In The Presence of Greatness

Yesterday I made Super Hubs take Rock Star to the orthodontist for his appointment, because of my bad experience the last time. I have been dreading this visit for the past month, fearful they will put in my son’s mouth the awful spring-things or whatever they are called and charge us an enormous amount of money. Above the other enormous amount of money we’ve already paid them for the whole orthodontic treatment. I’ve forced Rock Star wear his head gear 20 hours a day since our last Appointment From Hell, but I just could not face going to that office again this week; being reprimanded and shamed for having a son who is lax about following the treatment plan. I was in a tender placed emotionally.

So Super Hubs went with Rock Star to the appointment, and had an incredibly positive time. He came home raving about the office and the wonderful doctor and wonderful hygienists who couldn’t have been more kind and who told him that Rock Star was progressing along just fine and wouldn’t need springs applied, and of course we would not be charged any extra money. Absolutely not. I think they might have even offered him champagne. Everyone at that hateful office was just lovely to Super Hubs, because people are always lovely to Super Hubs, giving him the V.I.P. treatment wherever he goes. People save their horrid behavior for just me.

I don’t understand it. But it’s been this way for the entire length of our marriage; even though I, too, am a very nice person. But when Super Hubs walks into a room, strangers roll out the red carpet and give him standing ovations and sing, “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow.” He finds favor wherever he goes, like he’s Gandhi or something.

We went to a party recently for Super Hub’s roommate from Notre Dame. And people that had known my husband from his college days, practically fell over themselves with glee to meet me and grill me with questions: “What is it like to be married to a man like Super Hubs? Aren’t you the luckiest woman on the planet??” It was so weird.

My husband is an incredible person. He’s the quintessential Mr. Nice Guy. But it’s not like he’s won a Nobel Peace Prize. He just happens to be so wonderfully likable. Which, as his wife, is both a blessing and a curse.

It was a blessing yesterday at the orthodontist’s, because we did not get charged the extra $300 for springs as threatened. But still, I resent the duplicitous attitude of the office. “Did you tell them that they were very rude to me last time and hurt my feelings??” I interrogated Super Hubs when he got home. He looked a bit sheepish, then said, “Uh, no, I forgot. But they did give me two packs of gum. And a plastic water bottle.”

Full Moon?

Yesterday was crazy. We experienced bi-polar weather and an encounter with grass that put us in stitches. But we weren’t laughing over either one.

The weather was an almost-balmy, sunny 50 something degrees, and Rock Star (13) went outside to play football in the yard in the late afternoon. I was trying to tie up some loose ends around the house in preparation for my evening, which included dinner with my Drama Team. As I was drinking tea while doing some paperwork, I felt a presence over my shoulder, and turned to see Rock Star standing there, looking pale. “What’s up, Buddy?” I asked.

He hesitated, then said, “I didn’t want to bother you while you were on the phone. And I know you’re trying to get ready to go out to dinner, but I need to tell you something. When I was playing football, I slipped on the grass and cut my arm. I think I need stitches.” ????!!!! I am an R.N. and do not panic during medical crises, but I admit that I cringed a bit when I saw the 3 inch gaping laceration on my son’s forearm. I cleaned it out, then agreed that we’d need to head to an Immediate Care for sutures. A new milestone in my family: The first child to get stitches!

Rock Star is the most unassuming, never-wants-to-be-any-trouble kind of teen. He astounds me with his innate sweet sensitivity. His tears began in the car; partly out of fear of needles, and also because he thought he’d ruined my evening. He worried about the cost of the medical care. He was concerned that he’d messed up my dinner plans. He apologized for playing football. He hoped he hadn’t damaged the grass. He took responsibility for pretty much everything except global warming and the Iraq War. I reassured him. No need to worry about the cost; that’s why we have insurance. No worries about my dinner plans; the Drama Team will understand.

By the time I parked my car at the Immediate Care, the temperature had dropped about 30 degrees, and it was raining buckets and hailing. I looked like a freakin’ drowned rat as I checked us in. Fortunately we were seen almost immediately by a fantastic trio of health care professionals that cleaned, numbed, and then sutured my child’s arm in the most gentle of manners. We were sent home within two hours of arrival, my son now sporting 8 sutures on his tender arm like a badge of honor.

I was able to get to the restaurant on schedule to join my Drama Team, where I enjoyed much joviality over pizza and wine with this group of actors; my most fun friends in the world! A few hours later, I drove home in an icy raging snowstorm, wind whipping all over the place and threatening to sweep my car off the road; the sunny warmness of the afternoon now a thing of the past. The temperature was 52 degrees colder. Weird. A very peculiar day.

