the voice said, "WOULD THE HEAVILY PREGNANT WOMAN IN THE PINK-STRIPED DRESS PLEASE RETURN TO THE PHARMACY FOR HER FLU SHOT?"
I waved heartily to the throngs, parked my cart near the lottery vending machine and lurched toward the pharmacy.
Clearly, I should have worn another outfit.

Indoctrination

2009-09-05T05:48:00.000-07:00

My five-year-old twins won't view President Obama's education address in their kindergarten classroom on September 8 because school administrators in our Texas district have deemed that it would "interrupt instructional time."
Instead, the district will stream the video online. Families can then opt in--or out--of the national dialogue.
This safe compromise was likely made to soothe conservative voices here who worry the President's short speech would aim to indoctrinate their youngsters into the Democratic party--or worse--a "socialist way" of thinking.
And while I haven't yet seen the speech as I write this, I can tell you from my professional experience covering local, state and national education issues as a newspaper reproter for more than 10 years that few presidential addresses of this type given in the classroom release bombshells. My prediction is that Obama's speech will be fairly neutral in tone and offer nice photo ops for the press corps.
As a parent of three, however, it is greatly refreshing to see the public's interest in the content our children are exposed to in our nation's public schools--I only wish we as a group would pay more attention to the subtle types of indoctrination that happens every day.
For example, last week--on the second day of kindergarten--my twins bopped home from our tony community's premier elementary school with camoflague-colored dog tags hanging around their necks from metal chains.
While my kids thought nothing of this, I brought context to such symbols.
Dog tags, after all, are an indellible symbol of warfare. In fact, such dog tags are manufactured to be thin and small so they can be sewen into the mouths of dead soilders and thus help those in field mortuaries identify the fallen.
By sending home such a symbol, my public school is sending a subtle message that they not only approve of warfare--but wholeheartedly endorse it. Moreover, they're telling my young children to be proud foot soldiers.
On the fourth day of kindergarten, my children returned home with fliers listing half a dozen fast-food restaurants that will return a portion of our bill to our public school in an effort to raise funds for educational endeavors.
"Mom," said my daughter Elizabeth, "we have to go eat pizza tonight to help our school!"
As it turns out, we can spend every night this week--and every night for the remaining school year according to these fliers--at fast-food joints raising money for our school.
Of course, nutritionists--many who work for the state's department of health--would tell us that to take the advice of our premier elementary school would be to risk the health of my family. My children would become obese, contract diabetes and ruin their hearts.
Yet, the subtle message from the public school is 'Due your duty and help out your school.'
On the sixth day of school, instructional time in our kindergarten was handed over to two uniform-clad high school football players who signed autographs in promotion of their first big home game. They also read two books to the children, but this last detail was forgotten by my kids who reported only the shimmering uniforms and the deep, impressive voices of the handsome players.
It is likely, too, that they subconsciously picked up on the school's subtle message that sports are of the utmost importance here in Texas, that male athletes should be revered above others, that strength of body trumps strength of spirit or mind.
This is why, even as a longtime card-carrying member of the Democratic party and big Obama supporter, I'm thrilled to have passionate conversations about indoctrination. But let's not limit the discussion to the President's 10-minute speech. As parents, we need to be aware of and address the subtle everyday messages our public schools are giving our kids.
I only wish our school district would give us the option of streaming some of these other messages via video.

The Tonsillectomy

2009-08-28T17:09:00.001-07:00

Seeing your child hurt or truly afraid will bring any parent to his knees in a matter of seconds, which is how my husband Jim happened to promise our five-year-old son he'd build a Haagen Daaz factory in our backyard following this morning's tonsilectomy.
William huddled beneath his dad's big arm shaking and whimpering as two impatient nurses in blue scrubs and mushroom-like hairnets pushed a vial of purple liquid towards the shrinking child.
"You can choose to drink the Silly Juice or we'll have to squirt it up your nose," said the one wearing too much makeup.
"No! No! No!" wailed William, his giant hazel eyes terrified and wet with tears. "I don't want to do either!"
William looked imploringly at me then at Jim.
Jim hated these droids as much--maybe more so--than William did, yet his parental duty to ultimately ensure our child could breath normally required he endorse this Silly Juice plan as well as a surgery that would cause significant pain and suffering for upwards of 12 days.
Crusted with guilt, Jim was teetering on edge of his own dark delirium.
"Listen, Will, I hear there is a Tonsil Fairy," Jim whispered hoarsely into William's hair. "I bet he'll bring you a Wii game if you drink this up."
The little brown head swiveled upwards to meet his father's gaze.
William was intimately framiliar with the supurb power of fairies. Just five days ago, he bared witness to the work of the Tooth Fairy. She had liberally dusted his twin sister's bedroom carpet with gold glitter before leaving a crisp dollar bill beneath her pillow.
"I'll take the nose spray," Will bravely said.
The nurses advanced quickly and sprayed the serum up one nostril.
Thirty minutes later, our baby lay sobbing and shivering atop a cot in the recovery room.
Jim scooped William up and sat heavily in a nearby rocking chair. Someone tucked a warmed blanket around them as I scoured the room for a box of Kleenex to sop up my own rivullets of hot tears.
"It's all over now," Jim cooed over and over as he kissed William's head.
"Can I see my tonsills?" Will barked through chattering lips.
I scanned the recovery room looking for a jam jar or any type of container that might suffice to hold such bounty.
Luckily, Jim's cooler head prevailed.
"You know, the Tonsil Fairy has already been here to pick them up," Jim said. "He said he'd swing by our house tonight to leave you a present in exchange. And actually, I was mistaken: There is no Tonsil Fairy--he's an elf."
The Tonsil Elf, it turned out, only has availability to do present deliveries at night as he was preoccupied for the rest of the afternoon picking up various prescriptions from Kroger, fast-forwarding the scary scenes in Scooby-Doo videos and sopping up vomited purple Capri Sun from new and as of yet unpaid-for cream wall-to-wall carpet.
But I knew in my heart the Tonsil Elf would be back and make good on his promise.
After all, he knows where he's needed most.

On Death and Dying

2009-08-17T18:18:00.000-07:00

Our five-year-old twins handled the death with more poise and strength than we grown-ups did.
My father-in-law--their Papa Jim--passed away somewhat unexpectedly on August 12 at age 63. It was an untimely, unfair and painful ending for an individual who had a big personaliaty in life and, as an investigative television reporter, an even bigger one on the small screen.
My husband caught a flight up to Michigan as soon as he heard things were souring.
Then, suddenly, there were plans to be made. Paperwork needed to be done. An apartment needed to be cleaned.
Meanwhile, I was left in Texas 35 weeks pregnant. My role was to hold the fort, which included explaining things.
I've tried my best over the past two years to decode the circle of life--to make it normal when it doesn't seem so understandable to me despite an upbringing in the Episcopal church.
We'll drive by a graveyard, for example, and the kids will want to know whey there are fresh dirt mounds.
"Well," I say, "When your body becomes a problem, you leave it behind you when you go to Heaven. Sort of like when spring comes and you get rid of your heavy clothes. You wouldn't want to wear a winter coat during a Texas summer would you?"
William and Elizabeth seem to get that one.
"But I'm really going to miss Papa Jim," my daughter said.
I told her it is okay to feel such emotions--we all do--but we're happy he's an angel now.
"Mom, only God picks the angels," Elizabeth said in an attempt to clarify.
I told her that Papa Jim was probably one of the lucky ones. If not, he was likely interviewing them which might be more to his liking anyhow.
"Well," she wanted to know, "Does he part the clouds and look down on us?"
Most likely, I said.
"How old are you when you become an angel?" she continued. "Like, are you a kid again?"
I told her as much as I could.
"I've never been to Heaven to see what's it's like, Babe," I said, "and few people report back when they get there so we don't really know much."
By the time Jim got back from Michigan five days later, Elizabeth was still processing things.
"Dad," she said at bedtime last night, "it would really stink to die on your birthday."
Her face then lit up.
"But you know, the good thing would be that if you were an angel, you could eat angel food cake to celebrate."
That's the thing about being five years old: You see a bright side to everything.
I know her Papa Jim would be pleased.

The Tooth Fairy

2009-08-08T19:37:00.000-07:00

Elizabeth's bottom front tooth had been nearly horizontal in her mouth for more than two weeks so I had had plenty of time to prepare for any and all questions regarding the mysterious workings of the Tooth Fairy.
In fact, I readied much like I would if I were working for a client who needed to face the national press corp.
I began by listing typical questions that might be asked. Then, I put together talking points.
These included but were not limited to:
Q: What does the Tooth Fairy do with the teeth she collects?
A: She plants them in her garden where they grow into flowers.
Q: Does the Tooth Fairy know Santa and the Easter Bunny?
A: They went to college together in New Mexico.
Q: Why do some kids get more money than others?
A: The Tooth Fairy delivers treats based on each participant's tooth size and geographic region.
Q: Is the Tooth Fairy tax exempt?
A: The Tooth Fairy runs a 501C3.
But leave it to a creative child to think of the one question I did not.
"Mom," said Elizabeth after she carefully positioned her tooth beneath her pillow, "I have a question for you, you know, because you're a mom and all."
I braced myself.
"How does the Tooth Fairy get into pirates' bedrooms?" she asked. "They sleep with an eye patch over one eye but keep the other open at all times. They would totally notice the Tooth Fairy."
I suggested that perhaps the Tooth Fairy had high-speed wings that made her travel at the speed of light similar to wireless Internet service. After all, we never see the computer actually hooking up to anything.
"No, no, no," said Elizabeth. "I'm so smart, I even see mosquitoes coming to bite me."
Oh.
I tried again.
Maybe she disguises herself as a housekeeper coming to clean up the cabin?
"No, Mom, there are no really very tiny maids," Elizabeth said.
I began to grasp at straws.
Possibly the Tooth Fairy camoflagues herself and darts between hiding places such as overturned spyglasses or pirate pants left on the floor?
Elizabeth sighed.
"That's not it either, Mom," she said.
Well, I asked her, what do you think? How does the Tooth Fairy give one-eyed pirates the slip?
"I guess," said Elizabeth, "it's all just magic."
I suppose it is. For all of us.

O, Christmas Tree

2009-07-03T18:19:00.000-07:00

The Christmas tree was meant to last only so long.
In our family, a family who loves all things Christmas, this means our holiday decorations linger until Valentine's Day when we gently swap out green ribbons for pink.
Sure, there was the year that Memaw left up the tree in the family room until Easter, but that was done by request to humor my 96-year-old grandmother who suffers from dementia.
Never, to my knowledge anyway, has a tree lasted until the Fourth of July.
But if you walk down my suburban street tomorrow night in the 100-degree Texas heat as the fireworks boom you can peer into the upstairs window and see the glow of hundreds of tiny lights frosting a lone 6-foot-tall pine.
The tree belongs to my five-year-old son William.
You see, as an overzealous holiday decorator, I prop up full-sized themed trees in every bedroom in the house. I traditionally do a leopard tree in the dining room, a kitchen tree covered in rustic snowmen, a travel tree with ornaments collected on trips. Elizabeth's fir features pink feathers and gingham ribbon.
Will's tanenbaum, however, is everyone's favorite.
His alphabet tree is covered in construction paper letters the twins and I made when they were two. The branches are further layered with old toys and momentos of their toddlerhood: There's the yellow stuffed giraffe that once dangled from their baby Gymnai, paper Wiggles figures cut out from an old musical program, teeny finger puppets given to us by Aunt Michelle long outgrown.
During the holidays, Will would request the tree be left glowing until he fell asleep and, of course, I complied.
By the time St. Patrick's Day had come and gone, turning on the tree had become a nighttime tradition.
"I need a hug and a kiss," Will would say, "then you need to turn on my tree."
So I would.
By Memorial Day, I had convinced Will to at least let me put away the decorations.
"It won't be special come Christmas if we keep it up all year," I coaxed.
"Oh yes," he said, "it will."
So the naked tree took up permanent residence in the corner of William's room next to the train table.
Occasionally, he would put a sock or two on its branches for old time's sake. Sometimes, a wet wash cloth would migrate from the bathroom to the tree and get crusty drying there.
Our housekeeper, who strips her home of all holiday decor at 12:01 a.m. on December 26, rolled her eyes and continued to dust the tree.
Then, sometime in June, several strands of the lights gave up in protest.
"How about taking the tree down now?" I asked Will.
"No, Mama, we can't do that," he said. "I need my tree."
Yesterday, however, Elizabeth changed my perspective altogether.
"Mama," she said, rubbing her brother's back, "Will isn't behind. He's just rushing the season. He'll be all ready when Christmas comes."
Of course he will.

