Hello, It's Tuesday

Hello, are you me?

2008-06-18T23:05:00.001-05:00

"Do I know you?" "I mean, have we met before?" "I don't think so" I answer, pulling my tie-in- the-back robe more securely around me. She squints one eye and bites her bottom lip like one does when she's trying to recall where she might have left something important and then tells me that she will be back in a moment. Before the door has completely shut it opens again and she leans in, hand still on the door handle. "Are you famous?" she asks, eyes wide. "No" I answer in my best I'm not at all flattered voice. "Hmm" she breaths rather defeatedly as she again pulls the door closed. Moments later she returns and apologizes for her false sense of familiarity, "Sorry about that, it's just that I swear I know you from somewhere." I wonder if this is how an amnesiac feels I think to myself, knowing I have never seen this person before in my life.

When I was a kid I dreamt of having a twin. We would have rhyming names and wear coordinating outfits. Her side ponytail would be on the left and mine on the right. All the other kids would want to be us because we would have two of everything. Two trampolines, two playhouses, two pink canopy beds with the little stair steps to help you up to the super fluffy bedding. We would fake out the adults by taking turns skipping out of Sunday school and dentist appointments. Oddly enough, the adults in these scenarios never knew I had a twin. I would always be the good twin and she, the bad. I think I must have based these fantasies on some after school special or Saturday summer movie I saw at the public library, because my only other source of reference would have been Lisa and Leslie, or as I fondly remember them, Tandem Evil.

Lisa and Leslie lived a couple of blocks down from us and I only remember playing with them once or twice. Both times there were incidents. The first was when they blamed their spilled red Kool-aide on the little brother of the other girl who was playing with us. "Who spilled this?" the mother asked. "He did it" Lisa replied with her arm as straight as a fire poker and the tip of her index finger only inches away from the little boys chest. "Uhh hu, he did it" Leslie chimed in, with a tight-lipped nod. It happened so fast, nobody had anytime to react. The mother sighed a pissed off sigh and told us all to go play outside. The second time, I don't remember who the unfortunate victim was only that she was left, whimpering in a half squat, half kneeling position with her long trusses tied to a door knob. Lisa and Leslie laughing their blond heads off as they skipped happily away. I don't remember my reaction to this; I would like to think that I helped the poor girl, or tried to right the injustice by standing up to the two pint sized bullies, but in all reality I was probably what we consider today to be a bystander and only followed the two (for my own protection) down the stairs.

Funny that these, being my real life experiences with twins, I would ever have wanted to be one. But, like I said, in my head, I would be the good one and she would be the evil one. And as it turns out, I do (apparently) have a twin out there. On average the Do I know you scenario happens about once a week. And just this past week twice, at the gym. The gatekeeper at the front swore my member number didn't match the name he typed into the computer. When I asked him to make sure he spelled Hello correctly, he questioned me, "Your last name is Hello?" His typing tempo slowed down considerably and I was just about ready to go into my standard shtick about how I know it's weird and a lot like the Abbott and Costello Who's On First Routine, when he interrupts me with, "No, it's not that, it's just that there's this other member here who looks just like you." "Really, it's crazy how much y'all look alike" he says in a tone that makes me think he's not sure I'm being straight with him.

And then again, a couple of days later, a trainer approaches me in mid crunch to ask me how far I had run. "Oh, I don't run" I replied thinking, erroneously, that she had mistaken my legs for those of a top form sprinter or long distance martyr. "Oh, sorry, I thought you were Jennifer. You two could be twins" she said as she backed up looking around to see where my mirror image could have gone.

So now, I search for her. I go daily and scour the elliptical machines for something that I think I might recognize. I look for traces of myself in the girl working out beside the lockers and then again in the woman on the mat in the back. Will I recognize her if I see her? And what is it that I'll see? Do others see us as we see ourselves? Will I think she's pretty? Will I think she looks young or see her as a thirty eight year old mom type. What exactly is it that we have in common? Is it a specific feature? A smile? Hair color? Or is it more general, a resemblance in our build or carriage?

I've told the gatekeeper to alert me if she's ever there when I'm there. I want to meet her. I want to see if she thinks we look alike. I want to take her to lunch and see if she's the evil one.

Anatomy of a Friendship

2008-06-18T15:50:00.003-05:00

Because, once a year is never enough. It's that time again.

There were no tears at graduation. We were confident that we would keep up with each other and be just as much involved as we had been over the last two years of our lives together. In what seems like the blink of an eye (19 years) we had married, traveled, settled and had children. We had lived thousands of miles apart and at times only a stones throw away from one another. Yet we had never so much as sent a wedding announcement or birth announcement to one another. I had no idea whether we would have remained the same or morphed in ways that would render us unrecognizable.

We found each other a few weeks ago. After sorting through my 'junk mail' I came across the school newsletter. My heart raced as I read the updates of my two best friends from back in the day. They were looking to find us again. It was only minutes before we were on the phone planning our re-connect.

Our friendship was born out of circumstance. In its most embryonic state the ties that would bind us were those of survival. At fifteen and sixteen years of age we were not completely weaned. Still wet behind the ears and on unfamiliar terrain we would need to learn to exist without the proximity of our natural families. I needed someone to provide the essentials for survival... a sense of nurture, belonging and protection. I found these elements in two girls.
To say we liked one another or got along would be too simplistic; we relied on each other. As study partners, counselors, and confidants our friendship grew from a state of necessity to a more evolved state of shared experiences and occasions, now considered memories. We played and partied together, strengthening our bond and discovering cosmic commonalities. Three Scorpios destined to share a sense of humor and an outlook on life. More often than not when reading the 'shout-outs' from other classmates in our yearbook we are referred to as one. A solid unit. "M, C, & S....let's keep in touch." As if we were connected at the hip.

So this past week, with six children among us, we assembled only to discover that we still had more in common than not. I worried that my children would cling to one another or worse yet, to me, unable to make friendship on demand or on such short notice. Amazingly, our children played together in what can only be described as harmony. They collected oodles of doodle bugs, explored, created works of art and conspired in mutual naughtiness. At one point emptying an enormous bowl of popcorn, kernel by kernel on to the living room floor and dancing it into the carpet. With our best mommy faces on we wrangled them to see who was the ring leader. They stood solid, no one would rat out the other.

One by one we departed and soon I was back to my reality. At home, a wife and a mom. A familiar and comfortable environment but with an unidentifiable feeling. It was something I had experienced before-way back in the day-it was homesickness. The feeling will ease and in the meantime we will invent ways to come together again soon.

Who Knew??

2008-06-10T09:15:00.000-05:00

Four girls, a bottle of wine and Mr. Big. That was the game plan for Tuesday night. I knew I would need moral support if Carrie was rejected by him yet again. I was hoping against common sense that they would somehow end happily ever after, I needed them to. After the movie, we decided to go somewhere where we could do what comes naturally after such an event....vent. Four dwindled to three and we sat and talked, no topic untouched. If there had been a soundtrack to that part of the evening it would have been Pussycat Dolls "I Don't Need A Man". But as usual, the conversation turned to us. Three moms, three friends, brought together by the men we did (evidently) need. We all had more in common with Carrie than we had thought. We all had a Big in our lives, yet in the real world, tigers don't change their stripes and men that can't commit, well, they can't commit, at least not to us. So we had all picked another cat that could and while totally satisfied with our choices, we all like to talk about our illustrious pasts. Even though they didn't end the way we thought they might back in the day. And the movie industry feels obligated to tie it all up with a big pink bow in the end, because, we need them to. We needed Carrie and Big to be together in the end. It just looks prettier. The soundtrack to this part of the evening...Pink's "Who Knew".

So as the Husband headed off today for his equivalent of my Tuesday night, I was a little...hmmm, how can I put this delicately??? Pissed. That's right, I said pissed and you want to know why? Well for one, I'm pretty sure that the guys don't sit around and analyze their relationships. In fact, I don't think they discuss their families at all. I know because I've asked. "So, how's so and so's new baby?" "I don't know, we didn't discuss that." Another, I bet they don't spell out their more colorful vocabulary as we do -totally out of effing habit. And thirdly, while it is totally permissible for them to drink hard alcohol diluted only with water and brandish firearms without fear of stigma, we are totally living on the edge as we order another glass of wine to wash down the garden burger we just ate on a single bun. If there is a soundtrack to their night of stink, I bet it's "Just Good Ole Boys" from the Dukes of Hazard.

So, just to make myself feel a bit better, before he left for his overnight boy party of what can only be imagined as farts and lies, I composed a little note and stuffed it into a pair of his boots.

Dear Daddy,
Have fun killing the innocent little birdies tonight. You are our hero. We look up to YOU Daddy. Does this mean Mommy can finally take us to the circus this year?
xoxo
Jacqueline and Salem

Now, not so pissed.

Both of them had hair of gold, like their mother...

2008-06-06T20:23:00.007-05:00

Here's a story, of a lovely lady...

My good friend and padna in crime Sugar Mama is just one of the lovely ladies whose writing is featured in the Mothering Heights Manual for Motherhood.

16

2008-06-02T18:12:00.005-05:00

I see it now like an island I once saw off the deck of a friends house. "Is that an island?" I asked, not sure if I should trust what I thought I was seeing. Then I felt stupid for asking, because, of course, if it were an island, I would have surely seen it before and it wouldn't have just appeared, from nothingness and floated to the surface far out in the waters of the Pacific. It turned out that it was indeed an island and that I simply hadn't noticed it before. That or something had obscured my view of it, the weather, the glare of the sun. Regardless, it existed. It had been there all along, just like my life twenty years ago did. A solid mass of something, floating just far enough out in my memory to make me squint and try and remember if what I'm recalling is real or just something I think I remember. After all, two years of one's life is only a sliver of the whole, nothing that should really amount to much, but it has.

There's a confidence you have when you're sixteen, similar to that of a preschool age child. I can do it by myself, I don't need your help kind of attitude. I'm convinced that it's a necessary stage. That without the bold determination, the veil of forced certitude, we would never experience failure, never venture past the shallow end of the pool. I was no different. I didn't want to stand out. I wanted to blend in. I was just unsure as to how I should go about it, but I figured I would adapt to my new surroundings, just as soon as I figured out where that would be.

We (my parents and I) looked at three schools altogether. The first, a Catholic school, smelled like metal lockers and tile floors. The school admissions felt my education up to this point had been unsatisfactory and I would not meet the standards of my current grade level there. I had never really had to worry about academics before and this completely threw a cog into the equation. Coming from a small town where grade level equals your status, I could not see how it could possibly be in my interest to sacrifice a year of my life for a better education. This would just not do, socially.

The second school was all too familiar. I remember it as brown. Dusty and brown with a more than camplike feel to it. I had been to camp. It was ok, I guess, but I didn't think I could ever feel clean here. Yes, these were my concerns at the time, cleanliness and social stature, even though I would know not a soul. You would think I would have been concerned over, more important things, like the academic offerings, the overall culture of the school or the college preparedness it had to offer, but these things were about as relevant to my sixteen year old mind as an IRA or balanced diet. Quite simply, as long as it was the place I had imagined, the boarding school that existed on Facts of Life and in my mind, I could deal with all the other issues that might come along. At sixteen, image is everything...even in your own mind's eye.

to be continued...

