Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

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

In the Bag

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

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.

Domestic Diva...in training

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.

Slippin' Away

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

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.

We All Need A Little Christmas

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.

Theme of Faith

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.

Cavewoman Mentality

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.

Confessions of a Mafioso Mamma

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.