The Ballet Moms

2009-06-15T05:47:00.001-07:00

It wasn’t, most of us acknowledged, the best time of day to take a dance class.
The seven four-year-olds were often sluggish at 3:30 p.m. on Mondays, their toddler siblings in tow downright cranky from being awakened during deep slumbers. Natalie, the oldest of the tiny ballerinas by only a few months, was often carted asleep sack-o-potatoes style over her mother’s shoulder into the studio following the end of her kindergarten day.
Of course, by the time the slippers were on and Miss Tera cranked up the princess theme songs, the girls were happily re-energized and we, the Ballet Moms, took our places atop zebra-striped chairs facing the glass.
Granola bars were opened. Coloring books were appropriated. Toy cars were freed from deep purses.
Ryan, the oldest of the toddlers, found the stash of lollipops on the front desk. This began, in the mind of the Ballet Moms, the Great Lollipop Management Issue of 2009-10.
Despite this, it was a no-brainer of an afternoon for us. As busy stay-at-home mothers, we were forced to stay in one place for a whole hour with few interruptions. The luckiest of us even got to sit down for most of it.
At first, we mostly paid attention to our dancing daughters. We watched, acutely interested, to see how well they listened in a group then to how well they appeared to execute moves requested from the teacher.
Then, we witnessed buds of friendship form. Elizabeth poked Maddie. Addison smiled at Natalie’s twirl. Sydney reached for Katie’s hand.
So the Ballet Moms relaxed.
And, like birds on a telephone wire, we began to twitter.
Who knew how to score tickets to the Princess character dinner at Disney World?
Who was holding their kid back from kindergarten?
Who had read the vampire thriller “Twilight?”
By Christmastime, the zebra seats became a front porch of sorts and no one was more thrilled to hear of my third pregnancy than the Ballet Moms. I learned about their c-sections and their long labors and their milk production.
“Well,” I told my obstetrican as he recorded the pace of my unborn baby’s heartbeat, “the Ballet Moms say that if the heat beat is fast, the child is a girl.”
He looked at me like I was crazy, but ultimately the Ballet Moms were right.
Of course they were.
By Valentine’s Day, I was looking more forward to lessons than my child.
Baby Grayson began walking. Two-and-a-half-year-old Rachel, so chubby with a thumb in her mouth, started preschool mid-term. There was discussion about Maddie’s family’s possible move with her military family and a crisis over another child’s presumed hearing loss.
Next, sweet Koral and little Lillian joined the class. Their mothers quickly found seats in the lineup.
Spring sprung and Miss Tera measured the girls for their recital dresses for a routine to be performed to “Babyface,” a Mowtown hit from the 1960s.
The Ballet Moms wondered if any of the girls would actually remember the steps.
On May 30, they at least looked the part wearing green and pink polka dot ruffled skirts, huge pink bows looped into their shiny black tap shoes.
Lillian’s mom sprayed clouds of glitter in their hair and on their shoulders; Sydney’s mom swiped lipstick on them; Maddie’s mom ushered them behind the red velvet curtain in a line like paper doll cutouts holding hands.
They remembered some steps but not all, of course.
It was good enough for the Ballet Moms, though, who rewarded the girls with hugs and kisses and overpriced flowers which were definitely worth the cost.
Afterwards, I deployed our family to the lobby to wait while I retrieved Elizabeth from the backstage holding tank. As we descended down the steps with a tide, I saw Addison’s mother bobbing along up the stairs, part of another.
She reached out as she inched forward and patted my belly.
“Good luck,” she said, “with the rest of your pregnancy.”
She was moving North, probably towards soccer practice and gymnastics and a summer vacation while I was going South to art lessons and preschool camp and long nights with a newborn.
Children, it seems, are great ambassadors. But their circumstances and thus ours force untimely endings to new beginnings.
We will, however, hold onto the snapshots of four-year-olds in polka dot dresses for the rest of our lives. It is my guess, too, that we’ll all remember the zebra-striped chairs each time we hear the song “Babyface.”

Julie Blair is a Dallas-area freelance journalist who loves hot pink and glittery hairspray. She once donned pink tights and a black leotard to fulfill a college liberal arts requirement.

Thirteen Hours a Day

2009-05-08T17:21:00.001-07:00

It is Day #9 of Quarantine and I'm completely, utterly depleted.
My feet look like sausages and my energy could be trumped by a corpse.
Still, I'm proud of myself for not relying on television or the computer to fill our 13-hour-long days. I have, after all, killed myself to put down big boundaries around screen time and I'll be darned if a little swine flu is going to wreck five years worth of work.
In fact, I'm proud to say that my five-year-old twins and I have invented all kinds of new activities which we just might return to after we've been sprung from captivity.
Then again, some ideas were born of comoplete desparation.
Remember, now, I have thirteen hours to fill each day, so be kind in your criticism.

Laundry Train: Each child loads a small plastic wagon with folded laundry then makes "stops" to drop off their "packages" at various "stations." When the "train" is empty, it must return to the depot for a refill. Making train noises is mandatory; those who ram a sibling on the tracks with their trains must go to the round house for repairs.

Funeral Director: Lots of critters fall into our pool and endure an untimely death, but lucky for them we have caring professionals on hand during their time of need. Using a net, the child scoops said party out of the skimmer, notes time of earthly departure, chooses a backyard burial plot and digs a grave. Nondenomiational prayers are said. Weeds are planted.

Boutique Owner: Using various scraps of gift wrap, the children choose a "gift" from our playroom "store" and swaddle it. The more sticky tape employed in the endeavor, the better. Each present is then delivered to a deserving stuffed animal.

Bus Boy: Making meals is a lot of fun at our house, but noone ever wants to clean up the 45 spatulas used in cooking. Hence the birth of "Bus Boy" in which "waiters" earn big tips (Tootsie Rolls left over from Easter). The booty is dealt out based on the amount of items each child takes to the sink and scrubs. Waiters at "five star" restaurants not only scrub, but classify their dishes by type, material and color in the dishwasher.

Historian: In this game, I ask the kids to give me an object and I detail how it came about. This has lead us to discussions about the ancient Roman Empire (coins and aqueducts), an explanation of clogged arteries (why french fries are a "sometimes" food), the origins of rubber and protection of the Brazillian rain forest (car tires). (Note: This game has been curtailed due to the limitations of my liberal arts degree.)

Scatologist: Children go forth in the backyard wearing rain boots to identify animal poop and make educated guesses as to what the animals recently consumed. Close examination of poop in home bathroom potties is not encouraged but, alas, often discussed.

Dancing with the Stars: Children dress up and perform "routines" to various mixed CDs. (Possible parent bonus: You get to listen to your own music! Downside: You might have an obsessive child like my son who is currently jonesing on Lisa Loeb's compilation of kiddie camp hits. You will also have to explain why everyone on the T.V. show is nearly naked all the time.)

Furniture Movers: Children push, pull, flip over, de-cushion all major pieces of furniture in the house, including antiques bequethed to you by your late grandmother. The aim is to "re-arrange" things and "make them new-ish."

Name the Baby: There is much debate over what we'll call Baby #3 (a girl). Competition over who can come up with the most ridiculous name affords hours of fairly quiet contemplation. Options now include "Hen," "Wren," "Sven," "Violet," "Pillow" and "Shoe." (Potential downside: You have to get pregnant again.)

"I went to the store...": Lay out this starter phrase and let the children add on details. The point here is to be silly. We've purchased pink elephants, 497 bottles of nailpolish, wigs for dogs, beavers.

Swiss Family Robinson: The children unearth rope from the garage and tie it around all remaining Easter baskets. Next, they climb to the top of the swing set and loop the rope around the roof. Snacks and/or dinner can be pulled to the top of swing set. (Parent bonus: No dishes!)

Santa's Sleigh: When it begins to rain--and invariably it will do so for days at a time during your next quarantine--bring the rope inside. Loop the rope around folding chairs allowing lots of lead rope to dangle in front. Have one child play Santa and the others the reindeer. (Do not attempt this on hard wood floors.)

Drive Mom Crazy: Try laying down for a well-deserved 32-second nap on the couch and children will immediately find ways to interrupt your slumber. They will find forgotten feathers to tickle your nose, alternately pull at your toes, sing song about poop and drag chairs to the pantry to plow through bags of baking chips.

The Doctor's Office

2009-05-05T16:42:00.000-07:00

It was reckless, this visit to the city medical center. I knew that.
Regardless, I snapped the latex gloves over the cuffs of my sleeve, pulled a rumpled Kleenex over my mouth and nose then handed my husband his own costume. We hoped these small protections would keep out the swine flu germs as we entered the busy emergency facility, a center that would likely be receiving patients with the full-blown virus. They were our only options, however: Both our neighborhood drugstores were sold out of surgical masks and didn't expect to refill their shelves for a week.
As we bolted across the parking lot, I again questioned my decision to come.
A routine obstetrics exam seemed at first glance a ridiculous reason to break my two-week quarantine. This timeframe had, after all, been suggested by a veteran physician who said contracting the virus might bring harm to my unborn baby. We had happily complied, going so far as to pull our five-year-old twins out of preschool and creating a homemade hazmat zone for my husband to decontaiminate himself after work.
Still, I had to weigh the odds of catching swine flu against the need for baseline numbers. See, I had been on bedrest for two months with my first pregnancy then struck suddenly with pre-eclampsia at 34 weeks, forcing me into an emergency C-section and two weeks of NICU time. Thus, I wanted to make sure my OB knew what my body looked like healthy so that he could detect if it ever began to sour.
Jim gave a little moan.
"My God, there are no obvious stairs," he muttered.
Having worked in hospitals as a college pre-med major, my husband knew firsthand how dirty they were. Our strategy had thus been to run like rabbits through the enterance then dash up the staircase to the OB's office on the third floor to avoid as many people as possible. Now were were faced with riding a huge elevator with other patients and--gasp--touching elevator buttons.
There seemed to be no choice.
The doors slid open and, lucky for us, we were alone all the way to the third floor.
That's when we encountered the crowd.
The office--home to a lucrative practice that included maybe nine OBs--was packed with at least a dozen hacking, sneezing pregnant women, their spouses and several snot-nosed kids depite the early hour. (Our own children, whom we planned to bring with us to learn the baby's gender, were carefully squirreled away with a friend who had quarantined her own offspring then shellacked her home in Lysol.)
"This place sounds like a tuburculosis ward," Jim said, taking a chair and eyeing another near the door.
I signed in with the front desk using a gloved hand and my own ballpoint.
Then, we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Time seemed to drip by.
Jim reached for a magazine but stopped short.
"That's covered in swine flu!" I screeched using marital ESP.
He stuffed his latexed hands in his pockets.
The door of the office suddenly flew open and in strode a gigantic man carrying a battered briefcase.
He marched directly to the nurse's window and pushed open the glass.
"I'm here about the virus," he snapped.
"Oh, yes, yes!" said the nurse. "We'll prioritze you. Just a moment."
The man coughed roughly into his shirtsleeve.
My God, I though, I've walked into the heart of darkness!
I have just sealed the fate of an innocent!
I am going to get swine flu!
My baby will be born with a snout or at the very least reject innoculating breast milk in lieu of pork byproducts!
Sweat began to pool on my forehead.
"Do you want to leave?" Jim whispered.
Just then, the door swung open and three nurses with concerned faces peered out.
"Oh, Mr. Johnson, thank Heaven you're here!" the tall one said. "That virus is back! Our computers are down!"
It has now been 24 hours since our visit to the OB's office.
Neither I nor my laptop have come down with any type of virus--swiney or otherwise.
And our baby girl is, so far as anyone can tell, perfectly healthy at 20 weeks.

Cinco Day Swine-o

2009-05-03T18:41:00.001-07:00

It is officially Cinco de Mayo, but we've renamed it Cinco de Swine-o here in Quarantine.
Jim had long planned to take off Friday to cover the kids while I was OOT, so we had plenty of Daddy fun to ease us into our new duck-and-cover lifestyle.
The children took to the new holiday with abandon.
There was, for example, a Wii tournament in which five "lands" were opened on our new amusement park game, a Monopoly marathon (yes, they now make a version for those under age 8) and at least four hours of rigorous tent play (my favorite upholstered chair was employed, but I figured this is no time for tsking).
Having grown stir-crazy by 2 p.m. on Saturday, we figured it was safe to find an abandoned neighborhood park. We first coated the monkey bars with Purell, of course. Upon our return, we all stripped and threw our clothes into bleach before doing a pre-surgery-style scrub.
I managed to get in not one but two extended naps and thus am feeling well-rested as I go into Day Four of Quaranatine.
I mean, could it really be worse than two full months of bedrest?

Quarantined

2009-04-30T19:01:00.000-07:00

I had planned to get on a flight to Cleveland, Ohio, this afternoon at 2 p.m. to throw a big bridal bash for our beloved Aunt Cindy.
Instead, I'm fretting for the safety of my unborn baby as I sit in quarentine for the next two weeks in my own home under doctor's orders.
Let me be clear: I do not knowingly have swine flu. Nor are my kids, husband or parents ill, so far as I know.
Furthermore, it is my understanding that swine flu--when caught early--can be headed off with powerful medications. Even pregnant women like myself who are in the fifth month of gestation can take an antiviral prescription to ward off sickness.
That said, three separate doctors told me today to stay off airplanes; one told me there is a chance that this robust virus, if contracted, could adversley impact my unborn fetus creating lifelong problems for my child. He added it would be a good idea to pull my kids out of the public mix including their preschool so that I would not contract swine flu from them.
This doctor said he is conservative. That I should make my own decisions.
I told him I appreciated his candor and hung up the phone.
Two hours later, I was still shaking.
I have now regained some of my composure, but I can't help but think of the preschool open house we attended last night...or the ballet class I trucked my daughter to earlier in the week...or of the man who made my lunch on Wednesday at a local deli.
I am trying to do what I can to "REMAIN CALM" as the governor of Texas has told us.
I am doing what I can to prevent contamination, to make myself feel in control.
My husband came home tonight to a self-styled hazmat zone. He's to change his suit in the garage and stash it in his car before running to our guest bathroom and showering before greeting anyone else. He underclothes go into bleach.
This ruthless virus, the doctor told me, strikes those with apparently healthy immune systems--especially between the ages of 25 and 45--then attacks the lungs.
We can take no chances: Another generation is at hand.

ISO Research

2009-03-29T17:49:00.001-07:00

Like many parents, I find answering questions about death totally unnerving.
So when we passed by the graveyard on our way home from a grocery store run today, I gritted my teeth for more four-year-old questions.
I didn't have to wait long.
"Mom," said Elizabeth, "After you die, your body goes into the ground and your body goes to Heaven?"
"Yes," I replied. "It's like wearing your heavy winter coat on a beautiful spring day like today. You'd be really hot, right? You'd want to take it off. When your spirit goes to Heaven, you leave your body behind like that old winter coat."
Silence from the backseat.
"But mom," said E., "are you old or young when you get to Heaven?"
I pondered that moment, picturing myself in my 1989 hairdo, a white robe and angel wings.
"I didn't know the answer to that one," I said. "Few people report back once they get to Heaven," I said.
"Well," said Elizabeth with a giggle in her voice, "I guess you can't find that information on the Internet!"