Wondertwin Powers

2008-05-20T06:57:00.005-05:00

I know two moms. They are no ordinary moms. They are the moms of twins. And while I admire these women for their limitless creativity and shake my head in wonder at their mommy technique, I secretly hate them. OK, hate is a bit strong, it's just that moms of twins blow the curve for the rest of us moms of singles. They seem to possess some superhuman quality, a wonder twin power, that makes parenting look effortless and still leaves them with time and energy to write a book or start a new business.

Stephanie Klein, is the author of a new book that is being released today! Moose a memoir of fat camp, is Stephanie's second book and is sure to be a great read. If you're looking for something fun to do tonight, head down to Bookpeople here in Austin for her release party. Leave it to Stephanie to throw a party in the middle of a bookstore, complete with camp food and spiked bug juice. You will become a fan before you even read the first chapter. See the video teaser at the bottom of this page...Hilarious.

Sara Crowe is the owner and mastermind behind a little nugget of genius called GoodyTubes. Imagine opening your door to find a 36 inch tube, chock-full of everything good and fun at your feet. My kids received a GoodyTube from their Aunt Nancy a couple of months ago and had as much fun playing with the jacks, balls and other toys as they did with the tube itself. Candy, gourmet chocolate dipped pretzels and salt and vinegar popcorn were also in the kid themed tubes they received. This is the perfect care package for military personnel or kid away at camp, not to mention a totally memorable corporate gift. Sara is also in the midst of launching a new website, EventsGuaranteed.com. This will be THE go-to site for all your party planning needs. They've covered it all from baby shower ideas to webinars and ebooks on corporate events. The site will be officially launched sometime in July!

Whew, I'm exhausted just writing about all of the things these wondertwin mommies do! You know, if I could just figure out how to bottle their secret power, I just might have something.

Elvis and Eggs

2008-05-13T04:04:00.007-05:00

It's the awesome responsibility of every God fearing, parent on the face of this earth to indoctrinate their children in the music of past generations. Because, all too soon the children will be making song selection on their own and will be overcome with an uncontrollable eye-roll and what looks to be the infliction of physical pain when exposed to your music. So while you still have some control over matters, go ahead and sing at the top of your lungs to Nu Shooz while they are strapped in their carseats, expose them to Bon Jovi in his big hair days, and Stop the World and Melt with them while you dance in your living room to the decade of your choice channel on the television. These are important years, formative years, and your influence will have everything to do with their musical prowess as adults.

My musical education started at an early age. A white plastic record player and Elvis's Greatest Hits LP laid the foundation for all things danceable in the future. And I, to this day, know the words to almost every classic country song on the radio, thanks to the eight hour road trip to Colorado each spring break. The ipod, about as likely as people living on the moon or an electric car! Names like Conway, Buck and Loretta did not even seem ridiculous to me yet. And I still associate station wagons with Charlie Pride to this very day.

So this past Mother's Day, I did my duty and exposed my own children to the King of Rock n Roll. It was an Elvis impersonator, hired to swoon the Mother's Day brunch crowd at a local restaurant. My kids were in awe of him. It's too early to tell, but I'm sure they will have an uncontrollable urge to eat eggs each time they hear Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love.

Teach, your children well.

The Why of Writing

2008-05-06T17:36:00.002-05:00

James Thurber once said, “I never quite know when I’m writing”. Ditto, Mr. Thurber. I get you. Often times I find myself rearranging words in my head while in the midst of a conversation with my five year old on the merits of telling the truth or the definition of ‘tacky’. Don’t forget to write it down, I tell myself, because, the file system in my head, well, it’s jam-packed. And if I don’t write it down, it’s liable to never again see the light of day.

Writing gives me a linear outlet to express myself and my circular maze of logic. Besides, my mental filing system has become outdated since my journey into Mommydum. The “Mommydum” file, wedged in between the “Daughter I’m sure I was” and the” Wife I think I am” files would be totally inaccessible had I not began to blog.

Write what you know. Sure, that’s how it started. I would blog about myself and my family, life, love and relationships. But I soon came to the realization that I was writing to discover meaning in the caveats of these, aforementioned areas. Things that I really had not discovered until the moment I typed them out and reread them to myself. The writing process, at least for me is more about where I end up and most often, it’s a diversion from the path I thought I had been on all along. When I reach my final destination at the end of a post, I look around and think, wow, that was not at all where I thought I would end up. But, and this is the true beauty of it, It’s most always a better place than I had imagined all along. And that, is where the why of writing comes from. Although I may not always know when I’m writing, at least now I realize why.

Love for Sale

2008-04-29T09:36:00.008-05:00

Jewelry says a lot about a woman. It's an outward symbol of confidence and just like a good perfume, it should compliment her, not announce her. Too much and you get fake, brassy and bawdy. Not enough, seems lacking, undecided and afraid. It's a fine balance and most of us have our standby pieces that we wear daily, feeling naked without them. But sometimes accessorizing goes beyond good fashion and gets all tangled up in emotion. Pieces that have special meaning because they were given on a special day. Sentiment made tangible in metal and stone, meant to last forever. But, what if forever didn't quite work out? What's a girl to do with a drawer full of broken dreams and heartbreaks of gold? Oh, cry me a river, because, I am not one of these girls, but I have known them. Girlfriends with engagement rings from almost every guy they ever dated and I'm sure they still have the pieces to prove it.

Leave it to the Internet to solve all your problems. A new website, http://www.exboyfriendjewelry.com/ will sell your once cherished jewelry and you can emotionally purge yourself at the same time by writing about the break-up. Currently 233 rings are for sale with post titles like, "Oops!" or "I'm a serial engager" the stories, at least to me, are entertaining and insightful. Entertaining??? Yes. Entertaining.

There is even a category for "Gifts that should have been jewelry" expensive handbags and designer sunglasses on the emotional auction block. It seems the scorned women can't get rid of this loot fast enough and one woman's desperation becomes another one's bargain.

My one piece of exboyfriend jewelry (a Gucci watch) will not be up for sale on the site. Instead, I pulled it from the sock drawer just a few days ago and took it in for a little refurbishing. After almost twenty years of asylum, I felt it was finally safe for the piece to see the light of day once again. I'm glad I didn't get rid of it in a fit of emotion. Afterall, it's a great piece, and the sentiment is wholly new from my current emotional standpoint. No longer does it remind me of a broken heart or what might have been, that dies away with time and new experiences. It's now just a pretty piece I wear again with confidence.

Once upon a time...

2008-04-22T09:51:00.006-05:00

Once upon a time there were children's books for children. Books about the imagined, the silly, the nonsensical. Literature that engaged and entertained. Stories requested over and over, dog-eared with love. As alive to the children who read them as the Velveteen Rabbit. Today, there are children's books on almost any topic you can imagine, though many of them are taking on issues that are anything but child-friendly. For example, the new children's book about Mommy's Plastic Surgery, entitled, My Beautiful Mommy by Dr. Mihael Salzhauer, a plastic surgeon from Bal Harbour, Florida.

It seems that anyone, and everyone lately has penned themselves as a children's author, parlaying an area of expertise into a cute title, fanciful art and much moola, appealing to the pocketbook of every concerned mom with a potentially troubled kid. But really, come on, does it do anything more than alleviate the concerns of parental anxiety and satiate the obligatory twenty minutes a night of read aloud time? Could it hurt to have actually talked to your child about the issue at hand? And, more importantly (and for the most part overlooked) do the kids even like these books?

The real talent, at least as far as my children are concerned, lies within the mind-pleasing cadence of a Seuss rhyme, the never ending prose of a Sendak sentence and the matter of fact-ness heard in Margarot Wise Brown's wording. It's not so important that they understand the world any better, or that they undesrstand why we even exist at all. It is important though, that they love books.

Brownies

2008-04-18T15:57:00.004-05:00

She says she wants to be a Brownie and I have a pretty strong suspicion why. Afterall, we don't know anyone who belongs to the organization and they don't advertise on Noggin. So my guess is that she's free associating Brownie with chocolate and cookies. Imagining herself as the highest ranking troop member and princess of all things chocolate. What I must remember to tell her, before the first meeting is that... she's wrong. Another, more sadistic side of me wants to let her find out for herself, like I did.

Completely unaware of free will at the tender age of eight and working on the presumption that I could learn to be an outdoorsy type, I did my best to be honest and fair, friendly and helpful, considerate and caring, courageous and strong. Still, I never felt completely comfortable as a Brownie. There was always this feeling of not quite belonging. I wore the uniform, participated in the events, but was still oddly out of place, you know, like a nun playing baseball. I know there where things that I must have liked about the organization, but for the life of me, I can't name even one now. My affiliation earned me props in the local paper at least twice. My Dorothy Hammill haircut preserved for eternity in my scrapbook and the microfiche of the Unger Memorial Library in Plainview, Texas. I even recall the anxiety of going door to door asking total strangers if they would buy a box of cookies, and then taking it much too personally when they said no. To this day, I ALWAYS buy a box of cookies from any girl who asks me.

So, will I sign her up for the local troop this fall? You bet! Will I tell her about my memories of it? On my Honor....I will.

Mom Logic

2008-04-15T06:51:00.006-05:00

The term 'Networking' is so, well, so office-y. I shudder to think of the forced pleasantries and impersonal conversations it connotes. And yet, there are those rare occasions when you bridge the gap. Hit paydirt. Make a real connection. It becomes personal, not business and you end up in a relationship that has less to do with work and everything to do with play.

Meet my new friend http://momlogic.com/ . It's THE PLACE to get the latest on all things parenting, celebrity news, fashion and more. And I'm excited to be part of it. Hello It's Tuesday is now officially affiliated with Mom Logic, a division of Warner Bros.... Hello, Hollywood!

It's like being invited to a sleepover at the popular girl's house, and finding out that you really do like each other!

May I please be excused?

2008-04-04T19:05:00.011-05:00

I am a strong proponent of the after-six white tablecloth rule. No child should be in a restaurant with white tablecloths after six p.m. After all, there are a million other viable options out there. The market is saturated with "Family Friendly" venues, boasting healthy kiddo cuisine at reasonable prices. Some even go so far as to provide an incentive (or as I like to call it-a bargaining chocolate chip.) Since dessert is reserved for birthdays or company dinners at the Hello house, my children relish the idea of sweet treat at the end of a meal out, or rather they expect it as a reward for decent behavior and a mostly eaten meal.

That being said, there have been times, when even at a family sanctioned restaurants, we have offended. Most recently, this past week at the little Italian eatery down the road. And for your inconvenience, I offer the following letter of apology:

Dear Mr. Offended,
I saw the look of terror in your eyes the moment the waitress asked, "Will this be OK?" Really, you could have said, "No, could you please seat us in the love nest next to the kitchen door?" But you said yes. And with that one word, sealed your fate for the next 34 minutes.

Honestly, my three year old knows better than to get out of his chair during a meal. I reprimanded him both times. It's just that he's never heard a cell phone ring to the tune of "Funky Cold Medina" and he thought it was kind of, well, dance-worthy. If your conversation was at all interrupted due to the commotion he caused, I am sorry.

And as for the inappropriately too long stares of my five year old daughter, well, she really did think that your date(?) was beautiful. She even ventured to ask me if, when she got older she could have a tattoo and wear purple lipstick. For the gawking, I apologize.

