Showing posts from June, 2008

A Mother's Prayer

Please God, when my son gets his snack out at camp today, please let him be sitting next to some kid who takes one look at his Trader Joe's yogurt cup and says something like: "Those are awesome! You are so lucky -- I wish I got those in my snack!" Here's the thing. He likes vanilla yogurt cups. He likes oranges. He got both in his snack today. He also has a skewed sense of what's embarassing, and when he saw his snack option this morning, complained to me that yogurt cups are embarassing to eat, and orange seeds are embarassing to spit out. Nothing I say will change his mind about this, so I am left to hope that a peer convinces him that his food will not permanently relegate him to the Land of the Nerds. Lordy. Well, at least he is at Young Writer's Camp this week, and can use the suffering he endures at my hands, my utter snack-cruelty, as fodder for the creative process. Maybe at the book store reading they have at the end of camp, the audience

An Old Fashioned Reflection

In two senses. First of all, on the eve of my daughter's 6th birthday, I am engaging in the time-honored tradition of wondering where the time has gone. Six years ago tomorrow, I became the mother of a girl, and promptly wondered what on earth I was going to do with one of those . Having only parented boys up to that point, I was sure I was headed for a household of boyness. I was so very wrong. Second of all, on the eve of my daughter's 6th birthday, her father made me a very large Old Fashioned, and it's working its way through my circulatory system in a delightfully fuzzy way, even as I type. 'Scuse any typos. It really is quite something how time goes by, and how little people emerge into real, independent, autonomous beings, right before our eyes. Today, while Lola and I were running errands, we ran into a neighbor, who tried to talk to little Missy. Little Missy did her usual: she looked at me with pleading eyes as if to say, "Please answer for me; I

Clay and Beads are Killing Me

About a year or so ago -- I can't really remember -- one of my kids did an art project that resulted in one small round ball of blue clay with beads and beans stuck all over it. It was really pretty cool looking. But that little blue ball became a symbol for me of "The Curse of the Can't Throw Aways." It was special to the kid who had made it. And every so often, if it had gotten lost, someone would find it and much rejoicing would ensue. I grew to hate that little ball because it, like so many other things around here, became part of the clutter that I do not know what to do with, the clutter that threatens to take over and one day crush us all in our sleep. The clutter I engage my Sysiphian battle with on a daily basis, usually losing. No good place to keep it or display it; no good way to toss it without grievously injuring some small feelings. A week ago, it somehow ended up in my car, where it met its final demise under the feet of five kids climbing i

A Little Cultural Experiment

Rick chaperoned the school field trip today, which was a park day for both 3rd and 2nd grade, so both of our boys' classes went. Since he was going to be with them, I packed snacks for all three of them in one of those soft coolers, rather than in individual bags, and sent them on their way. Fast forward to the end of the school day. "Did they eat their food," I ask, because I want to know if they ate the healthy stuff so I can give them the Cheese Crunchies I bought today or if I need to enforce a little vegetable time on them. He says, "Yeah, they ate it, but they ate it early, so when they got hungry again, I gave them the other food too. I didn't know you sent two bags." Me: "Uh, I didn't send two bags." Pause Me again: "What did they eat?" Rick: "Yogurt?" Again, me: "I didn't send any yogurt today; the last time I sent yogurt was Friday." We just had the hottest weekend of the year so far. That

The Heartbreak is Over

Baseball is a sport that will break your heart. And for this season, it's done breaking mine. We officially ended our almost 5 month season of baseball this past weekend, finishing off with four games, two for each boy. For the past four months and change, we've had four practices per week and 2-4 games per weekend. We've had front row seats for the tears and frustration of strike outs. We've prayed for the ball to land in the mitt and we've shaken our hands at heaven when it didn't. We've looked for that damn orange sock at the very last minute and we've repeated the "Take Care Of Your Stuff" lecture so often that the opening line just might be Tallulah's first sentence. We've schlepped the snacks and walked the parade route. We've witnessed some stellar adult behavior; we've witnessed some truly cringe-worthy adult behavior. We've cheered at the hits, the walks, the catches, the almost catches, the runs, the wins.

Come On Mom, Admit it!

"So Mom. What do people do when they are drunk?" "Oh, they act silly, and do things they don't usually do; they also can't do some things that they usually can do, like drive a car or walk in a straight line. Sometimes they talk funny, like they can't really pronounce words..they might laugh more than they usually do...stuff like that." "Has dad ever been drunk?" ( might Rick want me to anwer that one, I wonder.) "Have you ever been drunk?" (OK, dodged the Rick question, caught my own...) "Yes, honey, I have been." "What did you do when you were drunk?" "Oh, I think I just went to sleep." "No, I mean what silly things did you do???" "Oh, I don't really know, sweetie; it was awhile ago." pause "Well, are you still an alcoholic?" * * * And here was a golden opportunity to talk about things that fall in the shades of gray category; what