Man v. Food

2009-03-10T11:29:00.000-07:00

Adam Richman eats crazy foods in crazy amounts for a living on the Travel Channel's televised series, "Man v. Food."
My husband, a culinary daredevil, watched entranced earlier this month as the cable host attempted to eat a seven-pound burrio without throwing up. Mr. Richman has also been known to suck down a dozen milkshakes, several piles of pancakes, layers of crabs peppered in insanely hot spices, etc. In addition to enjoying severe indigetion, the chief reward appears to be earning his name atop a hand-scrawled list at the local joint in which served the meal. (Not to mention a handsome paycheck from the Travel Channel.)
But I have task that will make those meals look like kiddie lunchbox fare: Adam Richman, I challenge you to try--just try--to swallow two prenal vitamin pills without vomiting.
To the unindoctrinated, this might sound easy.
However, as someone who has endured--and uncermoneiously "rerouted"--several versions of prenatal pills, I assure it is an assignment not to be taken lightly.
Before we begin, we must treat Mr. Richman to some local color--and that color in the first several months of pregnancy is, of course, green.
We'll serve him eight to ten vodka shots per day for four weeks prior to the challenge so as to simulate the nausea that afflicts those who consume prenatal pills on a regular basis.
Just before downing the pills, he'll then spin himself in circles for upwards of 15 minutes and/or ride a Tilt-a-Whirl to level the playing field further.
Next, our fair host will eat some bad shellfish topped with overly sweet Rocky Road ice cream.
Finally, we'll ask him to swallow the pills.
Despite advances in modern medicine, I regret to inform our contestant that the majority of prenatal pills are the size of Mini Cooper cars.
It must also be noted they smell like poop and are the consistency of chalk.
If our host doesn't choke on the mere size or smell of the pill, he'll find it will lodge at the back of his throat like an errant chicken bone.
No amount of water of milk will be able to wash away its presence.
Then, it is time for the DHA supplement, which apparently aids brain development in fetusus but causes most pregnant women to pray for an out-of-body experience.
Unfortunately, the pill is packaged in a floating, round disc and is oily.
This, is combination with the gigantic first pill, causes problems for those with even legendary iron stomachs.
We are not unkind, however. We will promise to stage the challenge in a bathroom laid with cool tile flooring, which we are sure Mr. Richman will enjoy pressing his forhead against following his consumption of said pills.
Of course, we will open keep the toilet lid open at all times.
Should Mr. Richman perform admirably--and we do hope he'll master this mission--we will treat him to plastic surgery that will include implanting an eight-pound bowling ball into his gut.
Mr. Richman, let me know when you're ready for the challenge--I'll be happy to share my supply of prenatal pills with you.

The Good Enough Parent

2009-03-07T18:35:00.000-08:00

When Mrs. C., one of our favorite preschool teachers, learned we were adding a third child to our family, she congratulated my husband and I with hugs. Then, she made an observation that made me do a double take.
“Three children is the perfect number of children,“ she said, you won’t have any room for perfection.”
As a highly regarded 16-year veteran of our school’s staff and the mother of five successful children, Mrs. C. seems to perceive the notion as highly problematic for everyone. Striving to be the best you can be is the right path, she argues, but perfection does not allow the natural failings that builds our negotiating and coping skills--keys to true lifelong success and happiness.
How I wish I’d had this sage wisdom when my twins were born.
At the time, I approached parenting with the philosophy that the harder you tried, the better things would turn out. Such an outlook served me well professionally but I learned quickly it was downright silly when it came to rearing babies and managing what evolved into a busy family life.
No matter how perfect I tried to be, I could not force my charges to conform. Oh, I tried--I even called in reinforcements--but in the end, I ended up exhausted and defeated--with unhappy babies.
Five years into my parenting experience, I know better. Thanks to trial-and-error, I’ve learned that being a Good Enough Parent is much more fulfilling--and much more fun--than being a Perfect Parent.
Here’s what I’ve learned in brief.

1. Sleep when the babies (and toddlers) sleep. If you’re exhausted, you’re no good to anyone.

2. Try breastfeeding, ask for help from a lactation consultant if you struggle, but don’t feel ashamed or even bummed out if it doesn’t work out with twins. Plenty of formula-fed people grow up to do amazing things.

3. Keep everyone on the same schedule. To do otherwise is to sacrifice your own sleep and, thus, your well-being. Again, you can’t help others if you are a mess.

4. Find a sleep book you like to offer strategies and stick to it for three months. Without a routine, your wakeful nights could continue for years.

5. Call all those people who offered to help you before the babies were born and give them specific tasks you’d like them to help you with, ie. “ironing,” or “cleaning out the fridge.” Don’t worry, in a few years you’ll be in the position to give back.

6. If you run out of people to call and still need aid, raid the savings to hire good help. Low-interest college loans are readily available in the future but you’ll never forgive yourself if you fail to enjoy your babies and young children due to complete exhaustion.

7. Fast food is no longer a sin and downright imperative if you want to eat more than PB&J during your first two (or three) years of twin parenthood. Try the Dinner Station which assembles homemade frozen entrees for you, the prepared aisle of the grocery store, or chains like Baja Fresh which go beyond burgers and fries.

8. Give up the spotless house--your kids won’t remember it anyhow. Instead, give yourself two twenty-minute windows of “house homework” per day. Work on hygiene--the bathrooms, the kitchen, the laundry. (If your mother-in-law is coming, spray some Lysol in the air just prior for that just-cleaned scent.)

9. Take the children out of the house once per day, even if you’re just going around the block in the buggy.

10. Call one girlfriend from your previous life every couple of days even if you can only talk for eight minutes. If you neglect them, you won’t have anyone to go to coffee with when the kids start preschool.

11. Make new momma friends at the public library, the park and the swimming pool. These women know exactly where you are in life and can offer strategies on how to make more of your mothering experience.

12. Invite your husband to join you in the bedroom for more than “Jeopardy.” He won’t mind your new cooking and housekeeping techniques if “dessert” is served regularly.

13. Find a reliable grown-up babysitter and teach her to put your kids to bed. This will free up your evenings throughout elementary school while ensuring your children get the rest they need.

14. Find three inexpensive tween babysitters who live nearby and can jog over at a moment’s notice to keep your kids busy while you take down the Christmas decorations, clean out the garage, bake a truffle. These girls will soon move on to boyfriends and play practice, so invest in several people.

15. Find a discipline strategy that is reasonable for both you and your spouse. Aim for consistency.

16. Remember that even if you have a bad afternoon--or day--you can start over the following day. Remind yourself that kids don’t remember much before the age of five.

17. Don’t stress over potty training. Few teenagers go to college in Pampers.

18. Don’t stress over pacifiers. Your twins might end up with horizontal teeth, but they’ll fall out eventually.

19. Do check out what appear to be developmental delays. Your pediatrician, day care provider and schoolteachers will be able to guide you to service providers who can offer more detailed assessments. Tackle any issues with super-human strength.

20. Take lots of photographs and keep a journal or calendar to load up with memories. The days--and years--blur together quickly.

21. Carve out family time and family rituals--even small things like lunchbox notes build lifelong relationships.

22. Make birthdays a huge deal. You don’t have to spend a lot of money to do this and your kids will long remember being cherished above all else.

23. Trust your instincts. You’re usually right.

24. Take your birth control pills unless you’re absolutely, positively ready to add another family member to your clan.

25. Savor the good times, learn from the bad and know that life only happens once.

END**

Fries vs. Baked Potato

2009-02-11T11:28:00.000-08:00

If Opal the Nurse were not working for my obstetrican in the suburbs of Dallas, she could easily be cast as a waitress in some tiny, deep-fried diner in Alabama.
“Oh, Honey!” she chortels, shaking a pencil from her blonde cotton candy hairdo, “You want a C-section or a VBAC, hmm?”
The tone is that of an expert who has served up a thousands of really tasty sliders with an array of potato sides that are always considered worthy. Whichever meal you choose will be just fine, don’t you know, but you go ahead and look over the menu just to make yourself feel like you’ve sat atop things for awhile.
I shuffled my paper gown and Opal pats my hand comfortingly without looking up from my chart.
The thing is, I really don’t know what to do about this whole birthing deal.
Last time around, I just wanted the babies out by any means necessary before I exploded. And in the end, my twins were still upside down and backwards at 34 weeks when, low and behold, my body decided it could take no more and went toxic. The resident OB took one look at my elephant-sized ankles, booked an surgery suite then scooped out William and Elizabeth in no time flat.
(My only actual birthing memory is limited to my telling “Sharon”--I couldn’t remember the doctor’s last name who was in the process of unzipping me--that I needed another hit of anesthesia. She must have complied, as I do recall the cold swoosh of a certain numbing medicine as it flowed into my veins.)
Anyhow, the birth sufficed. The babies were out and I was, thankfully, no longer pregnant.
But according to many of my gal pals, it really is a whole lot better to do it the way nature intended. Sure, there is some pain involved, they tell me, but in the end it is pretty quick to dissipate, the mother’s body heals in no time and you’re off to the breastfeeding races.
My girlfriend Anna makes it seem nearly romantic.
“And there I was,” she told me as I listened enraptured, “Emma just slide out as the elevator doors opened!”
Michelle talks about giving birth standing up then cleaning her closets two days later.
Dana reports feeling like a “lioness.”
Most importantly, they all add that their babies were born alert, peaceful.
So, I’ve gone ahead and found a “natural birthing center” that assures pregnant women that they’ll be taught to manage their own pain while in the company of caring professionals--and 22 relatives (or pets,) if they so please.
I don’t tell Opal any of this. My thought is that she’d probably endorse any of the pies in her store, but she’d think I was downright funny if I asked her about the sugar-free, vegan Jell-o.
Opal rounds out our time together with a dozen more questions then shoos me down to the lab for a blood draw.
I confidently sit down, roll up my sleeves and let the technician do her thing.
Only she can’t seem to quite close the deal.
There is much moaning on her part about my teensy veins and their tendancy to “roll.”
She pokes my right arm once.
Then twice.
Then three times.
She sighs and starts over on my left hand.
Suddenly, my vision goes blurry and I start sweating so profusely that I feel rivulets of salt racing down from my neck, my back, my knees. I am nauseated beyond belief.
I realize that I am not about to pass out--I am about to die!
Moreover, none of the five medial professionals in the room are getting out their paddles or oxygen masks.
Why, these uncaring droids! I think. I am having a medical emergency and noone is even paying attention to my plight!
“Huh,” says the nurse who is working my hand. “You’re looking a little pale…”
No, I think, I am walking towards the white light… This is it: The End.
I promptly begin the Lord’s Prayer.
Someone props and orange juice up in my free hand.
“Now, now, Dear, you’re going to be fine,” Nurse Can’t Finda Vein says.
I use every last ounce of strength to crack open one eyeball.
“Call,” I puff, “Opal. Decided on C-section.”
I’m sure she’d even bring me a side of coleslaw if I asked nicely.

Secrets

2009-02-11T11:25:00.001-08:00

Men get to plan engagements but it’s we women that get to tell the greatest news of all.
And knowing this was likely the Last Gigantic Secret I’d ever tell, I decided at 4:21 a.m. on January 12 to carefully keep the news to myself until my husband came home from a prolonged business trip overseas. Like a hen tending her egg (pun intended), I would position myself carefully over my secret, hiding it beneath my feathers no matter if the rooster was gone for two months.
Of course, it was like sitting on a volcano.
Be proud of me, dear reader: In the end, I told my husband first…if you don’t count the many other friends and strangers that sort of knew ahead of time.
You see, I had to call my BFF but I didn’t so much as tell her as ask her to talk me down from the edge of a tall, scary bridge. In a matter of 30 minutes, she managed to find a forklift and eased me back into the river of life unharmed. If it hadn’t have been for Michelle, my twins would have been left with the responsibility of calling 911.
Then, my beloved sister-in-law called to wish me a happy birthday. And since she shares my husband’s DNA, this really means there are no secrets with her.
Next, I went on my morning power walk with my gal pal Anna--who clearly had to know my circumstance just in case I passed out at a crosswalk. (I do think I made it out of the parking lot, knowledge encased.)
That afternoon, I started panicking again and touched based with Dana in Wisconsin, my uber-wise granola-momma mentor who has three children and could explain to me the precise benefits of a larger family. Really, she’s more of a psychologist and we all that doctor-patient relationships are confidential.
Of course, I had to tell Aunt Cindy I had violated #20 on the Bridesmaid Checklist--the very one I had authored the previous week. I never even mentioned the “P” word but she knew darn well that #20 was “Thou shall not get pregnant and ruin the bridesmaid-to-groomsmen ratio.” (See previous blog post: “Cindy’s Wedding.”)
My former sorority sister Angie is a Sherlock-Holmes type who happened to be in the car with Aunt Cindy as they drove through a raging blizzard when I rang with news of the violation. Angie put two and two together on her own but I didn’t actually have a conversation with her, so she can’t be considered in the mix.
Of course, I had to e-mail Laura, another former sorority sister, when she e-mailed me the news of her own twin pregnancy. We all know that e-mail isn’t a real conversation.
I admit I might have let on to Stacey, my college roommate, but information shared with a girlfriend you’ve lived with for more than three years is like telling a sister and thus the rules of DNA apply.
Mind you, all of this non-telling happened over the course of eight day, which is really a pretty good secret-to-day ratio especially when you consider all the people I completely avoided telling when I heard from them.
This list includes:
My own parents, who I see nearly every day.
My lovely mother-in-law, who spent 45 minutes praising my parenting skills about 10 hours after I found out about The Secret.
Three of my fabulous preschool momma friends who chaperoned a roller skating play date, one of whom nearly got the news when we had a conversation about how “happy we are that we no longer have to carry all our baby gear around.”
W. & E.’s godmother Jessica, who is privy to every last one of my other secrets and called from Washington D.C. to catch up.
At least I didn’t have to worry about keeping mum around the passengers of Flight 1345 on Saturday, January 17.
The news was obvious to them: I stood at Terminal D24 at the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport clutching in my hand a 3-foot-tall balloon in the shape of a cartoon baby. Dozens of complete strangers walked by me and congratulated me.
Still, it took my own husband and entire escalator ride to get the picture.
He started at the balloon in a fugue of jetlag.
“What the?” he said. “Were they out of ‘Welcome Home’ balloons?”
Only then did I crack the secret of the egg.