And lastly, for the ghastly and much too loud announcement, "Mom, I need to poop." I apologize. We have been working on our 'inside voices' now for a while, still obviously not perfected. My apologies.

I hope you were able to enjoy the remainder of your meal after we left. And just so you know, my children thought you were fabulous, even though I wished you'd have been somewhere else, maybe a restaurant with dim lighting and a nice white tablecloth.

Sincerely,
Marcy Hello

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

2008-04-01T15:47:00.004-05:00

It goes like this............ First I hear a 'THUNK' and then an interval of silence. I freeze. Using my finely honed auditory powers I wait for the cry/shriek that is sure to follow. It does. I determine it to be of the 'I'm down' variety. Faster than you can say 'sibling' I spring into action. Down the hall and onto the scene of the crime. To my dismay, there is already a superhero in charge! Not wanting to undermine his authority I step back.

He questions the two parties with all the diplomacy and civility of a child psychologist.

'Did you hit him?'

'Did she hit you?'

'What happened?'

'No daddy....I didn't!'

And then this........

'Tell me the TRUTH'

'I am telling the TRUTH!'

'I'll give you a ....'

But before he can finish his sentence he is ensnared in my telepathic gaze. My message...'So now we are bribing her into telling the truth?????' As he stands there sensing the incoming telepathy, I opportunistically step in to squelch this phenomenon that can only be called Quantum Lying.

It happens in a millisecond. The original lie grows at an exponential rate, mushrooming into a cloud of monolithic proportions.

My interrogation techniques are not sympathetic. There are no NATO guidelines to insure that the culprit is presumed innocent until proven guilty.

'You hurt your brother!'

'Now tell him you're sorry for hurting him and give him a hug!'

And poof, the situation is diffused. As the dust settles and the sky clears, I scan the room for hard evidence to bolster my intuition that I had so quickly acted on. It could have been the solid wooden building block or even the hard plastic red flute that was the weapon of choice. We may never know. I decide that no further investigation is needed.

Case closed. My job here is done. Just another day in the life of a superhero.

Oh what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive! - Sir Walter Scott
"Don't lie or your nose will grow!" - Mom

Hello, Karma

2008-03-24T16:39:00.009-05:00

I can't say that I have a favorite song now. But as a little girl I did. Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head. I know it's an unusual kid pick and that it dates me, but still, it was my all time favorite and I knew all the words. So when I heard it yesterday, I ran into the living room to see where this blast from my past was coming from. It just so happened that it was playing on one of the kiddy channels and my five year old daughter was already center stage.

"This is the greatest song EVER!" she remarked as she twirled around, tittering to a stop in an almost arabesque-like pose. "How do you know it already?" she asked, astonished. "Well, that was my favorite song when I was your age" I said. "I thought so" she stated serendipitously "I'm the same as you".

It was a warm and fuzzy moment. Then, like a needle screeching across a record, it was interrupted. If we are the same, I thought to myself, I'm in for it. I should have named her Karma.

Just to clarify, I'm an optimist. So why does Karma have such a bitter taste when it rolls off my tongue? After all, I've done my share of good deeds. But still, it's the seedier traits that are seeming to take root - and at an early age.

She's already started to lie, a craft I perfected during my teenage years. I got my first taste of it just days earlier when I was frantically looking for my wedding ring. "Jacqueline, have you seen Mommy's ring?" "Well, maybe" she replied. She's learning, I thought. Just months earlier she had answered, "It's not in my ballerina jewelry box", blowing it all together. A rookie mistake.

The scheming has begun also. "OK, when she's not looking we'll sneak a cupcake and hide it under the bed, OK Salem?" she whispers in her brother's ear "Yeah, hide it." "Shhhhh...just talk normal, here she comes."

Is it possible that I'm using up my bad Karma first? That must be it. Whew, I was worried there for a moment. I'm sure by the time she's sixteen my Karmic retribution will have been exacted - leaving only the good. Karma Hello. It's kind of catchy!

See, I told you I was an optimist.

Shoe in the Road

2008-03-12T17:23:00.007-05:00

On a day like today and like yesterday too
Marcy Hello saw another lost shoe

It lay there alone without its sole mate
She thought a size ten - perhaps maybe an eight

On the side of the road or the middle sometimes
They're easy to spot, not hard to find
They're everywhere, anywhere all of the time
Shoes of all makes, all sorts and all kinds

She saw one today and yesterday two
She sees them most days
If you look, so will you!

There must be a story
There just has to be
Shoes don't just fly off ones feet to be free

Shoes don't belong on the side of the road
They should be on feet, that's what she'd been told

And then a small voice from in-side her head
piped up and she listened to what the voice said

There must be some meaning to why this is this
There must be some reason for this to exist

So THINK
Use your noggin
That's what you do best
You must find the meaning
There's no time for rest

Her mind started ticking
A retort must be found
As to why these stray shoes lay alone on the ground

So she asked the one person
She thought might just know
Of course he thinks like me
He's my mate of soul

But as soon as the words left her lips-hit the air
He rolled his eyes 'round and then paused in mid stare

Why do you always think

There has to be more?
It's like what I've told you

And told you before

You dig for something that's nothing at all
You look for meaning in things big and small

You women need answers when there really are none
It's too much to handle
It ruins all the fun

A shoe's just a shoe
There's no story to be told
A shoe's just a shoe on the side of the road

Quit wondering and guessing
Don't analyze so
There's no time for this
I have to go

At first she was hurt that he didn't much care
She started to argue then out of thin air
A notion emerged-she clung to it tight
The shoe did have meaning
She knew she was right

Just because I like him
Well, most of the time
We're nothing alike inside of our minds

A shoe is to foot as a man is to chair
But women all know there's more meaning out there

The Ides of March

2008-03-11T22:32:00.001-05:00

It's one of those phrases that I always saw on bulletin boards in grade school, but was never quite sure what was really meant....The Ides of March. Really, it shouldn't have intimidated me so, it is, after all just a day. The 15th day, to be precise and nothing really spectacular to warrant a 14th century phrase. Except for the fact that there is some UBER Dazzling jewelry to be gained from it, and what woman doesn't need that on a just another middle of the month day? A little bling here and there could be just the thing to get you through the next fifteen days of March!

Anyone who can create beauty like this deserves to be sainted. See for yourself and enter for your chance to win one of Liz Santucci's original designs.

http://uberchik.blogspot.com/

In the Bag

2008-03-11T14:52:00.001-05:00

Every mom has a bag of tricks. It's the one accessory she would never leave the house without because in it are the essentials for survival. I fancy mine to be a Hermes-classic in style, hand-crafted to withstand the rigors of everyday use. It seemed a bit over sized when the kids were babies, because really, you just don't need that many gimmicks to get by those first couple of years.

But as my kids grow, so does their willpower and with it the contents of my bag-at an alarming rate. When I find a trick that works well, I tend to use it until the newness wears off. This, I'm finding out is not best practice, because once a trick is used up, you must find another to replace it with. My daughter no longer believes that if she eats all her broccoli, her eyes will shine like a pony and my son has dismissed the idea that superheroes indeed take naps.

On occasion I've borrowed [stolen] tricks from others. The poop monster is alive and well and has my daughter flushing the potty on a consistent basis these days. I've not witnessed a floater since I fleeced him from my good friend and co-momma Cynthia. And I still can't believe this jig works, but it does. When it's clean-up time and my pleas for help are as impotent as a Charles Schultz adult character, I reach deep into the bag until I feel her jeweled crown and ermine cloak. Yes, the Queen Mum herself beseeches her subjects to make tidy the royal palace. Her subjects, not wanting to displease the Queen, work fervently to stay in her good graces.

I carry my bag with confidence these days, who knows, maybe in a couple of years I can downsize to something a little less bulky. But for now, bigger is better.

The Party Favor

2008-03-04T16:48:00.002-06:00

It's occurring to me, with each milestone of Mommydum, that I live in the moment. Really, it's just almost impossible not to. Keeping up with the day-to-day goings on and trying to stay on top of the business of growing children leaves little time (or energy) for retrospection or future mapping. Of course, I have the obligatory baby books, which I cram full of artwork, well-check updates and class pictures. I also dutifully contribute to the college savings fund; (or as in my half Lebanese daughters case, the 'Eyebrow Waxing Fund', whichever proves most beneficial at her eighteenth birthday). But still, I have this gnawing feeling that I'm forgetting the here and now, even as I am experiencing it.

There's always a trace of truth in sayings that have become commonplace. Things like, Don't look a gift horse in the mouth or They grow up so fast. Sometimes they don't impact you until you hear them in just the right context or time in your life.

When my first was still in infancy, I would mentally roll my eyes each time I heard it. Surely they had no idea what I was going through, I thought. The long sleepless nights, the frustration and constant search for the perfect soothing method, the seemingly endless days of diaper changes and spit-up stains. Time was definitely not zipping by, in fact, it had slowed to a snails pace with each day oozing into the next.

As a mother of toddlers, I became accustomed to hearing the words, "Kids these days" or some variation of it....."I don't remember you acting that way".....blah blah blah. As if children today where completely unrelated creatures to those of us who grew up in the previous generation and time had mercurially leaped forward, leaving in its wake a generation of heathens. Did she truly not remember the endless bickering and constant whining? She said it so convincingly, I too began to wonder if it had at all happened.

But, as my three year old started his first day of preschool last week, wearing his 'big boy underwear' it dawned on me that time had indeed flown by. Gone are the days of diaper changing and bottle making. And in the blink of an eye, I am entering a new dimension. It's as if becoming a mom has somehow changed the very essence of time. It no longer follows any logical pattern. It's slippery in substance, bittersweet in taste.

I choose to look at it as Gods little party favor. As I turn to leave the 'Baby Party' that seemed as if it would never end; I am handed a neat little package. Its contents are the moments in time that defined an era, first smiles, words and walking. The editing room floor strewn with those frames that didn't make the cut. And my mind, trying in vain to grasp, the ever evolving definition of time.

t.b.d.

2008-02-26T13:21:00.002-06:00

A couple of days ago I was shopping alone-an anomaly that occurs about as often as a lunar eclipse in my world-when I decided that I should check out the juniors department at Nordstroms. I was having no luck finding just the right thing in the womens, so I casually sauntered into the jungle called juniors, and with as much confidence as I could muster, selected a few items to try on. Only after I had played my own version of 'Name That Tune' trying in vain to determine if I knew the song that was blasting in this albatross [I didn't] did I turn to look at the outfit I had so carefully selected. "HOLY CRAP! I look like Cyndi Lauper and Betsy Johnson rolled into one."

On the way out I decided to try on some jeans in the middle section of the store. When a friendly Nordbot came to my aid to start a fitting room I questioned her about the lower case letters (t.b.d.) above the section we were in. In an almost inaudible whisper she said, "to be determined." Though spoken softly, these words hit me with a force akin to an open handed thud to the forehead. "Oh", I manged to say, "like not juniors but not womens?" "Exactly!" she said. What I thought was this............Why don't they just call it what it is......PURGATORY!

I'm not so naive to think that I can still shop in juniors, yet sometimes I will still face a bit of humiliation and save fifteen bucks on a tank that looks the same as the higher priced version who lives in the more civilized neighborhood of the womens dept.