Pimp My Cage

In a rare self-nurturing move last summer, I decided to buy something that I had always wanted as a child but had been forbidden: A hamster. I know it seems like an odd purchase choice for a mother of three who already has a household that includes three cats and a dachshund, but I.Did.It.For.Me. And I’ve had no regrets, although I think the hamster probably did post-mortemly, after she escaped her cage and snacked on an electrical cord that sent her on a ride over the River Styxx into Eternity.

I then “replaced” her with Hamster #2 that I have grown so very fond of. She is, in my biased opinion, the absolutely most adorable hamster on the planet! I named her Charity, after a character quality I hope to exude more of. She has a fabulous life and a hot three-level condo. When I bought Hamster #1, the sales person could clearly smell a sucker with loose pockets; insisting that a privileged hamster need nothing less than a large aquarium habitat with a fancy two level attachment. And then she added a bunch of other mysterious things to my cart that she said I would need for it’s health and well-being and emotional security or something, and, $120 later, I left the pet store with my hamster and her new pad with accessories.

When I got home and put everything together, this created a rather chic hamster space that I admit to coveting at times. It is like a Barbie dream house, only much better! The hamster condo has a large first floor area with a light, airy feel, which includes a cozy alcove in the corner that contains the sleeping area. The upstairs contemporary kitchen has all the amenities a happy domestic hamster could want. The middle level is a trendy loft with a bar; good for hanging out with a drink and thinking deep hamster thoughts. It is decorated in smooth, clean lines, and only good chi flows down the staircases. It’s so darn sweet, I’m certain it’s the envy of all the other hamsters in the neighborhood. Should it ever go on the market, I sense it will be snatched up immediately.

So Hamster #2 moved into The Dearly Departed Hamster #1’s domain, and has added a few touches that have made it her own. And she has been quite happy living there, until today. There apparently was an undetected hole in her water bottle that leaked, flooding her entire first floor in a manner worthy of Hurricane Katrina’s finest effort. I found my hamster safe and sound, having escaped up the stairs to the second floor loft, seeking drier grounds. But she was a little peeved. So I gave her the run of her hamster ball, while I ran around redecorating her pad with fresh, clean pine shavings, a new water bottle, and hot new wheel; the finest in rodent home decor. Then I served her an amazing dinner complete with apple-flavored cedar stick dessert to make up for my negligence. She seemed very grateful. I love to spoil her immensely. Call it nurturing my inner child through my rodent, or just call it mammal co-dependency. I don’t really care. It works for both of us.

A Look In The Mirror

I have been on a quest, for the past few weeks, of try to find the perfect skin care line for myself. In a frenzy of energy, based mostly on fear of the awareness that I have a birthday coming up in a few short months and no, the years are not going backwards, I have polled all my girlfriends and spent hours on internet research. And I have come to this profound conclusion (which one of my girlfriends had wisely already told me): THERE IS NO PERFECT SKIN CARE LINE! What is right for one woman, may not be right for another.

And so, that being said, I strolled into the mall this weekend with a generous gift card I’d received as a Christmas present. I headed straight to the Clinique counter, where I had a chance (or call it fate) encounter with a salesperson that I happen to know. She’s the older sister of my daughter’s friend and she’s very young and has beautiful skin.…..anyway. I told her to give me the low down on skin care for my 40-something self. What do I do? What do I need? I have tried every product known to mankind; from the low-budget to the costly, and I have been whipsawed back and forth trying to decide what works best for me because this person says I need this and that person says to try that but gosh darn it, I cannot please them all! What is right for me?? Me me me?? Why do I feel swept away by every current that comes into the harbor? Every commercial, every advertisement, every opinion? Why do I feel like I need to please every person in my life??

Then she wisely told me that she would help me with the skin care, but I would have to figure the rest of the questions out with my therapist. She patiently explained to me about all the products, then asked specific questions about my skin: Was it dry? Oily? Prone to break-outs? Losing elasticity? Carefree and content? And then she helped me with my purchases, rung up my order, and put my new skin care line in a cute little green bag, with the assurance that I would, from now on, have “happy skin.” Happy Skin! What a delightful thought! I felt truly peaceful and cared about, as if I had just been through an intense therapy process. So I jumped up on the Clinique counter and yelled, “NOW I KNOW WHO I AM! I am a Clinique woman! It was the skin care line that I used in my early 20's and I loved it and felt comfortable with it because it worked for me! And I don’t care what anybody else tells me; I know that from now on I will use Clinique! And I will be happy!”