One For the Road

2009-01-22T17:39:00.000-08:00

I took the test at 4:17 a.m., 14 hours and seventeen minutes after I’d turned 35, 21 hours after my husband had left for Korea on a business trip that did not include a determined return date.
I took it knowing my four-year-old twins would be up in 90 minutes looking for someone stable to make them breakfast.
I took it following my first foray back into a complicated reporting project that demanded my every attention to detail.
I took it believing that my reproductive system was eternally jinxed, as discussed by various highly paid medical practitioners working at nationally known clinics.
I took it after assuring my parents only the previous night that “We are done…we can not handle any more.”
There I sat on the potty listening to the January wind roar, my polka-dot jammies pooled around my ankles squinting with my now-middle-aged eyes at two lines on a white plastic stick.
Huh.
I fished around inside the trash can and pulled out the instructions.
Pregnanto.
Clearly, I should have paid better attention to my professor in my college Spanish course.
I turned over the directions and looked at the diagram.
Pregnant.
Huh.
Huh?
Huh!
There was a glorious, blue streak of pure joy—after all, we had figured that if nature ever cooperated, we would gladly accommodate.
Then, a prayer of thanks to the Lord above and a request for good health all around.
I might have cried.
I can’t remember.
Next, came this tumble of thoughts:
• Oh, shit!
• Shitshitshitshitshitshit!
• I’m going to start puking any minute and I still have the Christmas decorations up. I wonder if I could strap a bucket around my neck to keep the carpet clean while I strip the living room tree of ornaments?
• I’m going to have to explain to the twins how the egg actually meets the spe rm. Elizabeth is going to ask questions. She’s going to demand diagrams.
• Let’s see, if I conceived in December, this baby won’t be due until the fall, which means I won’t have to worry about academic red-shirting come, what, 2012?
• I am going to be really, really old by 2012.
• Did Brenda already sell those really cute designer maternity jeans of hers at the last twin club consignment sale?
• Maybe I can wait to tell Jim after the next Mastercard flips. Would that be unethical?
• Speaking of ethics, would it be unethical of me to call my BFF first for moral support, especially given that my husband is several time zones (and one day) ahead of me? Technically, Jim and Michelle would be hearing the news on the same day…
• When did I take all that Mucinex for my allergies?
• When did I drink all that wine with my girlfriends?
• Just how much Diet Coke did I consume in the past four weeks?
• We’re going to have to put up a fence around the pool.
• I like the name Charlotte. And Caroline. And Henry.
• I will seriously die if triplets are involved.
• Does one save a urine-soaked pregnancy test as a memento?
I pitched the test, pulled up my jammies, turned off the light and slipped back into my now-cold bed.
A new life had begun—it was going to require I rest up.

Housekeeping

2009-01-02T18:16:00.000-08:00

My daughter Elizabeth has many delightful attributes, but to date “helpful” has not been one of them.
Unlike her brother William (I raise a glass to the mother who doesn’t secretly compare siblings), she negotiates her way out of nearly every undesireable situation and makes tangible excuses for the rest. Moreover, she does it in a most impressive way, with creative thinking, an impressive vocabulary and a beguiling grin that would convince Cupid to hand over his wings.
“Oh, I can’t possibly stop to pick up that wet towel,” she’ll say tossing that glossy blonde head of hers. “I’m on my way to build a castle. Brother is available though. And if he’s busy, you could try Daddy.”
Mind you, she’s four years old.
(Her father, however, is an attorney—and a very good one at that—so I’m blaming his DNA.)
Thus, I have to tell you about a lovely turn of events in our house: Elizabeth is on a cleaning spree.
In fact, she’s doing such a good job, she’s threatening to replace my marvelous housekeeper, Dana, who is very nearly a part of the family.
“Well, Momma, we have a sippy cup here,” she said tonight in her best sing-songy schoolteacher voice. “I’ll put it on the bench so you can take it downstairs after you tuck us in.”
The report did not come from Elizabeth’s bedroom—which she had already spent 30 minutes tidying—but from her brother’s.
You see, while Will was in the bathtub floating on his back and singing “Ralph” hits, she eschewed water play to line up his massive car collection by color and tip the toes of all of his shoes Northward. Then she had carefully arranged his stuffed animals sizewise on his bed and reshelved his books according to the Dewey Decimal System.
“Momma, do you want me to do the sink?” she asked eyeballing the Crest-encrusted basin.
“Uh.”
That was honestly all I could say. I was, after all, in a state of shock.
Next, she puttered on to the playroom moaning about the disarray of things.
“Oh, Momma,” she said, “who wants a child that doesn’t clean up? Not me, ohhh nooo.”
I had to sit down—and quick—before I passed out.
I could understand this behavior kicking in for a kid who is being raised by neat freaks. But neither Jim nor I fit that bill—we’re sort of happily mussy: I have piles of dirty clothes jammed in the laundry room, unsent Christmas cards stacked carefully atop my desk, five or so junk drawers, though the stuff is organized into sectioned plasticware. We have systems, see, but I still leave dishes in the sink for the higher purpose of playing with my children in piles of leaves.
And yet, here is this preschooler who could interview to work for Merry Maid.
Perhaps I can thank her Montessori teachers.
“Momma,” she said, snapping me out of my fugue, “Let’s take the trash out.”
Down the stairs and out the door we went to the behemoth blue trash bin.
“Now open the top and let me dump this in,” she said.
I cracked open the 5-pound lid and she gasped.
There, nestled amongst the egg whites and greasy paper towels were two crumpled drawings she had made me. They were not two of her best, which is why they were not hanging in our playroom art gallery.
So, I did what all good mothers do: I threw our beloved housekeeper under the bus.
“Um, I bet Dana didn’t know how valuable those are,” I said, extracting them from the bin carefully. “Thanks for having such good eyes.”
Sometimes, a kid can be downright too helpful.

END+++

On Weddings

2008-12-29T18:39:00.000-08:00

When my four-year-old daughter Elizabeth heard that our family friend Cindy was going to get engaged, she jumped up and down squealing—then she wanted to know what she would wear as the flower girl.
Meanwhile, former sorority sisters in three time zones began to mobilize: There were online discussions of bridesmaids dresses, go-to diets, extravagant bachelorette parties, wedding cakes.
Furthermore, members of Cindy’s church congregation, friends from a swing dancing group, colleagues at the private school where she teaches, even her Starbucks barista told her they were so happy for her. Then, they assured her that they would—wink, wink—“hold” several summer weekends open for her “event.”
Mind you, there was no ring yet in sight.
And when Mr. Right did unveil a sparkler following a four-month-long whirlwind romance, Cindy found herself with a big rock—and a big problem: How best to incorporate everyone into her wedding?
See, while most Popular Girls are well liked by everyone, Cindy is a Popular Girl truly beloved by all. And likewise, she has found a special place in her life for all of us.
Over the past 10 years, Cindy stood up in 10 weddings. As an auntie to nine of our kids, she has changed more diapers than some fathers. She’s traveled the world with us and decked the Christmas halls with us. She’s held our ponytails while we’ve had food poisoning and listened to us while we’ve whined about our jobs.
She’s been an amazing friend—and I certainly owe her one.
Which is why my first job as Co-Matron of Honor is to help her find wedding-day occupations for all the 297 special people in her life. While Cindy has already appointed 10 bridesmaids, three flower children and a ring bearer to her wedding party, I will now articulate twenty other jobs that must be filled to make her day most joyous.

1. Candle Wick Attendant. Every wedding has a near-miss with alter flames of some sort. Thus, the CWA will ensure that the Unity Candle:
a. is in its appointed position the day of the ceremony;
b. has a wick none too short nor too tall so as to produce a perfect glow in all photographs;
c. is out of all drafts;
d. is nowhere near priestly vestments.

2. Minister of Minister Pristelyness. Every now and again, a couple finds they’ve hired a officiant who is no longer “with the church.” (Well, at least this is what happened to my husband and I, but since we had two ministers on deck to preside over our nuptials, at least we’re lawfully married…) Thus, the MMP will do a background check six months prior to the service to ensure all people in vestments are certified by their dioceses.

3. Rouge Uncle Patrol. It is terribly upsetting to the bride when there is a drunk, out of control family member on the lam at the reception. This torrid individual gives spontaneous toasts that include too much information about the bride’s previous failed relationships, the couple’s prenuptial agreement and/or their presumed method of birth control. Therefore, the RUP will serve in full tackle gear and scan the reception hall continually for scoundrels before kindly escorting them to the nearest taxi cab and paying their way to New Jersey.

4. Bridal Latrine Skirt Uplifter. There really is no person more important to a bride stapled inside 500 yards of tulle meringue than the BLSU especially when the pressure’s on and the pee-pee needs to come out. This kind individual—perhaps a childhood friend?—must escort the bride to the privy and ensure none of her fluffage is dunked or dipped.

5. Deputy of Small Provisions. Undoubtedly someone in the wedding party will need a safety pin, a rubber band or extra perfume. The DSP will provide these items as well as several dozen other essentials inside a small tote on her person in case of emergency. (I once in a wedding party where the mother-of-the-groom needed underpants STAT, but that’s another story.)

6. Play list Enforcer. God hath no fury like a bride who hears a banned Britney Spears song at her own party. The PE is responsible for standing next to the DJ all night long—taser in hand.

7. Groomsmen Shepherd. This gentlemen shall:
a. Ensure all groomsmen are wearing black socks—and appropriate footwear.
b. Ensure no groomsman does permanent damage to bridal vehicle with spray paint.
c. Ensure groomsmen are not hot and sweaty from playing tackle football 15 minutes prior to the ceremony.

8. Sandwich Lady. I’ve seen entire bridal parties near collapse from lack of food and drink as they while away hours upon hours in a hot, humid “bridal salon.” The SL, then, should prepare a banal snack including a 60-40 ratio of protein and carbs. Bear in mind, this light fare should not include a trace of garlic, olives, onions or other possibly offensive cuisine. Moreover, the SL should offer small sips of mouthwash in wax cups so that bridal lipstick will not transfer.

9. Engagement Ring Tracker. While it adds drama to any wedding when a Tiffany setting slides off the sweaty finger of a bride unnoticed, it also gives some grooms a heart attack. (And EMTs, while well intentioned, never dress for such events.) Therefore, the ERT will keep her eyes on the brides’ left hand at all times, never glancing away to look at a flower arrangement, thus ensuring all gems stay in place.

10. Map Printer/Interpreter. Never assume guests will know where they’re going. They need color-coded, topographical maps with landmarks especially for women that include details like “…turn left at the dry cleaner that misplaced your favorite trench coat two seasons ago.” Moreover, the MPI should strive to have his/her soothing voice broadcast over the a.m. airwaves so that lost guests can find their way to the reception before the cake it cut.

11. Fork Buffer. Too many country clubs fail to completely eliminate water spots and/or fingerprints from the tongs of rented utensils thus angering the bride’s mother who in turn angers the bride. Thus, the job of the FB is to inspect all silverware 48 hours prior to the luncheon or dinner to ensure his/her reflection can be clearly.

12. Child Minder. Undoubtedly, someone will bring a screaming child to the wedding ceremony. The CM must quiet the child by whatever means necessary. She must be ready to serve as a wet nurse and/or administer silencing drugs.

13. Pet Minder. As more and more couples welcome their furry friends to be apart of their ceremony, PMs are desperately needed. This person must cloak Fido/Fefe in decorative leashes and bag all poop/hairballs produced in a wedding-themed parcel.

14. Transport Advisor. Even in the age of electronic travel, no one under wedding duress can be expected to remember when they’re leaving for their honeymoon, what airport they’re leaving from or even WHERE they’re going. The job of the TA, then, is to make sure the happy couple gets where they’re going. This includes following them to the airport, ensuring they get through security and safely strapping them into their first class seats before topping off their glasses of with a tasty chardonnay.

15. Bridal Bouquet Management Expert. More lilies have been squashed during the typical hug-and-run pew exit than can be counted. The BBME must thus pry the flowers from the bride’s clutch directly following the exit march so that said damsel has both hands free to kiss and otherwise greet her 425 guests without the encumbering parcel.

16. Funky Chicken Leader. All couples think this dance will be a hit, but unless you’ve got a dedicated soul willing to kick off the fun and games, the only guests rockin’ out to this old accordion hit will be preschoolers and those tethered to oxygen tanks. Have the FCL practice with a dance instructor four weeks prior for a perfected execution.

17. Video Camera Technician. The VCT will shadow the groom’s brother-in-law as he records the event for posterity. It is likely said BIL will A. forget the tape; B. be unable to turn the machine on; C. be tempted to record only the bride’s new mother-in-law’s complaints about the wedding fare and/or the long legs of the groom’s hot 18-year-old niece.

18. Back-Up Toaster. This is not the person who brings the bridal couple jam and bread should room service fail but the trained speechwriter who tucks away a spare paragraph of good tidings for the wedding feast should the Best Man decide to talk out of turn. The BUT is expected to have graduated from NYU and worked for upwards of five U.S. senators.

19. Sidewalk Clearer. There are no weddings prettier than those held during the holidays, but God forbid a bride should slide her way to the limo amidst slush and slop. The SC should personally consult local weather experts then have 45 pounds of kitty litter and salt primed and waiting outside both the church and the reception hall on the Big Day. Those attending summer weddings should construct a weather-proof awning of teak wood over a red carpet leading from church to limo and from limo to reception.

20. Pregnancy Prevention Patrol. Too many brides’ numbers are thrown off when a bridesmaid becomes unexpectedly enlarged and thus is unable to don her prescribed outfit. The PPP will call all bridesmaids every day for 10 months prior to the nuptials and remind the ladies-in-waiting of their commitments to the bride.

Over the past 10 years, Julie Blair has stood up in six weddings and attended many, many more. She wishes all the best to Cindy Zirbel and her lucky fiancé Eric, who will be married June 27 in Akron, Ohio.

END**

We're moving!

2008-12-26T13:58:00.001-08:00

Time it took to shop for gifts: 287 hours.
Time it took to wrap/ship gifts: 11 hours.
Time it took to shop for holiday dinner parties: 7 hours.
Time it took to cook for holiday dinner parties: 15 hours.
Time it took to clean house for holidays: 72 hrs.
Time it took to unwrap gifts Christmas day: 22 seconds.
Time it took to organize post-Christmas garbage: 4 hours.
Time it took to do dinner party dishes: 47 hours.
Time it took this Hot Mama to decide she wants to move into a yert on Dec. 26: 2 min.