Another similar experience happened just a couple of weeks ago at a store called Hollister. I believe it to be the bastard child of Abercrombie & Fitch. Anyhow, I was navigating my way through the dank, dark store with my two kids in tow when a young sales-dude (he was by no means yet a man) asked me if I was from Georgetown.

"No-why-do I look familiar?"
"Oh, woww....it's just that you look just like my friend's mom."

Ok. I get it.

It's not 'to be determined'.......it's more like.....It has been determined.

Ok, Ok, I get it.

Sans Mom

2008-02-19T20:24:00.001-06:00

According to my second favorite news source (E! News holding the #1 position-embarrassingly enough) Yahoo News reports that a new reality show is in production. It seems we as a society just can't quench our desire to lurk into the lives of total strangers. The reality shows fill a void the soap operas can't, adding a new dimension-the This could happen to you element. And there is very little grey area within the world of reality TV. People's lives are either a train wreck or fabulous beyond your wildest dreams. Strangely enough, I'm more apt to tune in to those who's lives are in ruin or have some element of tragedy coursing throughout. I guess on some unconscious level I gain a sense of satisfaction when I see just what a curse all that fame, fortune and beauty can be.

I'm betting that this is precisely what the producers of this new series are hoping to hone in on. The show chronicles the lives of the men and children left to survive on their own when the entire population of women leave. Yes, they send all of the women off (to a resort) and watch to see what happens when men are left to deal with the children entirely sans mamma!

I've never left my children alone with the husband for more than 3 or 4 days, but feel that that's ample time to gain at least a glimpse of what will take place in the show, and in reality, it makes for a better comedy than any other genre.

I'm fortunate, The Husband has always played a very active parenting role. In fact, he took on night duty when our first was only weeks old, since I was going back to work and had to be up by 5:00am. He also dressed and hauled both children to daycare each morning without any assistance from Moi. So I really never doubted his abilities when I did have to leave them alone for more than a couple of days. I was confident that things would be just fine, and they were.

As a teacher, I could always tell when Mom was out of town. Little girls would show up to class with twist ties in place of ponytail holders or clothespins in lieu of barrettes. And while this may not have been in the best interest of fashion, it seemed practical. Ahhh.....good ol' male practicality...entire industries have been built on this quality.

So, on the day I picked my kids up from daycare and my son was wearing his footed pajamas backwards, I just reminded myself (and the caregivers) that Daddy dresses them in the morning and on his behalf, added that it was probably still dark when he did. And again, when I received my daughter's school pictures and hardly recognized her due to the lack of attention The Husband gave her hair in their morning routine (it wasn't that big of a deal, all things considered, she had been dressed, fed and properly kissed goodbye) I shrugged it off and tucked the pictures away in desk drawer. And so what if my house reeked of bacon and my children's new favorite food was now hot dogs cooked in the fireplace when I returned from a weekend away.

The reality of it is, they can survive on their own. They may appear a little less coiffed and the house may have a slightly less appealing aroma than when you left, but, for all practical purposes, things will be just fine.

I'm betting that this new show doesn't make it. Not because it's not a tantalizing topic, but because it's just not tragic enough. Besides, He's usually in charge of the remote control and I'm guessing that he'll just flip right by this one.

That's reality.

Domestic Diva...in training

2008-02-12T17:05:00.003-06:00

I've always admired those women who could remove a purple popsicle stain with sparkling water or vanish gum from the carpet using only a sliver of ice and a hot iron. These are the same women who know how to use a label maker and have their spice rack alphabetized. Martha Stewart, the Grand Mamma Jamma of this realm and Heloise, the antiquated version, can make even the most tedious tasks look simple and even fun!

I, on the other hand, have always viewed myself as more of a 'Bring home the bacon...fry it up in a pan...' kind of gal. Until the other day, when I lugged out my ironing board in order to save a trip to the dry cleaners, my daughter, staring with wonder, at the rickety contraption asked, "Mommy, are we having a rummage sale?"

"Uhhh.. No, why? And where did you hear that?"

"From Max & Ruby." she replied. I realized she had no more idea what to do with an ironing board than I would have with a scalpel.

Another time she twirled and whirled through the dust that was streaming in through the sunlit window declaring to all the world that she had discovered 'Fairy Dust!' It was at this moment I realized that I was leading my daughter down the slippery slope to domestic ignorance.

It's not due to a lack of education on my part either. My mother, who I believe to have at least a master's level of education in the Domestic Arts (D.A.) gave me ample schooling as a youngster. I've heard her lament on how she could have done more to teach us better technique in the fine arts of dusting or dishwasher loading, but to her credit, she was an excellent instructor and did the best she could with the pupils in her charge (me and my younger sister). To her worries of failure I say, "Pashaw!"

My sister is no domestic slouch. She owns books on the subjects of stain removal and organizational awareness. She has taken it upon herself to further her education...a sort of self imposed, self taught, learn at your own pace type of schooling. She too, is probably now at the master's level in the Domestic Arts. Somewhere between high school and now, my education came to a screeching halt. I hold, what I imagine to be a junior college degree in this area. Enough to get by in the real world but never enough to impress.

So, inspired by a girlfriend who holds 'boot camps' for everything from 'Ice-cream Licking' to 'Stair Climbing', I have decided to implement my own training program. My children will begin their training starting yesterday! It's a rigorous, fast paced curriculum, not for the faint hearted or lackadaisical child. The program entails several pre-requisite courses...Bathtub Toy Tidy, Napkin Folding 101, and The Science of Sock Matching. After these subjects are mastered, we can move on to more sophomoric, philosophical studies such as...Bed-Making Technique, and Vacuuming Without Guilt. My son will receive the same, (in my house gender bending is the rule, not the exception).

So far, my daughter's only plea is that she must wear her tiara while she toils. I decided that this would be OK. In fact, I tried it myself! It's like the Mary Poppinish saying, "Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.." Plus it makes for a much more pleasant picture of domesticity.

Old School Barbie

2008-02-05T16:40:00.001-06:00

I was chatting with a girlfriend yesterday and she is telling me about this Barbie her son picked out for a little girlfriend of his as a birthday present.

"Have you seen that Barbie that has a dog that poops?" she asks.

"Oh, yeah I saw a commercial for it...I don't get it."

"Well, that's what he picked out for her."

My curiosity was piqued. I thought I remembered Mattel jumping on the Women's Lib bandwagon a few years ago-waving banners about body perception and positive self image. Had they fallen off the wagon or was this their lame attempt to portray Barbie as a Liberated Woman-able to pick up dog crap all on her own?

I had to get to the bottom of this. To investigate, I went to the Barbie.com website, where I was instructed to 'Think Pink' as I waited for the download of information to come into view. Waiting patiently, tapping my unmanicured nails, I think back to the Barbies my sister and I played with 'back in the day'. The buxom, silky haired gals who were up for anything...skinny dipping in the bathroom sink, cruising topless (and sometimetimes bottomless-no embarrassing bikini line to worry about) in their cherry red Corvette convertible, or just hanging out at the townhome.

They were always barefoot because #1. their shoes (a chocking hazard) disappeared five seconds after they had been ripped from their plastic boxes and #2. my sister always chewed the dolls' feet, making it impossible to ever fit a pair of Go-Go boots on them again.

Ding-Download complete. I am now entering Barbie.com. A world...allbeit fictional, where any young girl (and some young boys) can be "...whatever they want to be!" I was dissapointed - scratch that- I was HORRIFIED at what I saw as I clicked away in this Pepto-Bismol cyberland. Mothers of young girls (and some boys) everywhere, LISTEN UP!.....This is what the Toy Gods out there are deeming acceptable.

Click-The "I can be...Barbie" No, I didn't say the I can be Barbie. Notice the three innocent dot, dot, dots following the word be. These dots may seem insignificant but they are not. They are a gentle reminder to wait, use your imagination....think of all the possibilites, kind if dots. If it would have been I can be Barbie without the dots, don't you know there would be a cyber meltdown occuring? Women everywhere clicking away with wild abandon! Anyway, so the "I can be... Barbie" page pops into view. Guess what ladies? You can be a photographer, an art teacher or even a pet sitter!!! Thank God I didn't toil away during my college years, foregoing that fraternity kegger, trying to boost my G.P.A. another couple of points, so that I could embark on one of these, "Real Life Careers".

Click-Next it's the "Bride and Groom Barbie". You can choose a black groom or a white groom. Wow! Barbie's parents are librals! Barbie is all aglow for this '...fairy-tale occassion, complete with a light up engagement ring.' A little gaudy in my opinion. Is the groom Barbie at all realistic? No. He doesn't have a clickety mechanical button on his back to make farting noises or excuses like, 'Oh, sorry Barbie, I didn't think you where in the room.'

Click-The "I Heart Pets Barbie" This is the one with the dog who really poops. At least she's equiped with a pooper scooper and isn't chasing around with a platic bag. But wait......where is Ken??? Isn't he the gallant knight that should be retrieving this steamy mess as a grand gesture of love? Oh yeah, I forgot, Ken's gay. Why else do you think they had to create the Groom Barbie? I mean Barbie and Ken dated forever and he just couldn't committ. He obviously had issues.

Click Click- There are "Chat Diva Barbies" who can lipsynch- wait are you ready for this-three different songs! And I'm willing to bet that one of them is by Brittany Spears. And hold on to your hats ladies because she also knows how to answer her phone!!!!! Hey Barbie, why don't you try doing that while you cook dinner, change a diaper and balance your checkbook simultaneously? Hmmm...betcha can't!

Click-And I can't hardly find the strength to go on...but...there are the "Pom-Pom Diva Barbies". "...flipping through the air to land on each other's shoulders...with glittery uniforms flashing these Fly Girls [trade-marked] really know how to put on a show!" Good gravey!-what's next? Stripper Barbie with a cool metalic pole?

Oh, please, (and forgive me if I sound too whiney) but I know many a women out there who are Barbies. I'm talking about the old school Barbies like my sister and I played with back in the day. The kind of gals who didn't have the media crammed down their ultra taut throats. They were naked-in a sense. Deciding on their own who they would be and what they would do. I know this because they are my friends...writers, lawyers, educators, business owners, and moms. These are the true Barbies of the real world.

By the way, my girlfirend..I'll just call her Barbie for now, took the doll back.

Part Time Model

2008-01-22T17:20:00.002-06:00

He flashed her one of his killer smiles, his upper lip slightly higher on one side, exposing an almost imperceptible chip in his perfectly aligned front teeth. Then, with a subtleness that would leave her wondering if it had really happened, he winked one long lashed eye, before turning to grasp the hand of the woman he had come in with.

Flirting wasn't part of his vocabulary, at least not yet. There was no ulterior motive behind his actions, after all, he would never leave the woman he was with. It was charm. Not that he possessed, but that possessed him. He was born with it and it exuded him like an expensive perfume - just enough to scintillate the senses but never overpowering. A lingering sensation that he was altogether unaware of.

She hadn't noticed the woman following them as she held his hand tight, weaving their way around the racks of clothing and into the shoe department.

"What's your name?" she asked in a syrupy kind of voice as she sidled up beside the two of them.