SAH Mom's Wish List

2008-12-11T17:42:00.000-08:00

Dear Santa,

I am a 34-year-old stay-at-home mom and Believer. I have been very, very good this year. For example, I passed up all Gymboree clothing that was not on sale. I did the dishes and laundry every single night with no complaints. (Well, very few complaints.) I volunteered at the preschool and in other community organizations to the extent that my husband has begun asking if I could simply be a "Stay-At-Home" stay-at-home mom so that he could spend time with me before I turn 40. I don't ask for much and I know you prefer guided direction to a guessing game, so here's my wish list... The majority of items are available at Target, which is my idea of a true wonderland.

1. Grown-up toothpaste. As much as I like the "Sparkle Fun" flavor that dispenses in star shapes in every shade of pink, I'd really like some plain, old-fashined mint toothpaste. Please make sure no one uses this toothpaste and that no superheros advertise it. I'd also like to request that said toothpaste does not stick to the bottom of sink basins.

2. Clean Car Carpets. I know they won't last long, Santa, but could you please have the reindeer scrub my car's carpets with an OTC spot cleanser? They have grown crusty and are a complete embarassment when the Preschool Volunteers get my children out of our Ford during car line in the morning. (If you happen to unearth Elizabeth's missing maryjane shoe, please put it under the tree in the living room. They are from Stride Rite and very expensive.)

3. Pens with Ink. I am perfectly positive that my grocery list would be more coherent and that I'd never forget the Kleenex if I owned pens that actually worked.

4. Toilet Paper Roll. William flushed away our toilet paper roll sometime in September and I've yet to replace it. (If you could please slip a check for $85 into Jim's stocking, that would cover the cost of the plumber having to fish it out of the latrine. No, I didn't want to sanitize the found spindle, Santa. That's just gross--especially after William ate a lot of spaghetti.)

5. A tasty protein-filled, high-fiber cracker. My children live on crackers (specifically Wheat Thins) and I'm pretty sure there isn't much value to them other than crunch. In fact, William has substituted crackers for fruit/veggies/protein for so long, I'm beginning to suspect he has rickets. Or maybe it is scurvy...

6. A decent-looking Hannah Montanna Barbie. I'd like to suggest that the elves put together a doll with a slightly less demonic-looking facial expression so that I don't frighten myself when I put away the toys. I'd also like to request that she wear crotch-covering skirts and have hair that does not look better than mine. Also, if she could come with an "off" button, that'd be greatly appreciated.

7. Cute Orthodic Shoes. I've asked for these every year since I was pregnant and henceforth ruined my feet, yet I have yet to find a pair of wedges that does not scream "public school bus driver." (No offense to those ferrying our children to and from the halls of learning. I know what it means to be uncomfortable so I won't hold the Fashion Don't against you.)

8. A Soda Fountain. I like my Diet Coke extra fizzy but with light ice. I have to go to a drive-thru for this combination yet no one can seem to get the porportions straight. If only I could do it myself...

9. A cord keeper. I have so many cords encircling my desk that I look like I'm manning the flight deck at NASA. Worse yet, my kids keep tripping over said cords when they're playing Scooby Doo under my desk and crashing my computer.

10. Telepathy. This would allow my husband and I to anticipate one another's needs. He thinks you gave him this gift last year but I'm here to tell you that you forgot to flip the "on" switch.

Merry Christmas, Santa. Have a safe trip. We'll leave the lights on for you.

JULIE

Happy Minutiae

2008-11-24T12:52:00.001-08:00

It's Thanksgiving and I am grateful for so much: Good health, a wonderful family, marvelous friends. And the lingerie company Hanky Panky without which I could not do low-slung jeans at age 34.

This year, you see, I am aiming to be thankful for not just the big things
in my life, but also for all the little bits and pieces that make my
days brighter. Below is my list of Happy Minutiae not in any particular order. What's on your list?

1.The kid-sized grocery carts at Kroger, Store #673. My four-year-old
twins and I go to this Kroger specifically for this distraction. You
can't imagine how much we've learned about produce and the exchange of
money with these little carts, which really transform my children from bystanders
to participants in the process. We did our Thanksgiving shopping in 45
minutes today--that's right, 45 minutes. And we took home three carts
of food!

2. The New York Times--the paper edition. Call me old
media, but it is a true pleasure to sit down, unfold the crisp national
edition and delve into all the news that's fit to print. One airline
ride with the Times and I feel like I've earned aPh.d.

3. As long as I'm hailing the press, I have to list National Public Radio.
Entire days go by and the only adults I hear from are Nina Totenburg and Terry Gross. Without my daily NPR fix, I would know nothing about the world at large.

4. South Beach Peanut Butter bars. Most days, I'd rather pop a pill than deal with
eating but since that's not possible, I often rely on these little
goodies. They are portable and pack a protein punch.

5. My backyard trees. I never knew the impact of rustling leaves on my psyche
until I moved to a sun-drenched lot with only one tree that was
actually a stunted bush. Never again will I take that subtle "sss-sss" for granted.

6. Beautiful gift wrap. I get a huge kick out of swaddling hand-chosen
treats in brightly printed papers. I get punch drunk when it comes to
curling ribbon.

7. My husband's willingness to pack school lunches. I can't imagine most guys are up at 6 a.m. cutting crusts off of sandwiches for picky eaters, but mine does and every T/W/Th I thank my lucky stars for his generosity.

8. Nighttime Pull-Ups. I know they aren't environmentally friendly, but honestly, any invention that ensures I get more rest following nearly four years of sleep
deprivation is definitely on my list of Top Ten items to be thankful for.

9. My Dust Buster. I am by no means a cleanoholic, yet I find I feel more in control of my life so long as my steps are tidy.

10. Clever advertisements. A creative mind is a marvel to behold. I can
never get enough of thoughts conveyed in less than three words...

END**

OOT

2008-11-20T11:15:00.001-08:00

I have not fallen off the face of the Earth, dear readers. I spent last week in North Carolina with my BFF (story to come) and leave for California today for the remainder of the week. I am climbing out of my pajamas to lecture at the Core Knowledge Foundation about the concepts outlined in my book... (You know the guy who crafted the term "Culturally Literate?" This is his foundation. I really, really, really hope I am not quizzed...) See you when I get back.

The Quincenera

2008-11-02T18:13:00.001-08:00

As the mother of two curious four-year-olds, I spend a lot of time explaining things.
Yesterday, for example, I laid out how the Earth spins on an axis, the chemistry behind food burning in a pan and the mechanics of that soft webbing lining the armpits of flying squirrels.
Today was no different.
While walking the paths of the Dallas Arboretum on a spectacular November day, I gave what I think was a respectable 15-minute lecture on the cultural meaning of the Mexican quincenera.
The conversation was sparked by two teenage girls done up in lacey hoop-skirted ball gowns the color of cotton candy. Posing amongst the mums, a gaggle of photographers clicked away as they moved this way and that, flicking long-lashed eyes at the cameras.
Four-year-old Elizabeth literally stopped in her tracks upon seeing the senoritas.
“Brides!” she breathed.
(You have no idea the power of brides to a four-year-old girl until you’ve raised one. With the exception of princesses, they are the bomb.)
“No, they’re not brides,” I explained. “They’re dressed up for their birthdays. People of Mexican heritage have big parties to celebrate their 15th year. They believe that girls of that age are officially adults.”
I am shooting from the hip here, pulling knowledge from my eight grade Spanish class and memories of conversations I had five years ago with my girlfriend Rocio who was quinceinered (if that’s a verb) sometime in the late 1980s.
We trail the girls until they exit the gardens, our little group peeling off to the right, the teens going to the left.
Twenty-five minutes later, we’re in the car and Elizabeth is still considering quinceneras. She is now at the point where she’s whining about wanting such a party.
I explain that it really isn’t our custom—that she’s of mixed Dutch heritage which instead means eating boiled meat and clogging in wooden shoes—but that she can have a big party with her friends next week, if she wants to.
“No,” she says carefully, “I am going to adopt a baby from Mexico.”
Of course, my little smarty pants is ensuring she can have her own quincenera—even if it won’t be for another 40 years.

END++

William's Initiative

2008-10-24T14:44:00.000-07:00

Our preschool hosted "Breakfast Bites" this past week in an effort to offer a time of fellowship for our school community. Donuts were provided before school for families to share; the book fair was open following the meal. Then, the kids were to attend classes.
Of course, our family would never miss this--we are, after all, all about sugar and stories.
So, William and Elizabeth attended Breakfast Bites the first of the three days with Memaw and Papa...but it turns out, William figured out the system...
Many thanks to our family friend Jeff, who apparently cleaned up William after his donut feast, and to Jeff's 4-year-old daughter Diana who got William to class on time.

Below is Diana's mother's e-mail dispatch on William's Initiative:

I attached a couple of pics of the kids from the PPatch. I also have a cute story to share about breakfast on Wed. at MES. Jeff took Diana to eat and said that Will came and joined them. Jeff said he was a bit concerned at first since WIll did not have an adult with him. He said that Will tried to take 2 donuts but he told him only one and then helped him clean up after they ate. I asked Diana about eating with WIll and she said "yes, I took good care of him and then took him to class". She sounded like a little mother in training...as long as she waits about 25 years.

See you tonight,
Debbie

You Better Watch Out

2008-10-18T09:52:00.001-07:00

As an only child, I am nearly confounded when it comes to the issue of sibling rivalry.
After all, the one childhood fight I remember having was with my BFF Kerry Williams over the pair of polyester pink-foot pajamas we both wanted to wear while playing "baby." I grabbed one foot and pulled while she yanked on the other; my mother--a veteran kindergarten teacher who could broker peace between India and Pakistan--heard the ruckous and quelled it with a "She's the guest, GIVE IT TO HER NOW..."
My husband is no help either.
Jim and his sister Jamie were inseperable as kids and to this day, if the three of us were in a sinking boat, I'm sure I'd be the one drinking sea water. (My mother-in-law--a veteran third grade teacher--reports that their lone childhood fight was over Jamie hugging Jim too much. It wasn't that he didn't adore her, my MIL asserts, it's just that too much sisterly affection embarassed him as a 12-year-old boy.)
Of course, I've read books.
(My vote for most creative title: "Siblings Without Rivalry.")
And I've called up friends to query them on their strategies.
("Oh, I don't know," sighed my very capable friend L., who has three well-adjusted, smart boys ages five and under. "Sometimes I just try to keep them on seperate floors of the house. On other days, I let them go at it until the screaming gets overwhelming or things get bloody.")
I've tried reason.
("How would it make you feel, Elizabeth, if William called you a 'Planthead?'")
Distraction--a staple in my toolbox during the toddler years--only rarely works at age four.
("Guys, look, an ice cream truck!")
I've even imparted religion.
("Would Jesus take all of his sister's Crayolas right before bedtime then feed them to his stuffed bear as string beans? I think NOT.")
But finally, I've found what seems to be a silver bullet--at least seasonally.
When my kids were squabbling earlier this week over whose turn it was to take the gummies out of the box, I spontaneoulsy laid down this gem:
"Children, Santa knows everything."
There was dead silence--and by that I mean you could hear the leaves falling up in Alaska. The kids looked at each other with shades of horror.
Will pushed the gummy box into his sister's outstretched hand.
"I've got good behavior," he said.
"Me, too!" shouted Elizabeth.
So, as it turns out, my Christmas gift came early this year. And while it might disappear on December 26, I'll have gotten a lot of mileage out of it.
In my house, you better watch out...you better not cry...

My Busy Day

2008-10-15T19:44:00.000-07:00

Two years ago, if you’d have asked me what I’d do with 18 extra hours in my week, I would have told you this: I could run a small nation.
I reasoned I was so efficient by the time my twins were two years old, that I could easily serve as CFO of a South American economy while running a household and managing my freelance career.
If only I had the time…
Well, it just so happens that this year’s preschool calendar has afforded me those extra 18 hours—my kids school three days each week—and I had big, big, big plans.
My agenda included (but was not limited to):
• Making daily batches of organic vegetable puree to stir into homemade stews, soups and smoothies thus upping the nutritional content of my family’s every meal;
• Composing handwritten notes of thanks to educators who had touched my life (I would include artwork made by my kids and photographs, of course);
• Transforming my new 1-acre backyard into a private Eden complete with 15 varieties of Texas roses grown from vintage seeds;
• Sewing Halloween costumes inspired by the Victorian era for the entire tribe including Papa, even though he would likely protest.
I am shocked to tell you that it’s October and I have not yet accomplished one of those goals. Moreover, I do not have time to run Bolivia in my new 18-hour timeframe.
Heck, I don’t even have time to deal with Paraguay.
The truth is, I cannot seem to get my laundry done.
Thus, I have decided to do a self-analysis to see where the problem lies. Below is a log of how I spent my time today:
• 6:35 a.m. Woke up. Wondered if I had put enough Diet Coke into the fridge to chill.
• 6:45 a.m. Showered; peered into mirror and considered if sleek new hairstyle was actually Helmet-head in disguise.
• 7:15 a.m. Noted the absence of food in the fridge following week-long vacation; gave credit to husband cooking children Eggs-Over-Celery for breakfast; searched for missing school library books; felt significantly guilty for failing to push child to search; wondered if child would someday end up on mean streets of Philadelphia for her failure to embrace responsibility.
• 7:25 a.m. Searched for missing uniform slacks.
• 7:32 a.m. Searched for missing school bags.
• 7:33 a.m. Cursed self for watching “Dancing With the Stars” the previous night instead of perfecting Morning Rush System; wondered how many more spin classes it would take to get Brooke Burke’s abs.
• 7:34 a.m. Crammed uncooperative, whimpering child into uniform slacks; chased second child from room to room to room with hairbrush while yelling; made mental note to stop yelling before 9 a.m.
• 7:42 a.m. Opened Diet Coke.
• 7:47 a.m. Drove to preschool. Provided non-threatening definition of cancer and/or cancer-related baldness to child; outlined four preventatives of cancer intertwining the importance of vegetables and fruit into discussion.
• 8:15 a.m. Arrived at preschool. Dropped off 10 pages of leaves enshrined in wax paper complete with species names.
• 8:22 a.m. Social time! Chatted with fellow Hot Mama in parking lot.
• 8:23 a.m. Back in car. Bound for gas station/Target.
• 8:45 a.m. Stuck in Barbie aisle contemplating whether or not Barbie with iridescent wings would have more bribery power over Barbie with teeny bikini; congratulated self for choosing cheaper $5 option; wondered if daughter’s body image would be irrevocably harmed due to Barbie presence in home.
• 8:55 a.m. Hunkered down in Aisle 5 doing long division: Is it cheaper to buy 40 ounces of Jif or 22? Could not come up with answer sans paper; made mental note to enroll in community college math class.
• 10:00 a.m. Began unloading groceries.
• 10:05 a.m. Realized must clean fridge before putting away groceries.
• 10:10 a.m. Realized must clean b-fast dishes before cleaning fridge.
• 11 a.m. Pulled out Pumpkin Chili recipe. Realized I forgot to buy pumpkin pie spice, which meant all three pounds of lean ground beef would be flavorless; substituted apple pie spice; said prayer.
• 11:35 a.m. Called Hot Mama in Michigan and left voice mail; realized Kathryn and I have not actually spoken in four months, only traded life stories via voice mail.
• 11:37 a.m. Unloaded four suitcases.
• Noon. Gulped down pumpkin chili while listening to “Fresh Air” episode featuring columnist from Alaska; fretted whether or not journalism career will ever really take off again; considered whether stay-at-home motherhood was worth the sacrifice; decided it probably was (on most days); made mental note to e-mail magazine contacts regarding recent essays.
• 12:12 p.m. Cleaned up dishes; made mental note to buy new plastic Gladware.
• 12: 22 p.m. Checked out hair. Decided new cut is necessary; determined $40 was misspent on trendy flatiron; hoped like heck old stylist would take me back; mentally composed forgiveness speech for straying from her steadfast hands.
• 12:25 p.m. Took out recycling.
• 12:27 p.m. Made beds, threw laundry in hampers.
• 1:00 p.m. Realized public library books are overdue; found list of books; horrified to realize we had 66—somewhere—in the house; made mental note to tell husband to stop encouraging literacy.
• 1:02 p.m. Began sorting through kids’ book collection.
• 1:30 p.m. Considered whether or not “Curious George” books are really a rip off, as all are same plot doctored with different themes; decided Seuss is most versatile and original; lovingly patted old baby board books; considered how life would be different if we had a third child; decided not to bring this up with husband until Mastercard clears.
• 1:50 p.m. Kitchen alarm goes off indicating time to pack up to pick up kids.
• 1:55 p.m. Climbed over assorted granola bar wrappers into the driver’s seat; complimented self of bringing along water vs. Diet Coke; pangs for 82-ounce Diet Coke begin.
• 2:15 p.m. Arrived at preschool car line.
• 2:17 p.m. Wondered where the heck my “free” day went…

Catalogs

2008-10-06T18:38:00.000-07:00

Confession: I am a total catalog junkie.
On any given day about 6 p.m., you’ll find my four-year-old twins floating in the tub while I perch atop the potty playing lifeguard. On my lap is usually a pile of dog-eared mags selling wares from J. Crew, Garnet Hill or my new favorite from England, Mini Boden.
While others might ply their minds with the national section of the local newspaper or a book of historical fiction, I prefer to segue into my evenings with something akin to Valium.
My husband, of course, thinks thumbing through a wrinkled copy of Pottery Barn Kids: Spring 2008 is a total waste of time. He is one of those intellectual types who memorizes maps and learns foreign languages in the space between shampooing and conditioning.
Mostly he worries that the glossies will actually hit their mark and lead to a purchase.
I guess I should tell him that PBK is the only reason I have yet to resign my post as stay-at-home mom.
Just looking at a picture of a color-coded playroom where children appear to share the mint green retro kitchen set gives me strength to make it through the bedtime battle then straighten up my own bomb-damaged rumpus room.
Moreover, I find that catalogs make me a more creative mother.
“Wow,” I’ll think to myself as I stroke a forefinger over the $36 “splat mat” advertised in Land of Nod. “I could make one of those out of the black trash bags to spare my new beige carpet the devastation of tempera paint.”
And so I do.
In addition, my catalog habit has resulted in healthier eating for our family.
I look at the apple-cheeked models in the Baby Gap Fall ad campaign and mentally remind myself to purchase organic grapes while at Sprouts later in the evening.
Occasionally, my catalogs even help me make friends.
While my husband has colleagues at work with whom to converse, I have “Elaine,” the operator at The Company Store.
Last Wednesday, when no girlfriend was available to take my calls, I spoke with Elaine about the potential purchase of a duvet covered in sunflowers.
“Well,” I told her, “I’m really cold down there in the Snoring Room at night so I think I need a new layer to add to the bed.”
“The Snoring Room?” she asked. “Why are you down in that guest room all by yourself, dear? You should have him get the Pillar Procedure. It stops 98 percent of all nasal reactions without the noise of one of those machines. My Earl did it five years ago and we’ve been back up in the master together ever since. Totally saved our marriage. Well, it was that and the cruise to Mexico. What’s your zip code, again, Honey?”
“75022,” I respond.
“That’s Dallas.” Elaine says. “If you can do the drive to Galveston, you might want to consider the Caribbean Royal Cruise Line.”
After 55 minutes on the phone, Elaine and I hang up.
I am thus completely refreshed and ready to scrub the pans in the sink.
Catalogs, too, give me a sense of the passing of time and encourage me to savor the precious moments with my own children.
My favorite Delia’s model—the one with the large blue eyes and the crooked front teeth—has really grown up since she became the retailer’s go-to girl three years ago. Last Christmas, her perfect mane was in pigtails now they’ve got her sporting these too-short miniskirts that make her look like a hussy despite the patterned schoolgirl knee-highs.
I swear. They grow up so fast.
I close my catalogs and put them away.
Gingerly, I lift my twins from the bathtub and gently wrap them in their towels.
Now, we’re ready for a good book.

Laundry Baskets

2008-10-05T19:07:00.000-07:00

You’d think the new, shiny trampoline with the 13-foot enclosure would be the big hit at our house these days.
Or, perhaps you’d guess everyone’s favorite would be the pool. Filled with 35 floaties, various wooden boats, several diving toys and a waterfall, you’d think it would get a lot of love during the dog days of summer.
But, alas, even the tri-colored plastic roller coaster that sits in our vast, forested backyard sits dormant these days.
No, the hit of the month has been—drum-roll please—my laundry basket.
It is fabulous if I do say so myself.
I bought the white plastic model at a Linen-N-Things seven years ago in Rockville, Maryland. It came with a thoughtful indent for the hip. There’s also an oversized lip around the circumference for ease in gripping the container when an Everest of clothing spills over its edges.
Alas, I’m not the only one to note its form and function.
Sometime in early August, my four-year-old twins commandeered the laundry basket for higher purposes.
Suddenly, I began finding mini-moguls of shirts, pants and socks piled up in various rooms throughout the house. No sooner would I stack an ironed, folded load of darks into the basket and someone would tip the load into the bathtub and steal away with the container.
Last Friday, I found five separate heaps of clothing dumped unceremoniously in the hallway like piles of fall leaves recently raked.
Meanwhile, the laundry basket was having a marvelous time.
It first morphed into a boat. Will pushed various stuffed animals—and then his screaming sister—“through” the “Small World” ride at “Disney World.”
When that was over, it became the only prop in a dramatic afternoon at the Olympic Games. First, Will used it as the uneven bars, straddling the sides like Nastia Liukin before sticking a dismount on the playroom floor.
Next, Elizabeth had a turn with my laundry basket.
Following a hair-raising floor routine performed in a tutu to the tune of Abba’s “Dancing Queen,” she upended the container and accepted a gold medal standing atop the laundry basket. It was, of course, a podium.
Afterwards, she pushed it over to her dolls, stripped one nude and gave it a bath in the container.
The laundry basket also had a turn as a grocery cart, a car and a circus cage.
I’m pretty sure no toy has seen this much action in my house since my kids discovered balls moved at around nine months.
So I wasn’t surprised earlier this week when Will made a simple request.
Following a rather rough day at physical therapy, I offered him a reward for his endeavors.
“Would you like a new truck from Target?” I asked, “Or how about a new Matchbox car?”
Will shook his head.
“Momma,” he said, a huge grin spreading across his face, “May I get my own laundry basket?”
And so we did.
It is bright blue.

On Tattoos

2008-10-05T19:04:00.001-07:00

I’m not really a celeb watcher but I’m suddenly spending a lot of time lately thinking about Angelina Jolie following the birth of her twins.
I picture her French mansion at 3 a.m., the light from her nursery illuminating the roofs of paparazzi vans as she and Brad
(or a team of nannies) prop open their eyelids to conduct simultaneous feedings. (Even celeb babies have to eat, or so the tabs say.)
Mostly I’m wondering where the heck Angie is going to tattoo the coordinates of her babies’ birthplace.
It has been reported repeatedly that she inks them high up on her arm.
But with two new babies, this poses a conundrum.
Will she have two identical sets of coordinates done or just one to represent the multiple birth? Will they be parallel or beside one another? Whose mark goes first—Twin A or Twin B?
Perhaps the first one out of the womb gets dibs on the spot below Shiloh’s? Will this begin a lifelong rivalry?
To complicate matters, isn’t Angie running out of space on her arm to display the art?
If so, where will she put the new tattoo(s?) On her back where noone would see them? On her wrist in a bracelet formation?
I suppose they could go atop her C-section scar to be literal about it.
The folks in my morning boot camp would probably have something to say about this if I polled them.
The former track star who lapped me in the mile warm-up today sports a red ankle tattoo.
The gal who works out directly in front of me has chosen to place a sprawling cross on her upper shoulder.
Grunting Man on my left has his girlfriend’s name on his bicep.
As the sweat pools on my yoga mat, it occurs to me that that I am apparently the only one in the entire boot camp who does not have a tattoo. (The instructor is covered head-to-toe in camouflage, but I’m betting there’s one in there somewhere. Note, too, that I cannot accurately see any of the other campers because I’ve forgotten to insert my contact lenses.)
This gets me thinking: If I were to get a tattoo, what would it be and where would I put it?
I could go political and have a scribe stencil Obama’s logo on my calf and thus declare to the entire world my liberal leanings. When I ran, the calf muscle would contract and the logo would look like a flag waving.
Perhaps it would be more useful to place often-forgotten passwords on my palm. I’d have the key to Kodak.com on the right hand and my Gymboree pin number on the left.
Actually, what I really need are the directions for downloading my camera into my computer, though that would take up a lot of real estate.
Then again, tattoos aren’t really supposed to be practical.
Maybe I’d go all sentimental like Angie: I’d have the address of our first home tattooed on my foot—10153 Brookmoor Drive—in honor of place where my adult life started.
But wait, I’ve got it!
I’d use a phrase that encompasses this exact point in my life. It would articulate my work life and my life’s work (motherhood). I would put it in bold Helvetica type for all to see.
On my forehead I would tattoo: “SHUT THE DOOR!”

END+

Trick or Treat

2008-10-05T18:53:00.000-07:00

When you become a mother, you agree to do certain gross things not even the wildest sixth grade boy would dare imagine.
For starters, there’s the birth. No detailed book or loving girlfriend can prepare you for this. While I’ve never been to a murder scene, I now can imagine what it might look like.
Then, just as you’re coming to terms with all the gore, you start changing diapers.
As a mother, you’ll handle more raw sewage with your bare hands in your first three years of parenthood than the will the average sanitation worker in a 40-year career.
It will be runny. Gooey. Yellow. Green.
It will coat your clothes, your hair, your carpet. You will get it under your fingernails and, perhaps, all over your furniture.
For the most part, you will become immune to poop’s putrid odor.
But that’s not all.
Oh, no.
As a mother, you will actually put out your hands out so that they may serve as a receptacle when your child projectile pukes in public. You might even do it if your neighbor’s kid pukes and you’re on duty in their yard.
Moldy bananas, smashed hot dogs and patches of dried out spaghetti in your car interior become the least of your worries.
These substances all are the currency of motherhood.
Still, I recoiled in horror last week when I opened my new silver handbag in search of Mr. Mastercard.
There it sat, wedged between my favorite blue leather wallet and my husband’s cell phone, a corner of its greasy cellophane wrapper poking out.
As I pulled the six-day-old Texas State Fair corn dog into the light, I could see teeth marks on its tender pink underbelly. Petrified crumbs tinkled to the floor.
Amazingly, there was no mold.
The corn dog had been mummified to perfection in a vat of oil so nasty, no living microbe wanted to feast on it.
Still, there was a smell. A smell so strong, the fans above me began to automatically spin. The doors of The Children’s Place spontaneously blew open; customers were sucked though it screaming.
I stuffed the corn dog back into my purse (What, you thought I would surrender that cute $4.99 T-shirt?).
Clutching my purchase, I raced to the nearest trash receptacle, found the corn dog and deep-sixed it.
As I went to snap my purse closed, I spied the promising glimmer of green—a half eaten granola bar purchased the same day we at the corn dogs.
I sniffed the bar, deemed it free of corn dog cooties and popped the remainder into my mouth.
It was good.
So good.

END++

Newbie Goes Live

2008-10-05T18:49:00.000-07:00

My name is Julie Blair. And I am a techie illiterate.
For years now, I have pretty well hidden this fact.
I could answer e-mails. I could log onto websites. I made nearly $400 one fall EBaying my kids’ outgrown clothing.
The truth is, I’ve gotten by nicely thanks to a stable of enablers.
As a professional journalist, I’ve had people to rely on to make technology work for me. The newspaper’s librarian culled clips as background for stories; staff photographers did my photos or downloaded the images I shot on a point-and-shoot camera; the graphics department laid out my first book.
After all, I rationalized, I was so busy applying my talents to writing content, I didn’t have time to figure out the nuts and bolts of the systems that kept me afloat.
The truth is, I run short on patience and understanding.
Meanwhile, my husband is ready to divorce me.
I’ve bugged him to program the DVR, dispatch our family’s digital photos, set up the answering machine.
My ugliest confession: I was absolutely flummoxed for years when I had to plug in the printer to the computer.
His patience is wearing thin.
“I’m right-brained,” I’d whine.
He’d point out I’ve managed to earn two degrees from fine institutions of higher education. Then to shut me up, he’d plug in the cord.
But the gig is up—it has to be.
In an age where everybody and everything—including my four-year-old twins—are expected to have a deep understanding of technology, I can no longer afford to be illiterate. I’ve simply got to slow down, real the manuals and make some mistakes.
Hence, the birth of chocolatecoveredpajamas.blogspot.com.
This blog will serve as a means for me to understand the techie world and begin to get comfortable with it. Maybe someday soon, I’ll learn to harness its power.
Until then, I aim to start by posting my own family essays.
And as we all know, the biggest incentive for writers is to give them an audience.
Thanks for supporting me.