"I'm Salem" he responded offering a hand in greeting as he gazed up to her with eyes of molten chocolate.

"He's just so cute!" she exclaimed.

"Thank you " she answered with a tight lipped smile, as if she were responsible for it all.

"Would you consider letting him model in our fashion show?"

And so, this is how he (my mini man of two) became a part-time (or possible one time) model.

We shall see how the story ends. It's this Saturday at Nordstrom if you care to see him strut his stuff.

Charm may only get you so far in life, but so far, it's getting me 15% off in the children's department this Saturday morning!

Lucky Duck

2008-01-15T16:56:00.001-06:00

He was anticipating my return, waiting at the door with an expression I couldn't quite decipher. Pride? Excitement? Yes and yes.

"Look Hun...won't these look great here?!

The these that he was referring to are two mounted ducks and the here he directs my stunned gaze to is the front wall of our formal living room.

"Ok...well...maybe...but....", I stammer, trying not to verbally paint myself into a corner.

The ducks had met with their untimely death last fall during a weekend of coastal hunting. They had been recovered, cleaned and stuffed by an expert taxidermist and they now sat perched on pieces of driftwood; their cold glass eyes staring at me without feeling.

"Don't you think maybe they might look more...uh...ummm...appropriate at your office or even the deer lease?" I ask trying to sound encouraging without being too pushy.

"No, they would never last there. It's too hot and dusty."

"But they're already DEAD sweetie- they can't suffer anymore," I say in my most empathetic voice.

I could tell by his deflated body language that was disappointed, maybe even a little hurt by my recommendation. This discussion was taking on the tune of a bad country song with a title something like...My Wife Is Gone But My Ducks Ain't...or...This Ain't Duckin' Fair! I didn't feel good about moving in for the kill when he seemed so vulnerable, but it had to be done. I had to finish the job. Like a hunter putting a wounded animal out of its' misery.

"I really, really, REALLY don't want those hanging in here-they just don't go with the rest of the decor." There, I had administered the lethal dose that would put this discussion to rest with all the swiftness and precision of a sharp shooter. A twinge of guilt bubbled up inside me. I am no friend of PETA. I don't condemn hunting, fishing or circus trainers. I'm more than a little proud to carry a leather handbag and adore the supple, hand-tooled leather on a pair of Michael Kors peep-toe pumps. But these unfortunate fowl with their fixed expressions do nothing to stimulate my artistic senses. Especially here, in the formal living area of my abode.

In my dream house, I would have a special room built just for him. He could do as he pleased there in his sanctuary of testosterone. I imagine that there would be pieces and parts of once living creatures crowding the walls. Trophies brought back from great hunting expeditions, lit by flashing red neon. A pool table centered under a Budweiser-Clydesdale themed light fixture and a urinal in the corner for convenience sake. Vintage Smokey and the Bandit posters will give a visual to the Jerry Reed theme song on continuous play blasting from the coin-operated jukebox on the opposing wall. And a 10 inch thick security door installed to contain the smell of a deep fryer, preventing this and other offensive odors from permeating the rest of the house.

But at the moment, this dream house is a pipe dream. So we do what we must to ensure the future of our 22,995 (but who's counting) days of marriage. We compromise. Our feathered friends will reside at his office and I will keep the title of Interior Decorator. In return for his sacrifice, he is granted unlimited excursions to his make-shift sanctuary of testosterone. He may take his weekly sojourns to Dodge City with his buddies at his leisure. All the while, collecting more relics to one-day adorn the walls of his sanctuary.

The sport of compromise must be practiced and concessions have to be made for a relationship to endure. In this aspect, I am one lucky duck.

Slippin' Away

2008-01-08T11:33:00.001-06:00

Oh no, it's happening again. She shakes her head and refocuses on the task at hand. Just finish making the bed, pick up the dirty socks in the corner and oh yeah, don' t forget to set out the chicken to thaw. Bed, socks, chicken...bed, socks, chicken...bed socks, chicken, She repeats out loud to herself. But the voices come again. This time louder and even more saccharine. There's an animal in trouble...We just got a letter....We're going on a trip in our favorite rocket ship...La,la,la la...la,la,la,la..Elmo's World..." Like an experienced diabetic who recognizes the onset of an impending sugar crash, she self diagnoses. A quick check to make sure the TV is off and the children are occupied with crayons and hot wheels reassures her diagnosis. Yep, auditory hallucinations. A sure sign that she is beginning to slip.

In the beginning she thought she might really be loosing it. Terms like clinical and certifiable popped into her head. During the first few weeks of her newborns life she had kept the bedside monitor on the highest setting. She would be Johnny-on-the-Spot if she so much as heard a whimper or unusual interval of breathing; not to mention the stocking-masked cat burglars that where surely out there, ready to snatch the adorable baby and hold her for ransom or sell her on the black market.

She finally came to her senses and begin to trust her 'motherly instincts'. She had read the books during pregnancy, but never really believed that she herself would develop these instincts. She needed proof, something tangible, to reassures her that she was capable of keeping her newborn safe outside the womb. She had yet to realize that the tingly, electrical charge that surged through her body (making her milk come in) was the physical manifestation.

She had asked her own mother, just days after the birth, "I feel so scattered and forgetful, when will I get back to feeling like myself? When will the postpartum symptoms go away?" "You won't ever feel like yourself again-not completely. This is the new you. You get used to it." her mother answered. Now, a mere four years as her new self, she was beginning to accept and recognize the life she was living.

Even the most rewarding and sought after careers have their drawbacks, occupational hazards, and creative burnout, recognized, diagnosed and treated by mental health gurus without stigma or fear of demotion. Major coorperations budget millions to study the direct correlation of productivity and the emotional balance of their employees. Hours, days, even weeks are set aside as necessary 'days-off' to ensure the mental and emotional fitness of a valued employee.

She left the shower running and grabbed a towel as she sprinted across the tile floor. She was sure that the "MOMMMMMY...!!!" cry for help she had heard was real. She envisioned a bloody lip or overturn piece of furniture. But as she stood there wide eyed and dripping, all she observed were two pair of deep-set eyes, without a trace of pain or suffering, smiling up at her.

All was quite on the home-front so she returned to rinse the shampoo from her hair. Great, now I've got the visual hallucinations to accompany me on my little trip into dementia! She thought.

She quickly scribbled a mental prescription for herself as she finished her morning routine: One day of self-directed therapy to be taken ASAP. No Harvard educated psychoanalyst needed. She knew the correct dosage required to bring her back to "sane". She fancied herself sitting at a linen draped table, chilled glass of chardonnay in hand. She would finish the chapter she was reading and lay the book to rest so that she could make astute observations of other patrons. Listening in on the details of last night's date or who was sleeping with who at the office.

No, too extravagant. She could feel the phantom pains of the severed emotional umbilical cord. She mentally scratched out the Rx and wrote out a new one: Physical therapy in the form of Retail Aerobics followed by a Cool Down of Cinematic Appreciation.

She could already feel the lunacy subsiding and the 'normal' drifting back into focus as she planned her upcoming day of treatment.

Shooting Stars

2007-12-18T10:47:00.001-06:00

Of course I prayed for a healthy baby - I told myself and others it didn't matter if it was a boy or a girl. And I might have believed it myself if there hadn't been that incident (ok, maybe it was more deliberate than that) of the star.

While I couldn't bring myself to say it aloud, I wanted a girl in the worst way. My mind filled with fluffy pink, sugar and spice, ballerina thoughts without conscious effort and I had to make sincere attempts to banish them each time I became aware. It didn't seem right to pray in such specivity. In fact, it seemed downright bossy-and who was I to tell the Creator that he better get it right? However, I had no problem with sending up a wish.

By nature, a wish is designed to be taken less seriously than a prayer. Maybe because the granter of wishes is enigmatic like the Wizard of Oz and nobody is really sure if he exists or not. Or maybe because the wisher has a sense of annonimitty that she doesn't have in the more sacred and organized arena of prayer, giving her liberaty to be undaunted or even extravagant in the wish. By the way, and I think this is the genius of the wish system... You know how when you were little and told to make a wish and then instructed to keep it a seceret or it wouldn't come true? Well, this one little clause (the oath of secrecy) was designed with the intention of ensuring the existence of the system- the Wish System that is. Can you imagine the crushing blow felt by the 5 year old who rattels on about her wish for a pink unicorn only to be patronized by the adults in attendance at her party? She would lose faith in her wish the instant the first "Ohhhh how cute" was snickered. Her wish would somehow start to seem ridiculous and impossible and she would either learn right then and there that she should never-ever share her wish aloud - or just give up on the wish system entirely. Keeping the wish a seceret = guarded faith.

I myself didn't have a strong appreciation for the Wish System since I had sent up orders for a horse on approximately 9 seperate occasions, extinguishing a total of 90 birthday candles from the ages of six to fourteen and was never graced with the the carmel colored pony with flowing blond mane and braided tail, tied with a pink satin ribbon. And yes, the night I wished on a star for a girl, my demands were even higher.

Besides wishing for a girl, I wished for a certain kind of girl, having mostly to do with her personality. As I've mentioned, I've always been curious as to how much of who we are is pre-determined and how much is based on influence. Not wanting to chance either side of the coin, I sent up a hefty wish just in case either one of the two determining factors would not prove satisfactory.

She would need:

a strong will and an unwavering ability to believe in her convictions

a determination about herself and her abilities

a strong mind, able to reason, see others' points of view and come to her own conclusions

(and for good measure)-why not-a grace about her, a femininity to soften the edges of the aforementiond traits.

There was no doubt that I wanted a girly girl, but felt, that alone, would be a dangerous wish if not combined with the more practical elements designed to give her the umph she needed to succeed in the world. Sappy, I know, the whole idea of it reaks of poorly worded sentiments on not even Hallmark worthy cards. But no one would be the wiser, I told myself, since I understood the importance of the secrecy clause and had already finilized and sent the wish on its way. My secret was safe with the stars-or so I thought.

On the eve of her arrival, I was packed, set and ready. Even though the doctor had told me that 'Nothing was going on' only hours earlier. I was sure this had to be IT. When The Husband walked through the front door, I would be there to greet him, bags and carseat in tow, ready to roll.

"We have to run out to the new house to set out the markers for the trees that are gonna be planted tomorrow. Do you think we have time?" he asked.

"I don't know, I've never done this before " I said as I lost count of the seconds until the next contraction would begin.

Somehow this answer seemed satisfactory to him and so we drove in the dark to the vacant house that we were to move into in the next two days.

"Do you want to come with me - do you have an opinion about where they are planted?" he asked.

No.

No opinion, or no you don't want to come with me?

"Just NO", I said, keeping my eyes on the minute hand of my watch.

The thoughts that were going through my head made little sense at the time. Tomorrow was only a sunrise away and the irony of my labor day and my arbor day occuring simutaneously was not lost on me. I remembered reading about cultures that would plant the placenta with a tree to celebrate the birth of a child and provide nutrients to the newly planted tree. Hmmm, maybe not for me.

My parents pulled out of their driveway 650 miles north and drove - faster than the law would allow through the Texas night. The darkness illuminated by distant farm houses outlined in Christmas lights and tractors set aglow with running twinkle lights.