END+

Family Lore: W&E, Ages 2-3

2008-10-04T20:09:00.000-07:00

TITLE: THE PRINCESS AND THE PEE: A MODERN-DAY FAIRYTALE
WRITTEN: WINTER, 2006

Once upon a time, in a land called Flower Mound, a princess named Elizabeth decided diapers were no longer to her liking.
Her mother, a very wise and astute woman, agreed it was time to introduce her child to the merits of the royal throne. Thus, the queen journeyed to the magical land of Tarjay where she traded her gold card for the prettiest potties even the pickiest of princesses would find provocative. There was a blue potty emboldened with a teddy, a green potty bearing a fish, a white potty with grand arms, and last but not least, a pink potty the color of posies.
“Oh!,” exclaimed Princess Elizabeth upon seeing her potties, “Me try them!”
And she did.
Princess Elizabeth sprinkled. Princess Elizabeth tinkled.
She dripped. She dropped.
She pondered. She puddle.
Her highness was very, very proud of her work and kindly called the entire kingdom to the Throne Room see the merits of her afternoon. Oh, how the queen and king clapped! Her twin brother Prince William spun in celebratory circles! Even the Royal Godfather, who had no children of his own and knew nothing yet of potty appreciation, could see with his very own eyes how wondrous it all was!
The bare-bottom princess beamed with delight.
But after several days of potty production, Princess Elizabeth grew weary.
“Bebe want play, no potty,” she said, with a look of dismay.
The queen, wanting to cease upon the princess’ initial interest, quickly offered more incentives. She built a library in the Throne Room complete with developmentally appropriate works about potty time. Then, she offered the princess a royal stepping stool so that her precious feet could easily reach the sink, a sink made festive by animal-shaped soaps scented with roses.
Sadly, the allure of the tap lasted for a few days. Princess Elizabeth found standing on the stool to be tiresome. Her little calves were tired. Her delicate fingers were wrinkled with so much washing. Besides, Prince William wanted to play Hide in the Royal Drapery, a game much more interesting.
Princess Elizabeth called for her Pull-Ups and declared potty time “all done.”
Now, the queen was very wise indeed. She knew from past experience that Princess Elizabeth had a will like that of the feistiest dragons in the kingdom and that if she pushed her highness on the issue, there would be no business to be had.
So she bided her time.
One day several weeks later, the queen and her entourage were shopping at Babies-R-Us when Princess Elizabeth called for a trip to the local potty. This, thought the queen, was a very good sign. So she parked her purchases and wheeled the Royal Buggy into the bathroom.
“Oh!” said the princess spying the kid-friendly facilities, “Bebe see little potty! Bebe try!”
The queen, being a bit of a germaphobe, made haste to carefully prepare a quilted space for her cherub on the petite potty. But once the place was properly prettied, her highness requested to be partially disrobed for the main event.
Not wanting to lose momentum, the queen complied with the princess’ wishes, though she suddenly realized her daughter’s royal robes were both too complicated to remove quickly in such a confined space. There were buttons to undo and zippers to unzip, and slippers to remove.
Fortunately, her highness was a creative sort and was able to busy herself by unrolling yard after yard after yard of toilet paper. Then, because the queen was taking so long and she needed to make herself useful, the princess carefully began shredding it.
Meanwhile, Prince William watched from his place in the Royal Buggy. He provided helpful instructions in a very loud voice so that both his sister and mother would be sure to hear them.
“Sit down, Bebe!” he repeated again and again, “Like Meeum!”
When no action was taken, Prince William took to cleaning out the trays in his Royal Buggy. First he pitched his Royal Sippy Cup onto the floor. Next, he dispensed his Royal Snacks. Then being a very kind and thoughtful brother, he also took care of his sister’s place.
The queen felt an unseemly prickle of sweat at her hairline.
The Great Undressing continued.
Princess Elizabeth shuffled beyond the billowing mountain of toilet paper and began conducting science experiments while she waited for her mother. She peeked beneath the lid to see exactly where the water would originate when she flushed. Then she caressed the underside of the porcelain lid to see if it was cool or warm or wet. She poked out her little pink tongue and was about to see if it tasted like vanilla ice cream when the queen finally lifted her onto the potty.
A calm washed over the threesome. And it grew quiet. Too quiet.
Princess Elizabeth swished her feet back and forth on her perch. Prince William sat at attention, mouth agape, waiting.
“Hmm,” thought the queen, “perhaps we need a little encouragement.”
While the queen had not lived long in the Land of Texas, she had learned that many in the community responded to loud chanting and arm waving.
“Prince William, we must cheer!” she exclaimed.
Thus, she stood tall in the stall, raised her arms and began.
“Go, Bebe, go! Go, Bebe, go! Go, Bebe, go!”
Prince William chimed in and together their voices rose and fell in a cadence surely heard all over the store, if not the entire kingdom.
Then suddenly, Princess Elizabeth went!
She was very, very proud.
“Meeum’s turn!” the Prince wailed, unstrapping himself from the Royal Buggy in a move so violent it nearly overturned the rig.
The perspiration dripped from the queen’s delicate underarms like morning dew falling from a magnolia. But the queen was no fool: Never before had the prince uttered an interest in the potty and she knew she must take the opportunity to introduce him to the pleasures of the throne.
She begin again to prepare the petite palette.
The unadorned princess, seeing that her mother would need her to busy herself for the next several moments, tottered off to explore the facilities next door.
When everything was finally in place, including the prince, Sister, Brother and Mother all cheered with magnificent gusto.
“Go, William, go! Go, William, go! Go, William, go!”
Silence.
They tried again, even louder than before.
“Go, William, go! Go, William, go! Go, William, go!”
The prince squinted his eyes and grimaced.
“Meeum want snack,” he said, “Meeum hungry.”
The queen was relieved to have closure. And frankly, she was a little hungry herself.
But as luck would have it, she too had been inspired by all the cheering.
She gathered up her children and their Royal Robes, washed their tiny hands and parked them back in the Royal Buggy.
For a third time, she prepared the potty. Then she took to the throne.
The prince and princess started with big, round eyes at their mother.
Then quietly, they began chanting. Faster and faster their words came tumbling out. Their voices crescendoed and the words filled the chamber for all to hear:
“Go, Momma, go! Go, Momma, go! Go, Momma, go!”
And so she did.

END+++

TITLE: WILLIAM'S VALENTINE
WRITTEN: WINTER 2008

I always pictured my three-year-old son’s first love as a sprite of a thing.
She’d have sparkly blue eyes, bouncy pigtails and a contagious laugh. This little girl—her name might be Caroline—would appreciate William’s sweet nature. She’d admire his artwork and quiet humor. At recess, Caroline would hold William’s hand as they sat under a tree and talked about clouds. She’d help him find Bear if he went missing. She’d even embrace his crazy twin sister with a knowing smile.
But we mothers are often wrong.
William, it turns out, loves a 40-something hippie chick named Anna Dewdney. This woman is herself the mother of two small children one of whom is named Cordelia. She resides somewhere in Vermont.
I know few other things about Ms. Dewdney except that she has really, really long brown hair and enjoys rhyming. This information I gleaned from her two famous (at least to us) books, “Llama, Llama Red Pajama” as well as “Llama, Llama Mad at Mama.”
Her picture is right there, on the back of the book jacket. She’s smiling—and bundled up, of course, because it is cold in Vermont.
William—my obsessor—became attached to Anna’s first book at age 2; he discovered her second story a month ago. Both volumes are now dog-eared and regularly toted from room to room along with Bear, his inflatable green guitar and various Fisher-Price Little People figurines.
William can recite “Pajama”—the story of a small llama’s ability to cope with separation from his mama—and do all the voices. He’s learned what rhyming is from the story and how to do it even if his rhyming “words” are just made up mumbo-jumbo.
This is quite the life achievement when you’re three and, thus, it leaves an impression.
So I suppose I should not have been surprised when young Wills wanted to send a valentine to Anna D. After all, everyone else in the family had been accounted for.
“Mama, we gotta send Anna Dewdney a letter,” William said, his hands busily adding “fringe” to a red heart I had just cut out.
“Uh huh, sure” I said as I swept up three pounds of glitter from the floor.
“No, mom, right now,” he said, scissors in mid snip, his hazel eyes looking up at me with the seriousness of a law student’s.
“Sit down,” he instructed, “and start the words.”
He pushed a piece of white construction paper in front of me.
“Tell Anna Dewdney,”—William always refers to the author by both first and last names out of respect, I’m sure—“that we really, really like her books. And that she should do a video. No, wait, a movie. I should make the movie. I’m gonna make the movie after I go to college in California. It’ll be about llamas. Good ones. Ones that don’t make you scared at night. That like to shop. In grocery stores. With their mamas. Tell Anna Dewdney to write more llama stories but they have to have covers that aren’t blue. I don’t like the blue ones.”
I scribbled furiously as William’s words tumbled out.
“Now, Mama, we’re done,” he said, scrambling down from the table. “You go get the stamp and an envelope.”
Hopping on one leg, he worked his way over to the dining room where he plucked a sticky return address label from my Christmas card pile.
“Now, let’s go to your office,” he commanded. “You’ll get Anna Dewdney’s address from the computer.”
Right. From the computer.
Dear God, I thought to myself as I ascended the staircase, please let Anna Dewdney’s address be out there in cyberspace. Please. Please.
William pulled up a chair as I booted up the computer.
I fiddled around for a bit then—holy Moses—there it was.
Anna Dewdney lives in Putney, Vermont, town of 2,634 people, median income: $40,000.
“William, I got it,” I said.
“Good job, Mama,” he said, “I knew you could do it.”
I stuffed the letter into an envelope, he stamped it, then we marched barefoot to the mailbox together. My arms quivered as I hoisted all 38 pounds of William into the air so that his little arms could reach the red flag. He pulled it up ever so gently, popped open the door and carefully snuggled Anna Dewdney’s letter between the bills.
I plunked William down on the sidewalk.
“Nice work, Mama,” he said brushing his hands together, a grin spreading from chin to cheek.
I hope Anna Dewdney—and her llama friends—can appreciate a good story as much as we do. Often, real life is better than fiction.

END+++

TITLE: TOXIC KITCHEN
WRITTEN: Summer 2007

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Goodbye, Kraft macaroni and cheese. Adios, apple chips. So long, bacon bits.
Three hours into my cleaning spree and I was still on jet fuel. Bags of trash blooming with my family’s favorite foods mounded around me like the some bizarre plastic mountain range.
I pulled forth a brimming container of Jif peanut butter, one of the four foods my three-year-old son will actually consume, and squinted to make out the label. It read: “Made from roasted peanuts and sugar. Contains 2 percent or less of molasses, partially hydrogenated vegetable oil (soybean), fully hydrogenated vegetable oils (rapeseed and soybean), mono-and diglycerides and salt.”
I gasped.
It was bad enough that the J.M. Smucker Company was loading up a childhood classic with heart-clogging oils but it was even worse that they were sneakily declaring the fact. By telling shoppers that “2 percent or less” of a product is involved in its packaging, it seems the harm is very minimal.
Well, they weren’t going to fool this momma.
They might as well replace the peppy red, blue and green striped label with a skull and cross bones. Jif was poisoning my children!
I dunked the peanut butter into the open trash can with certain aplomb.
I always got like this after a good seminar.
And the night before had been a doosey. Nutritionist Lexie Smith had visited my twins club and made a case for eating natural, organic food. Dump anything with a pesticide sprayed on it, she advised, do away with refined flours, and forget you ever heard of sweeteners like Splenda which were created in laboratories. It is also smart to avoid food additives like dyes and, of course, fast food, she added.
“Do you ever wonder why French fries discovered in your car seats days after you passed through the drive-through look the same as when you opened the container?” she asked. “That’s because bacteria won’t touch it. And here we’re pumping our kids full of these products.”
Then, she backed up the importance of healthy eating with scary numbers: Childhood diabetes is skyrocketing, many tweens have been found to have corroding arteries, infertility strikes more Americans than people of any other culture.
Diet alone, she added, can prevent the majority of diseases and ensure your body works like its supposed to.
I concluded right then and there that it was a dereliction of duty to ever again put marshmallows atop my kids’ cocoa.
And so I began dumping.
And dumping.
And dumping.
Five hours after the start of my project, my pantry looked clean enough to have Martha Stewart inspect it. There were hardly any of those toxic boxed food items left; the canned goods included only staples like chicken broth and diced tomatoes. The remaining pastas were whole wheat; I had organized my spices according to the Dewey Decimal system.
Bravo, I though, as I shut the door and cracked open a Mother Earth Mango juice.
The next morning, however, I noticed a flaw in my plan.
It was 6:21 a.m. and Will wanted breakfast. (Well, he never actually wants breakfast, but I feel it is important to at least put something in front of him so that when the Department of Child Neglect comes calling upon noting his boney ribs that I can truthfully tell them I tried to feed him.)
With all of the peanut butter, cereal and nitrate-laden bacon long gone, there was nothing for him to eat. I poked around my now neatly arranged baking section and—ah ha!—spied some whole grain Quaker oats.
I considered making old-fashioned, stovetop oatmeal. Well, there was just no way he would eat it. I mean, even the organic stuff sporting happy, furry Elmo on the box was routinely rejected.
What else could I do with it?
Then, inspiration struck.
I would make a healthful oatmeal bar like the kind marketed in the “easy breakfast” section of Kroger except without all the transfats.
I called to Will to put on his pint-sized apron and gave myself another pat on the back—the nutritionist said that children who prepare their food are more likely to actually eat it.
Together we found a cookbook.
That’s funny, I thought to myself as we leafed through it. All the recipes including oatmeal were for cookies. Well, I’d just have to improvise.
Will cracked the eggs and plopped them into the bowl.
The next item required was butter. Two full sticks. Even if there was a lot of it in the recipe, at least it was natural, I reasoned. That noxious margarine stuff could limit a child’s IQ, I just knew it could.
Then the recipe called for sugar. Lots of it—almost three cups—both the brown and the forbidden white granules.
So, there’s a little sugar, I thought to myself. At least I didn’t use Splenda. And the kids were going to eat the bars long before nap time so they’d have plenty of time to burn it off before I tried to put them to bed.
Just as I was about to get the mixer going, I heard Twin B banging on the door.
“Don’t move,” I told my little chef. “Momma is going to get Sister.”
Five minutes later, I had the blonde begging to help the brunette. But as many cooks know, too many in the kitchen spoil the broth.
Will tightened his grip on the Mix Master and glared at Elizabeth who was eagerly pushing a chair over to the counter. Faster than you can say “cardiothoracic surgeon,” she scrambled up and made a move for the long wooden spoon in her brother’s right hand.
Chaos ensued.
In an attempt to save the morning, I fished a bag of M&Ms out from behind the Organic Cheez-Its. (I kept them with a clean conscience, you see, as they are my potty training incentive.)
I poured a cup of candy out on the counter and told Elizabeth to sort out the blue from the pile so that Will could continue to stir the bars in a sister-free zone of contentment.
Meanwhile, Will had taken the opportunity to try out the goo as a new hair gel. And butter being what it is, shaking the slop free from his curls took me a few minutes.
I looked over at the counter to see Elizabeth jamming 400 dyed M&Ms into her mouth. (I assumed that Easter Bunny pink was probably not a color found in nature.)
“Rainbow!” she screeched as she dumped the remainder of the one-pound bag into Will’s batter.
To sum it up, the breakfast cookies—and that’s what they turned out to be—were terrific. Extraordinary, really. Especially when warm.
Especially when washed down with an ice cold Diet Coke.

END+++

TITLE: BEDTIME
WRITTEN: SUMMER 2006

I knew instinctively that the peace in my home had evaporated even without looking up from my book.
It was nap time on a sunny week day. I had indulgently snubbed the dishes, creeping upstairs to the quiet of the guest room with a new novel and an old patchwork quilt. One hour after I had put the kids to bed, a glass of ice tea now sat neglected and perspiring on the night stand as I thumbed through the troubles in someone else’s life.
But suddenly, my breath caught. My house was absolutely still yet I knew as sure as the sun was in the sky that my two-and-half-year old daughter had just Hudinied her way out of her crib for the very first time. I knew, too, that she had tiptoed across the playroom with all the stealth of a cat burglar and now stood just outside the door.
She was most likely naked.
I tore my eyes from the text and fixed them on the doorway.
Elizabeth had at least taken the time to accessorize her birthday suit. Her chubby feet were rammed into pink plastic doll shoes and a pink felt purse heavy with rocks dangled from the crook in her arm.
She was so delighted with herself she couldn’t even speak, a grin the size of Texas plastered across her face.
I was simultaneously awed and angered.
How I managed to also be surprised by her newfound skills was beyond me.
After all, everyone had told me that one day my twins would climb out of their cribs.
In fact, in the past year and a half Elizabeth had proven herself a master of undoings. She bested the scientists at both the Britax and Combi companies, learning how to wriggle out of the child restraints in her car seat and stroller. She could open any child safety lock on any interior door so long as it was at eye level. And for kicks, this child unscrewed the lids of various jars in the pantry--jars so tightly sealed by my manwich of a husband that I had to call a locksmith to make a PB&J.
I sighed inwardly. In order to get my child to stay in her room and provide her even a chance at resting, I would have to reverse the locks on her door and lock them from the outside so that she could not escape.
I immediately called Grandpa, our go-to handyman, and within hours the job was done. The only complicating factor, we noted, was that Elizabeth’s bedroom was part of a circular floor plan that linked her space with two bathrooms and a guest room. That meant that five doors total had to be locked in order to keep Elizabeth from exiting her bedroom into the hallway--or entering a bathroom or guest room, all of which provided scary opportunities for a curious toddler.
We would have to be very vigilant to make sure that Elizabeth stayed put.
(William’s bedroom is not part of the circular floor plan; his room is on the opposite side of the catwalk that serves as our playroom. He has only one door which is easy to lock but, of course, he is not the kind of toddler who would ever consider climbing out of his crib.)
That very night, like so many in our household, proved to be inspiration for Barnum and Bailey.
Despite my efforts and that of my mother, who often joins us for bedtime, Thing 1 and Thing 2 leapt out of the bathtub, racing throughout the maze of rooms that make up the second floor. They looped from one room to the next like professional NASCAR drivers, howling as the two grown-ups slammed into one another trying to catch them. Finally, we decided the best strategy was to work together to flush them into the playroom and lock the doors behind us.
Here we go, I thought, as I twisted the springs: One lock. Two. Three. Four. Grandma would turn the fifth when she exited Elizabeth’s bedroom.
With the children finally out in the open we were able to separate them--often the key to diffusing the pre-bedtime bursts of energy--and carry them off to their individual bedrooms.
More than one hour later, my husband and I were relaxing over dinner when we realized Grandma was still upstairs with Elizabeth. It was not uncommon for Memaw to extend bedtime with Elizabeth, as our precocious child had a winning way of convincing even the most structured caregiver to stretch out bedtime.
On the other hand, Grandma was known for snoozing and it was very possible she had fallen asleep in Elizabeth’s bed.
“I’m going up there to get Memaw,” I told my husband.
I trundled up the stairs and decided to peek into Elizabeth’s bedroom via the bathroom so not as to be in her line of vision is indeed she was still awake.
I pushed open the door to the guest room and there was Grandma, perched on the edge of the guest room bed.
“WHERE have you been?” she whispered, “I’ve been locked in up here for an hour! I didn’t want to wake Elizabeth by passing through her room, so I’ve been trying to flag down passing cars through the open window.”
We slide back down the stairs.
“You locked the doors, right?” I asked.
She plopped down at the dinner table, grabbed a dinner roll and nodded affirmatively.
Just then, a door creaked upstairs and a little blonde head poked out.
“I’ll get her,” my husband said.
He reappeared 15 minutes later, triumphant.
“Okay, I got it,” he said, “I made sure all five doors are locked. There is no way she can get out now.”
Overhead something thumped.
We heard a door open and close.
Elizabeth appeared at the stop of the staircase with her rock-filled purse in one hand, that Texas-sized grin sprawling across her face.
“Hey, Daddy,” she whispered, “BOO!”

END++

Quotes from the Playroom

2008-10-04T20:08:00.001-07:00

"Hey, Mom, if my wingspan gets any bigger, I'm going to need new pajamas." -- Elizabeth

Elizabeth refuses to graduate: Kindergarten has been such a hit that Elizabeth does not want to move up to first grade. "Mom," she said last night as she hugged her Lamby in bed, "I definately do not want to go to first grade. They don't have many parades in first grade. In fact, I haven't seen any first grade parades at all. So I think I'm going to do kindergarten again."

Back on the dole: Elizabeth today decided that she's done--DONE--with earning an allowance. The week-long experiment began at her behest. She had been earning 50 cents each Friday for carrying her dishes to the sink, planting her dirty clothes in the hamper and hanging up her bath towel. "I am quitting the allowance," she announced today. "It is much harder than it looks!"

The Benefits of a Tonsilectomy Are Many: William says: "I get to have ice cream all day long! And nothing nutritious at all! For a whole week!"

The Highest of Compliments: We've had tremendous preschool teachers over the past three years but noone, apparently, holds a candle to Mrs. Kindergarten.

"Oh," said William as he climbed into the car after Day #3 of kindergarten, "I love elementary school! And I love Mrs. C! And since I've had four teachers so far, that's saying a lot!"

From Kindergarten to College:

I long ago realized that my children do best when we explain upcoming events to them in detail--repeatedly. They know what to expect and can set aside any fears, going on to joyfully anticipate whatever we're doing.

I employed this theory when it came to kindergarten, of course.

Following the Parents' Open House, I spent an evening describing the exact set-up of Room #202 to Elizabeth. I verbally diagrammed the tiny chairs, the height and length of the lockers, the placement of the computers. I further talked about the other parents I met and re-inacted my conversation with her kindergarten teacher. I even detailed what the teacher was wearing--a chocolate polka-dotted sheath and kitten heels.

Thirty minutes later, I asked Elizabeth if she had any questions. I figured she'd express fears about getting lost or not knowing other kids.

"What I want to know," Elizabeth said, "is this: What's inside a tooth? Is it a solid, a liquid or a gas?"

We love geography: William and Elizabeth were debating the whereabouts of Iceland this afternoon.

Elizabeth: "Where is Iceland?"
William: "It is North."
Elizabeth: "How far North?"
William: "About 13 minutes."

It was a bad day for life-threatening viruses at our house last week. Memaw was talking with Elizabeth about the importance of hand washing. "Oh, yes," said Elizabeth as she scrubbed away, "I don't want to get the mumps or the weasels."

Momma needs to brush up on world leaders: Elizabeth came home from preschool with an Indian bindi beneath her blonde bangs and jingling a series of bangles on her arms. "Mom," she asked, "If Ghandi preached love and peace, why did everyone want to get rid of him?" Despite my liberal arts degree, I had to run to Wikipedia.

Daddy blows a fuse at Wal-Mart: We hear from a good source that Daddy lost it while buying groceries today. (In his defense, we deployed him with a list that included 572 items and two hungry four-year-olds.) Apparently said children were begging for potato chips. Said children continued to pull bags of chips off the shelf and dump them into the grocery cart. After warning said children 200 times to please put back the chips, Daddy grabbed one bag and smashed it's contents to smithereens. He made his point, of course. The downside: The bag popped open, spewing potato-y goodness geyserlike throughout Aisle 4.

Some restaurants need to continue branding: Elizabeth's favorite new eatery is "Crackle Barrels."

Love at first taste: Neither of my kids has ever had soda pop. That changed at a pal's birthday party this weekend when William discovered the joy of Sprite. (This was not my idea. Another little friend careened on a sidewalk and was given some as a distraction from various injuries; of course, everyone else wanted some too.) After taking a sip, he cradled the can in his still-chubby fist and gave us a huge grin. He sipped and sipped and sipped. Children ran off to play atop the huge wooden tree fort at the nearby park; others gathered around a pinata. William didn't budge. He sipped and sipped and sipped. When he was done, he tipped the can upside down, held it above his head and shook it, looking for more. "Can we have Sprite for my birthday?" he asked. Yes, I suppose we can...

REMEMBER THE OLYMPICS? William does. We followed an Audi to school today--the car's trunk features four looped silver circles. "Mom," said Will, "the people ahead of us were in the Olympics!" At that, he began humming the Olympic theme song.

LIBRARIAN IN TRAINING: Also on the way to school today, W & E began debating the nature of tornados. Were they "stuck" to the ground or did they "fly" through the air? "William," said Elizabeth matter-of-factly, "They are in the air and they jump over water. I read it in the nonfiction section of the library."

Christmas quotes:

Grandpa to Elizabeth: "A Hannah Montana doll? Is she from Wyoming?"

Julie to William: "Of course there is a Santa Claus! Who else would drop a 5-pound rainbow-colored lolipop into your stocking before 7 a.m.?"

Elizabeth to Grandparents following a trip to see The Nutcracker: "You better take me to a restaurant that serves healthy food or Mom will fire you."

Proof that I'm getting my money's worth from my children's Christian preschool education:

1. Elizabeth got into the car today and, sniffing, said, "Do I smell frankenscense?"
(When quizzed, she also knew that the three kings brought Jesus gold and mhyrr. She also knew mhyrr is a spice.)

2. Both W. and E. can sing the dreidel song; William knows the rules to the game.

3. Elizabeth's new imaginary friend is named "Nineveh." That's right--she named her pal after the ancient city named in the Bible located in what is now modern-day Iraq.

4. Elizabeth looks at the Harvest moon and says, "Jesus had a bigger star!"

On foreign exchange students:

Our lovely new neighbors have a super-cute foreign exchange student from Germany who played "Snow White" atop our trampoline with four children for what seemed to be two hours. Of course, she is now legendary in our home.

William: "We need a foreign exchange student."
Me: "Where do you want to get one from?"
William: "The foreign exchange student store."

On four-year-old measurements:

Elizabeth is making toast.

E: "William, how much jam do you want?"
W: "Oh, about four pounds."
E: "No problem."

Under the category of Things I Don't Want to Know: Elizabeth informs me that she ate ALL of her fruit salad while perched on the potty pooping.

An Oh-Crap Moment: I went to the kitchen this morning to get myself a drink and I automatically poured the milk into a sippy cup... The children, mind you, were at preschool...

Elizabeth: "Hey, Mom. Will, Dad and I are going to China. You can stay here and take care of the house."

Elizabeth loves the Midwestern fall: "It's a show for my eyes!"

Elizabeth's definition of psychic: "Lucas is my SIDEKICK. He knows things before I say them!"

Under the category of Things I Never Thought I'd Say:
"WHO LEFT THE UNDERPANTS ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER?"

Julie to Jim: "I never thought I'd be in favor of burning books but our school librarian can begin with 'Barbie's First Sleepover.'"

About the Author

2008-10-04T20:08:00.000-07:00

Julie Blair began her professional writing career at the age of 18 at her hometown newspaper, The Niles Daily Star, located in Southwestern Michigan. (She often had to call her mother from the pay phone outside the newsroom to get directions to her assignments, but that's another story.) Since then, she has earned a BA in communications and political science from Hope College in Holland, Michigan and an MSJ from the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University (Evanston, IL). While Julie has written for several national newspapers and magazines, she is most proud of her work as a staff writer for Education Week. Her first book, "Building Bridges With the Press: A Guide for Educators" can be found on Amazon.com. She will begin work as a columnist for the Dallas Morning News in the fall of 2011. In addition, she is working on a travel guide called "Sandcastles and Strawberries: Exploring Michigan with Kids." Julie lives in the Dallas area with her husband Jim, seven-year-old twins William and Elizabeth, and 20-month-old Charlotte.