They might have made it in time for the actual birth had they not been pulled over by a highway patrolman for speeding. But all things happen for a reason - because it was at this exact moment, a star decided to shoot across the sky.

It's not clear if my mom took this as a sign or just happenstance, that her grandaughter had been born at that same moment. Regardless, she told me about it 45 minutes later when they arrived at the hospital.

It's taken almost five years, but as the branches of her personality emerge and her roots take hold, I'm starting to gain a respect I was lacking in the Wish System.

We just removed the steel posts and wires that held the newly (almost 5 years ago) planted trees. Someone told us that it was the swaying in the wind that would help a tree to develop its strength. We had been afraid if removed too early, the tree would not grow straight, or worse be broken by the wind. The trees still need our care, but they are stalwart, confident about the direction of their growth. They have a strength about them, a strength that will only gain in momentum from being allowed to sway in the wind.

Miss Preconceptions

2007-11-06T11:19:00.001-06:00

This started out as an admission, but has festered into something more like a confession. A way to absolve myself mentally and spiritually of impure thoughts. I consider myself an open-minded, accepting individual. No, "I pride myself", would be more accurate. Hell, I was a sociology major with a minor in psychology. How much more dare I say? I like to read and watch about other cultures, lifestyles, belief systems; a mental, cultural anthropologist of sorts, digging away to uncover the truths of humanbeing'ness'. What factors in to the who we are and how we interact on a daily basis makes us us. Yes, that's what keeps the gerbils spinning in this rattle-trap, third voice mind of mine. It's almost a sport. I challange myself with the, "I know what and why you're thinking" imagined sixth sense. A spirituality of sorts. Really, and most probably, it's just a basic voyeuristic obssesion I have that provides the stimulation needed to sustain myself. Me. An average being.

But-it doesn't matter (I'm begining to discover) how much worldy experience you've attained, no amount of education (be it formal or organic) people are prone to develop stereotypes. Even if you [they] are trained not to. Sometimes my dad would say, "We've bought you too much education." when I would come home from school spouting my ideas and new-found worldliness. I was testing the waters; checking to see if I could still touch the bottom before removing the floaties and remain buoyant in my pool of new found philosophies of life. My superfluvious state of mind churning away (believing my rationalizations were more solid than gasious thanks to note cards and rote memorization). He would say something like, "Well, that may work for them, but it's not how it is here." As a parent, he could see my ideas for what they were, sanctimonious attempts at relating to others with no real-world experience to back it up. A mirage I was staggering towards, just in my line of sight, but never reachable. I dismissed his opinions as closed-minded and resumed my life as an observer and student of others.

Four nights ago, I premade my coffee and set it to brew at exactly 7:00am. I also set the alarm clock for 7:00am (a function I had hoped to express from memory after many, too many mornings waking at 5:00am). But it was the eminate news I was needing. The others' point of view uninterupted by cries and diaper changes, food for thought for the gerbils I had created, spinning tirelessly in my melon. The voyeur craving subject matter (and some time alone-an oxymoron-Planned Liesure).

I sipped in silence, as the rest of my family lay in slumber. My caffiene giving me the jolt needed to comprhend the images and auditory production considered newsworthy. I would satiate the gerbils and they could take the day off as I went through the remainder of my day, swim class, the video store, scheduling well checks and so on... But then, a human interest story stops the gerbils in mid spin. A woman, Michelle and her husband, Jim Bob, have just given birth to their seventeenth child. Jim Bob, I say to myself, Hmff...I bet they're from the South ; I bet they have missing teeth and their children are raggamuffins".

My GOSH! Was it the double first name or the number 17 that triggered it?
I am more educated than that. STOP IT RIGHT NOW MARCY! You can not make sweeping generalizations based on a few. I couldn't stand the fact that I let this aphorism take hold and give me this feeling of superiority as I sat there, smuggly clenching my mug. Afterall, I was in no place to judge. Have I forgot to mention that my coffee was made with store bought water?

A mere three days before, we had to shut it off. Thanks to a leaky hot water heater. My ever observent four year old had noticed the melting wall above the closet door, oohing and aahing with amazement at the bubbly paint. "It's BEE-U-TI-FUL!!!" she exclaimed in a breathy voice. "How did you do that?"

After one day of cold-water-only baths, and washing dishes in lazy suds, the leak became irrational. It now spewed like a geyser even with the hot water shut off. At this point we had no choice but to turn off all of the water.

The Husband took at as a personal challange to remove the unreliable, fifty-gallon monstrosity himself; reasoning that it would reduce the amount the plumber would charge on Moday (if that day ever came). Armed with a Curious George flashlight, he twisted, bangged and cussed the contraption free and hoisted it down the attic stairs.

"Put FLASHLIGHT on the list for the next trip to Home Depot" he grunted, in a slightly emasculated snarl. "But you look so cute with that one... and there's a whistle on the end in case you get into trouble up there" I quipped. He responded with a look of seriousness and slight contempt.

Over the next two and 3/4 days we took the kids to 'Adventure Bathe' Thanks to the kindness of The Husband's big family. We took turns polar-speed-bathing while one kept vigil up in the attic, holding the make-shift bucket (trashcan) that would catch the eventual spews. I began to feel like a squatter, a second-class citizen in my own home. I wore my hair in ponytail and spared the makeup-the longer I could forego the artic bath-the better- I decided.

By the third day I broke a self emposed fashion rule and bought a hat. I know women who can wear a hat and come off as smashing...I, am not one of those women. One girflriend of mine can plop a pink Mercedec Benz emblem cap on, thread her silky blonde hair through the back of it, and look as if she's just finished an effortless private tennis lesson at the club. Others can sport a woven sun hat with a sheer sundress and appear to have wondered out of a lemonade commercial. Something like a Monet painting. I, on the otherhand, look like a disguise gone bad. My pinheadedness (the term coined by a past hairdresser) accentuated and my anemic ponytail framed in its' lifeless state for all those who view from behind. More of a Picasso.

The seventeen children sat, quietly, groomed to perfection, not a dried-up booger smear or dirty knee in sight through the entire interview. They were from the South, Arkansas, to be exact. My precept had been regionally accurate but was by no means precise. The family seemed to be more than comfortable with their station in life. The children were well rounded, gracious, articulate and accomplished, I learned, as I sat watching them as they all, (except for the newborn) played their violins. They were clean, happy, well-attended to children.
The gerbils began to spin again, slowly at first, easing me into the cognition of my daily life. The third person voice waggeled her admonishing finger at me, "Don't judge others!" it seemed to say.

Lessons in humbleness never seem to be convienient, otherwise they would lack the force needed to impact or sway stereotypes- especially those that remain unacknowledged.
On a side note, Michelle, the Super Fertile Mama... she should've worn a hat.

We All Need A Little Christmas

2007-10-16T10:43:00.001-05:00

Just yesterday, while shopping at the craft store, I experienced one of those moments in parenting that can only be described as enlightening. It was an Ah-ha moment to be exact, as if the clouds had parted and the sun shone down directly onto my squeeky-wheeled cart that was jostling from side to side with the eratic movements of my two children inside.

I was in the ribbon section of the local Hobby Lobby, trying to find coordinating ribbon for a diaper cake. If you have no idea what I'm talking about don't feel bad. I didn't either until I saw one on an episode of Sex and the City and then later when a girlfriend made one for my baby shower. It resembles a tiered wedding cake but is made entirely from diapers. It's adorned with trinkets and baby items-kind of cute and disgusting all at once. It's really more of a showpiece than for any practical purpose.

Anyhow, my two year old was in the front of the cart facing me and the four year old, legs criss-crossed sat in the back. An arrangement ment to keep them from whacking one another, or from pulling yards of ribbbon from the spools. Appearantly, this situation was either too boring or too confining for the two year old, because he figured out that he could spring himself from this perdiciment if he just decided to stand up. For the life of me I couldn't get his stiffened little legs back through the little holes in the front of the cart. He was screaming, I was frazzeled and the lady at the cutting counter was giving me the stink-eye. Yet my four year old, she remained cool as a cucumber. With a shrug of her shoulders and up-turned palms, she cocks an eyebrow and says, "Well, I guess you shouldn't have had two kids" in an I told you so kind of tone. I could tell she was pleased with herself.

The two year old continued to squirm as I clenched him in the football hold, trying to wrap up this shopping expedition gone bad ASAP! He screamed vehemently and slung insults at a rapid pace. Things like, 'You a whacky banana.... and No Mommy, No!!' saving his best epithet until we were face to face with Ms. Stink Eye. "You a poopy!! " he shouted using his pointing finger for emphasis. The four year old, in her most compossed voice, looks him straight in the eye, and says, "Oh Salem, enough with all the poopy talk." And then, cutting her eyes to mine says, "I'm glad I'm being good, right Mommy?" "Yes Jacqueline, you are being good, thank you." What I wanted to say was, 'Hey, this is behavioral relativism, and I'm not fallin' for it! The only reason you're acting so good is because he is acting so rotton!' Of course I didn't, but the situation had given me some much needed insight into the highly sophisticated thought process of a four year old.

I had to find a way to level the playing field. I couldn't have her thinking she was only as good as her siblings worst fit. I had to come up with a different source of motivation, one that had no loop holes , something that would produce a positive correlation and put to rest the see saw effects of the current system.

The answer came to me from somewhere deep in the cosmos. A satellite transmission displayed on my XM radio as Broadway Hits was the answer of all answers. A song from the musical Mame came on and as I glanced in my rearview mirror, both kids where in full-tilt- boogie to the jaunty tune of We Need A Little Christmas. Still tightly restrained in their car seats, they managed to pump their shoulders and bouce their derriers, in time to the beat, exhuding high pitched squeels each time they heard the word Christmas.

It was almost a religious moment. The patron saint of mommydum had sent me a sign. Why hadn't I thought of it earlier? Of course...Christmas! You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout I'm tellin' you why...Forget all the ghoul and fright of Halloween, it's Christmas and all its glory that we will focus on from here on out.

"You know, Santa is watching you", I say.

Oh yeah, Santa, Poopy Santa!

Noooooo Salem!!! This is sewious! Santa won't bring us toys if we don't be good!!

"You got it Sista", I say, giving them my best, I told you so glance in the rearview.

Kindergarten Readiness

2007-09-25T16:33:00.002-05:00

Let me just say that the sentiments expressed in this entry may not necessarily reflect those of all educators out there, but, come on, let's be real...they probably do. So with a clear conscious I'll begin.

A girlfriend of mine asked me if, in my opinion as a former teacher, her child was ready for Kindergarten. "Oh, most definitely." I answered. You see, some schools give parents a little handout-a quick little checklist-to run through before they enroll their child in Kindergarten. Specific social, physical, emotional and cognitive areas are addressed. Things like: Does your child know his name? Can he count to 10? Does he know colors and shapes? Does he play well with others? This checklist is for you Mom. Trust me when I tell you that the teacher will know by the end of 'Meet the Teacher Night' if your child is Kindergarten Ready. Basically, if he doesn't throw fecal matter or come to greet her brandishing a switchblade, he is ready. (The parent's of fecal throwing and knife wielding children don't show up to the school until the 2nd or 3rd week of instruction.) Those other things like 'getting along well with others' and the ability to 'identify geometrical shapes' will fall into place at some point during the year. Besides, kids at this age are little geniuses. Some may have been exposed to more educational concepts than others; and any good teacher worth her chalk will tell you that children learn in different ways and at different rates; but essentially, they are all going to learn-and bucketfuls- at this age.

The real question your Kindergarten teacher wants to ask is....Are YOU Kindergarten Ready? As a mom, a parent, a co-educator of this young person, ready to embark on your journey into the world of public school?

If there was a crash course out there for parents in Parent Kindergarten Readiness the world of education would be a much more pleasant place. The curriculum would look something like this:

Avoiding Drama Drop-off : In this course the caregiver/parent will learn to bring his/her child to the assigned area at the correct time on an ongoing basis. The caregiver/parent will receive instruction on entrusting her offspring to the person assigned to educate said child with a kiss goodbye and will not linger at the door or play peek-a-boo in the window with mascara streaming down their face. The caregiver/parent will also be instructed on the merits of being truthful with his/her child (not pulling the old-'I'm just going to the restroom and I'll be right back' scam) sneaking away like a thief in the night. Avoiding these pitfalls, will save anxiety for all parties involved.

Teacher Appreciation Appropriateness : This course is designed to bring the parent to an understanding of who a teacher really is. The parent will be coached on the fine art of acceptable genres of appreciation. I realize that most Kinder teachers convey a cartoon-like effervescence-smiley, bright eyed and equipped with catchy little quips like, 'criss-cross applesauce' or 'one, two, three, eyes on me!' But trust me, she wears this persona like a rubber glove and is all too relieved to peel it off at the end of the day gleefully disposing of it in the nearest garbage receptacle, so that she may partake at Happy Hour exuding a more mature dialect. Your teacher is a real person-no matter how she seems in the classroom. She doesn't need to be reminded that she teaches letter identification by wearing ABC block earrings. When you feel it is the appropriate occasion to give your teacher a gift, do so with an open mind and an open heart. Do this as often as you feel it is warranted. No need to feel like you must appreciate her only on the week of April 7th -11th (the official Teacher Appreciation Week).

Appropriate tokens of gratitude can range from the most simplistic to the extravagant, but all of the following are acceptable:

1. A note of praise to her principal stating that you are satisfied or even happy with the level of education your child is receiving in her classroom. (You may even carbon copy it for the teacher since the original note may never be shared with her.)

2. A verbal 'Thank You for helping my child open his cheese stick everyday at lunch."

3. A gift card to the movies.

4. A gift card to Starbucks.

5. A gift card to anywhere.

Do not try to empathize with the teacher by giving her a book entitled, "Chicken Soup for the Teacher's Soul" or anything as kitschy as a bookmark illustrated by Mary Englebreit.

Once, a student gave me a can of hairspray and a brush. I honestly cherished this gift because the youngster had really taken into consideration my needs and showed real compassion for me. (Her mom was also a Kindergarten teacher).

If you do feel that your teacher is in dire need of additional clothing or accessories, save yourself a trip to Hobby Lobby or Gifts Etc. to shell out $30 for an embroidered t-shirt or necklace made out of No.2 pencils. The term "School Marm" went out circa 1932. Give her a target gift card or simply leave a bottle of wine, tucked into a basket of fresh fruit at her doorstep. (Don't bring the wine to school or they will have you arrested.)

A teacher will not [read as] should not, favor your child if you follow these simple guidelines, but, it can't hurt either.

Theme of Faith

2007-09-11T16:27:00.001-05:00

For some reason themes are important. They lend a structural element to ideas and notions that we think may be too complex for our simple minds to wrap around. As a teacher, I was taught to start with what the student knows and build on that. Most often, a theme was involved. Ideas and real-life, tangible objects combined in a way so a child could relate to them and make sense of the more ethereal concepts we were trying to teach. Concepts such as: Parts of a Whole (division)-using an apple to illustrate the amount of one whole and then later having the students devise a way to equally and fairly share the apple, then not wanting to leave to waste a teachable moment-or an apple; using the the fruit to illustrate color recognition, letter-sound correspondence, syllabication, simple physics, the scientific process, art appreciation, and anything else that might ever so slightly apply, gorging the students minds with the theme and hoping at the end of the lesson that they came away with some of the actual concepts.

This process works-most of the time. And when it doesn't, the child who doesn't grasp the concept, most often, still believes in what you are trying to teach them. Why? Because, children have their own overriding theme that governs the thought process. FAITH. A firm belief in something which there is no proof. We try endlessly and tirelessly (OK, maybe not so tirelessly) as parents to provide the proof, when actually, children have an innate assurity that things in the universe are occurring because they just are. Sure, they question things, but without our influences and constant input, they are happy in their own conclusions and can come up with some pretty astounding theories on their own.

Even Einstein had some crazy ideas in his day. His ideas where simply ideas. Yet, he had the brilliancy to take bits and pieces of others theories and apply them to his own (outside of the box) notions. Not confident in his abilities to perform actual experiments to test his hypothesis, he would imagine them. Thought Experiments- his preferred and most accurate testing method -was a heuristic mode of thinking, altering complete lines of reasoning in more than one school of thought (physics, mathematics, astronomy)- and even art and literature.

Children, I'm discovering, do this naturally. They need no proof when it comes down to the ideas and concepts we (as more logical, educated beings) have deemed as unfathomable or too complicated for their young minds. The have a capacity to create their own theme, apply it to the situation and preform a thought experiment that satisfies and encompasses the situation.

This is what I'm talking about...

On the way there I used my best mommy speak, trying to convey the situation they would encounter in relatable, 2 and 4 year old vocabulary.

He's sick, and we are going to visit and tell him we love him so that he can feel better. He can't talk to you, because he had a stroke that makes his voice not able to work anymore. You can tell him about your picture you drew and tell him that you love him. You have to use your quite voice and behave...OK?

The four year old grasped the theme of the lesson. I could see that she was assimilating the information with the background knowledge she had and was planning ahead. It was the two year old I was worried about.

As we pulled into the parking lot, the four year old exclaimed, "Hey, this isn't Jido's house?!!"

No, remember, I said that he is really sick? Well, this is a place, sort of like a hospital, where they have special doctors and nurses that can help take care or him.

It was at this point that my two year old, stepped outside of the box. He introduced me to his own theme; created to make meaning out of this incomprehensible situation. "Don't worry Jido, we're coming to rescue you!"

Where did that come from? Quite possibly it was the word help. After all, superheros help those in dire situations all the time. It's their mission.

As we entered the facility, the four year old clung close. Her anxiety felt through the grasp of her hand. Entering his room, she shied away and tried to hide behind me. My theme of care and concern, had been conveyed as apprehension. The two year old grasped the concept of help and had taken it upon himself to be the helper. He chattered away about the picture his older sister had drawn earlier (with complete confidence that the stick figure drawing would, '...help Jido feel better' ) and gave away hugs and kisses freely without any hint of anxiety.

As we walked down the hall to leave, two women sitting in wheelchairs made mention of the kids. My pint-size superhero, approached them and began to converse freely. The women commented on his cuteness and he in turn held their hand for a moment, gazing at them with a look of sheer delight. He talked to them. They weren't sure what he was saying, neither was I. It didn't matter. He had faith that what he was telling them was helping, that his sheer presence in this unknown place was making them happy.

And it was.

Ladies Luncheon

2007-08-21T11:26:00.001-05:00

In the English language we do not assign gender to our nouns, but certain words tend to imply it. For example, luncheon. Men don't have luncheons, they have lunch. Important men have power lunches and thinking men have working lunches. But women (at least here in the South) have luncheons. The term in and of itself is more adjective than noun; conjuring up an atmosphere of relaxation, fostered by polite conversation and an air of sophistication. The 50's era Femme with pillbox hat and patent leather pumps, accessorized with pearls, fussing with manicured civility over petite morsels and frosted beverages. Splashes of cotton candy pink and hushed greens accented by the always appropriate black sunglasses seated at an outdoor cafe.

To a passerby, the Ladies Luncheon might seem trite and insignificant, a forum for gossip and giggles. Its' outward appearance gives away nothing of its' more meaningful agenda. There is no aura of glamor in the term 'Group Therapy' but it is a better fit for what is occurring.

If a crazy lady screams in a forest and no one else is around, does she still make a sound? The answer to this is No. She needs compadres who are keen listeners, able to console, empathize and offer advice. Others who have had similar experiences and can provide feedback in the form of comic relief. And this, along with the opportunity to dress in something other than my mommy uniform of khaki shorts and t-shirts, is why I look forward to the monthly Ladies Luncheon.

Often much of what is discussed is that from which we are briefly fleeing- kids, jobs, daily ho-hum. This is the cathartic portion of the session, but also, and no less significant, is the visualization segment.

At this Saturdays' luncheon, fueled by bottomless Mimosas and Bellinis, those in attendance, fantasized a girls' trip A La Paris. The logistics ironed out over a sampling of cheeses drenched in honey. The absentees were considered, but in the end we all agreed that they would vote Oui!
Looking back, maybe our future endeavor is a bit grandiose. But one can always dream!

Until next month....Au Revoir mes amies! xoxoxo

Cavewoman Mentality

2007-08-07T10:34:00.001-05:00

There was a time in the not-so-distant past, when I could tell you the ages of my children in months and weeks. Coincidentally, or maybe as a direct result of this new found mental capacity, I completely lost track of my own age. After age 29, my brain seems to have taken a little hiatus from me-think and that portion of the cerebrum was overtaken with them-think.

An adaption of sorts, probably developed as some type of survival/coping mechanism by cavewomen shortly after they squatted and bore their first little cave dweller. I imagine that the early cave mom had to keep track of her offspring's' development in much the same way we do today...About how many loin clothes does he wet per day?...Can he drag a carcass using alternating feet?...Does he scribble on the cave wall using a dominant hand?...Approximately how many grunts is he using?....

This, along with the daily routine of tidying up the cave, making sure her child doesn't wander off the edge of a cliff, and picking the nits from cave husbands' head after a long days' hunt would leave no time for vanity.

Besides, according to Piaget, we get over self-preoccupation during our childhood. He surmises that by age 7 we are over the Me Stage (the preoperational stage ) and are no longer as egocentric as we were from the ages of 2 through 7.

But then, just the other day I'm reading my friends' blog (Sugar Mama), and she's answering this chain email that asks all sorts of random questions. The purpose- to glean some insight into the kind of person you are-you know-likes, dislikes etc. I had answered the same email from a friend months earlier and was not surprised that many of our answers were similar. I like to think that I'm like her because she's funny, smart, successful and not in the least bit vain. OK, I'll admit that she has a leg up on me here. This is a woman who considers Chapstick makeup, whereas I apply only for medicinal purposes. Anyway, our answers to question #16 - What's the least favorite thing about yourself? totally caught me off guard.

I didn't even have to blink to answer this one. I put, Thinking I know what others are thinking about me. She had answered, Worrying what others think about me. I had been so proud of my statement because I had carefully side-stepped the stereotypical female responses dealing with issues of outward appearance-ie weight, hair and skin and breast size (the excessive, the bad and the lack of- in that order). I was a higher level thinker and my answer to question#16 would be proof to any doubter who came across my cyber-profile. How on God's Green Earth could our answers to this question be so aligned?

The answer is simple. In fact, it's held secure by a nondescript magnet on the surface of my mom's refrigerator. A plain white 4x6 index card, neatly fonted gives Piaget a run for his money. It states:

When we are 20 we worry about what others think of us.
At 40 we don't care about what others think of us.
At 60 we find they haven't been thinking of us at all. -Ann Landers.

Maybe my #16 answer was not as original as I had thought it to be. Maybe, it's just an age thing. A kind of adult psychological stage of development that we weren't exposed to in college. Or maybe Ann Landers is a descendant of Piaget (along with Heloise and Dear Abby) and she took it upon herself to extend his theory (modernizing it and making it more relevant to us in our post-collegiate years).

I can't wait till 60 when I have this epiphany that no one has been thinking about me. In the meantime, Ill just muddle through my 20's- er 30's trying to check the right box and making sure my cave children don't wander off a cliff.

Christmas In July

2007-07-31T11:08:00.001-05:00

I can't write when I'm sad. Words don't come easily and my thoughts are jumbled. There's a limbo factor involved; an accountability to take control and pull myself out of the funk. Think good thoughts and be positive. I alone claim this responsibility. So today I am glum, but have decided to make lemonade and pull myself out of it one word at time. I'll rely on memory to help me along.

Memories are self editing. They are remarkable windows into a place and time that leave an indelible mark on your soul without out you being completely aware of it at the time. The sharp, jagged corners of pain are ebbed by time and are safe to be around again. Happy, gleeful moments are snapped up, frozen in time with smell, sound and texture to add volume and weight. One such memory that instantly provides me with the contentment that I lack today is Christmas.

Anticipation and excitement hang thick in the air, making it hard to sit still or even finish my meal at the kids' table. Every corner of the room is steeped in laughter and incomprehensible vocabulary to the ears of a young girl. Smells of pine, sage and pumpkin linger as I sit cross-legged on the rug, fingering the heavy weave that blankets the wooden floor. Then a voice whispers in my ear, "Go tell 'em it's time to open presents!" This is what I've been waiting for. It's my cue to initiate the clean-up, take-down portion of the evening. Like little elves, we scamper around with wild, lit eyes telling the grownups, "It's time!" Tables are cleared, folded and chairs pushed back, revealing the oval rug outlined by those about to receive. Gifts are handed out by those old enough to read name tags, and soon, I am surrounded by a mountain of colorful paper bound by scotch tape and ribbon, begging me to free the treasures that lay in wait.

The best loot is always from my Aunts. They are biblical figures in my childhood Christmas memories. They are the wise-women, traveling from afar, bearing gifts more precious than frankincense, gold or myrrh. The whispers had been theirs. The fuel to spark the magical change from adult world to the fantasy universe called Christmas.

Tulle and sequence, that of which I had only admired in the Sears Holiday Catalog, are now mine. "I always wanted to be a ballerina and now I are one!" I exclaim with a four year old command of the English language. I twirl and whirl through the room with the excitement and assuredness of one who has finally had her dreams acknowledged. But there's more. Toys with a million pieces have already been assembled and loaded with the correct voltage to make them come alive...ready for play...no more dreadful wait to follow.

The wise-women had foreseen the spectacle that was to unfold. They had no prior knowledge or experience to guide them, yet they were experts. They still are.

Anyone who knows me well, has heard me speak of them. They are the Mary Poppins figures in my life. They seem to appear out of nowhere, perform their magic and drift away quietly without much fan-fare.

I am making lemonade today because she has left. After an enchanting visit, indulging in tea sandwiches and a swim in the rain, I am sad that she has gone. But, I am left with the sweetness that I will always have my own personal Mary Poppins...doesn't everyone?

Confessions of a Mafioso Mamma

2007-07-10T15:55:00.002-05:00

I've never spoken about this publicly. In fact, if you ask me about it I'll deny it. Saying something like, "There's no such thing" or "You've seen the Godfather one too many times". But, and lean in close because the Feds may be listening in...The Costa Nostra (this thing of ours) is alive and well and I'm the Don Mom! What I'm about to reveal is somewhat unsettling and strictly Off The Record.

It's not a life I chose. I was born into it. My lineage has the makings of an epic saga. So, I'll begin, like all classic mob trilogies do, in the present.

It's February 15th 2005. I'm ten days into the life of my second child. My first has avoided the Terrible Twos now for approximately three months. I am ecstatic with the knowledge that she is not like those other ill-mannered toddlers out there-screaming, kicking and biting, raging in public with the parents who avoid eye contact at all cost, lest they be judged by others. Then at approximately11:32 I became a Made Momma. You see, something snapped. My sweet, round-faced daughter threw a WHOPPER, lay-down- in- the- floor, snot slinging, fist clenching, jaw dropping FIT.

It was the first time I had been out on my own with the new baby and the toddler together. She couldn't have picked a more inappropriate place to express herself either. We were in a local jewelry store; the kind of establishment that has repeat customers and specializes in unique estate jewels and fine Swiss time-pieces. Heads turned as the silence was shattered by the blood curdling screams of my (alien abducted???) daughter. Unable to scrape her writhing body off the floor as I toted the newborn in his infant seat I was utterly stymied. It was at this moment I new exactly what had to be done. I made her an offer she couldn't refuse. "Get up this minute and walk to the car or I will spank the tar out of you!" I whispered in her ear through clenched teeth, all the while smiling sweetly at the gawking customers paused in mid purchase. I was bluffing. I knew full well that I couldn't risk exposure and pull off a 'public hit'.

Since then, I've had to make good on countless "Offers". Such as- You can share the ball or it's going in the attic and you will never see it again....or...Pick up your Polly Pocket pieces or they will be sucked up in the vacuum. A threat equal to sleeping with the fishes in the mind of a four year old. It gets easier each time, I just have to keep reminding myself It's not personal, it's business.

On occasion, when demands are not met, a power struggle looms on the horizon, or blatant disrespect is evident, I've taken it to the mattress (mafia code-speak for going to war). It goes down like this: The dinner plate is shoved across the table and our eyes lock. She's not going to budge and her younger, impressionable sidekick is ready and waiting to join in the coup. My capo steps in and reminds them of the consequences of their actions. As the Don Mom, I no longer have to be the sole enforcer. Punishment can be doled out by my trustworthy under-boss AKA Big Man Daddio, leaving my hands clean.

I've learned to trust my gut and make on the spot decisions for the good of the family. A kind of pick your battles-leave the gun take the cannoli line of reasoning. For example: We won't be able to make it to your party at Chucky Cheeses this Saturday because (and this is where I lie like a gangsta) he's come down with a rash. See there how I've avoided the real issues of nap-time-interruption and fear of pink eye exposure by laying blame on the innocent? Crafty, I know, but it's in the best interest of the Familia.

Now flashback to 1969 or somewhere right around that era. You see my Grandmother indoctrinating my own mother in the secret society of Motherhood Mafioso. "It's not a popularity contest. They don't have to like me, but they will respect me."

So there you have it. A sub culture glamorized by Hollywood; its' existence dismissed as fiction by its' own members; laid out for your interpretation. "...the funeral epitaph of the legendary boss of Villalba, Calogero Vizzini, stated that "his 'mafia' was not criminal, but stood for respect of the law, defense of all rights, greatness of character. It was love." Here, "mafia" means something like pride, honor, or even social responsibility: an attitude, not an organization... " [Wikipedia.com]

I respectfully agree Mr. Vizzini.....You gotta do what you gotta do.

Analyze This

2007-07-03T09:46:00.001-05:00

"It's muddy out here. Did you wear some shoes you can get muddy?" The Husband asks. "Yep, I'm good." I say, glancing down at my boots. "Oh, you've got your Ropers on." He detects the slight change in my accent. He had coined the term- Plainview Marcy- years ago, long before he would earn the title of The Husband.

It's amazing how others who know you well can see things about you-things you yourself don't. We think we know ourselves, we believe we have an accurate picture of how we look, act and sound. Then, we hear ourselves on an answering machine or catch a glimpse of ourselves in a reflection and realize the picture we have painted for ourselves is a little -off- . Sometimes we don't even recognize the image staring back at us.

My hometown is small. Its' simple name derived from topography. Life there is simple as well. Streets are laid out alphabetically and in numerical order. Church bells still chime from the steeples and parts of old downtown are paved with brick. There are systems in place to provide structure for its' citizens. You know folks because they know you and your family. You know what church they belong to and they know who your grandparents are. There is really no need for the yellow pages; you know who to go to if you need a tire changed or a specific nut and bolt. People recognize you and speak to you with a sincere interest in your life away from there. You are part of the landscape that makes up the town.

The Husband had explained his theory on Plainview Marcy to me after we had gone to visit my hometown. "You act a little different, more small-town" he had said. "Your accent gets thicker too." he added, with a little smile that said he had me figured out. I was sure he was mistaken. I most certainly didn't act differently based on who I was around or the location I was in. This was ridiculous. In the least, his theory seemed to point out a weakness or minor flaw, a lack of self-awareness. At the most a borderline personality disorder, which immediately triggered my defenses. I was, however, curious to discover if his observations held any merit, so I began to pay closer attention to my words and actions. And, over the years, I've decided that he may just be right about this.

After all, where and how you are raised must play into who you are and how you behave based on your beliefs. It's absurd to think that it doesn't. We are not hard-wired at birth-our beliefs and morals are shaped and molded during our formative years and we act on them, not fully aware of the possibilities that exist elsewhere. Just look into the eyes of any parent sending their child off to college for the first time. It's there. The hope that their child will make good choices, that the other 'possibilities' out there will not seem so attractive. And the values and morals that they were raised with are firmly rooted. But humans are reactionary creatures. We succumb to forces, sometimes without awareness. We react to situations in order to blend into the environment and we create personas based on the feedback of others. Could this be what The Husband had alluded to in its most simplistic form? Was I really just a Country Mouse playing dress-up in City Mouse's wardrobe?

The 'phenomenon' that I had so defensively denied is no longer. The source of change exposed rendering the term phenomenon inaccurate. Anytime I am exposed to bits or pieces of my hometown, a real change occurs. It's now just another rung on the wobbly ladder of Self-Awareness. I'm no longer offended by his observations and I never should have been to start with. It should have dawned on me the day he told me Andy Griffith was his all-time favorite show. Plainview Marcy was enduring, an asset really. She was a being on the verge of extinction. An affect of small-town Texas that had been buried under years of metropolitan-relocation. I perceived myself as a City Girl, able to hail a cab and secure a job by parlaying a more sophisticated urban dialect. The West Texas drawl all but vanished from my accent, substituting phrases like 'oh most definitely' for 'I reckon' and 'yellow' for 'yella'.

The Husband had pushed the envelope so to speak and forced me to preform a kind of pseudo-socio-scientific experiment on myself, observing changes in my mannerisms, behavior and speech patterns. In the end proving his theory true.

I no longer question this theory, Plainview Marcy exists. She is the proverbial Cinderella, but instead of a glass slipper to spark her transformation into a white-gloved princess, a pair of brown ropers (worn slick on the bottom from many a Saturday night Presbyterian church dance) provide the source. Her court is not regal, they are just hometown folks with good manners and a vested interest in her well being, providing an accurate reflection of her true self.