I actually did not jump on the counter and yell out those things because: A.)I am WAY too inhibited, and B.) I get vertigo very easily. But I did think about doing something like that. Because I am feeling lately that this disquieting in my soul about what kind of skin care products I should use is really about a bigger issue that is more than just skin deep (please pardon the epidermis pun.) I am feeling lately like I am trying to please so many people in my life and losing touch with who I am at the core. When I truly know who I am and how I am wired, I can respond to life out of a grounded, centered place of confidence in what I need to do. This is who I am, darn it, and I will give out of the love that is in my heart rather than giving based on what you tell me to do!

Yes, I long to be one of those women who knows without a doubt what skin care line she uses. If someone comes into my Master Bathroom; the most private, intimate room in my home, they will see my Clinique soaps and toners and creams spread out on my counter. Then they will say; “Oh, I know who Kelly is. She is a Clinique woman.” I’ve been a Clinique woman from the very beginning. I had just forgotten. And today, I need to go back to who I am. Because sometimes I need to remember.

"Butterflies Are Free To Fly"

My daughter, Butterfly (16) is an extrovert. She must be with people (her people) day and night or she is restless and bored and lethargic. She comes alive with relationships; bubbling and sparkling and her very best self. I understand completely, because I am entirely similar in that way.

But her ever-fluid weekend plans distress me greatly. The schemes seem to unfold moment by moment. Butterfly will take the car, saying she’s going out to a movie with Sparkle, and then apparently she’ll find out that Sparkle is now unavailable. So then she’ll call us and say that since Sparkle can’t hang out, she’s heading to a restaurant to meet Giddy, and then Giddy ends up being grounded or something, and so Butterfly winds up playing video games at the home of a completely different group of kids whom I’ve never heard of before. And then she’ll call and ask if Flighty can spend the night, and I say yes, and then in walks a girl with her sleeping bag, and I’ll call her Flighty, and Butterfly will say, “That’s not Flighty, it’s Whimsy.”

It’s unnerving. In grade school, I knew every one of her friends’ names. And their parents’ names. And where they lived. And what they did for a living. Now Butterfly has so darned many friends, I cannot keep track. They come and they go, depending upon the season. And they all look alike to me; with their long, flat-ironed hair and size 2 low-rise jeans and Abercrombie ensembles.

And when you don’t know the kids…..or their parents…..you worry just a little bit more. Because I know teens. They like to be rebellious and defiant and spread their not-quite immortal wings. But they think they are immortal. And they sometimes do things that are prohibited. I know I did. And I bet you did.

When I was in high school, my sheltering parents forbade me to see Restricted movies. So in my own personal mutiny, which was pretty innocent by today's standards, I saw EVERY Restricted movie playing in the theaters with my friend, Kathleen, back in the days when the ticket sellers did not check IDs. It felt so deliciously evil to sit in the theater seats, munching on popcorn, giggling over the fact that my parents were deceived; certain I was watching “Arthur” or something. I memorized the plot summaries of more innocent movies, just in case I was interrogated. But I was never caught.

So tonight, Super Hubs and I sat in a little corner of a restaurant, on our Date Night, enjoying skanakopita and Greek salad; fielding the occasional phone calls from our daughter. The adventure continues: Butterfly is at a movie. Now she’s eating fast food. Now she’s heading to the home of some friends to hang out. So we ate our dinner, encouraged her to be safe, and insisted she be home by curfew. And we rejoiced that she is who she is. We wouldn’t want it any other way.

I Ain't No Martha

I once heard Martha Stewart say that when she entertains, she makes her guests take their shoes off and wear little paper booties or something. I don’t mean to judge the Entertaining Diva, but I think that is a tad nutty. When friends come to my home, I want them to feel valued and welcomed, and not like they are about to scrub for thoracic surgery.

Martha also said that she only serves white wine in lieu of red in case of spillage. Now that, I must say, is brilliant! I hosted a party once, where a guest (whom I’d never met before) dropped an entire glass of merlot on my white couch! She was clearly mortified, and was all, “I am so sorry! Can I pay for cleaning?” and so forth. And I channeled Miss Manners and was all, “Don’t even worry about it! I was actually thinking about spritzing that sofa up with random pink splotches for an "Art Deco feel" anyway, but now you’ve saved me the trouble!” while internally I was thinking, “OMG! The Klutz has ruined my couch!” But I stayed a pillar of Empathy and Politeness, and waited to bring out the arsenal of cleaning products until she’d gone home.

The couch was never the same, even after a professional cleaning. So I had it slip covered, and tolerated it for a few more years. And then I finally sent it off to the Furniture Purgatory that is my basement, where it spends its retirement being sat upon by gaggles of teenagers playing PS2 while drinking orange soda.

I recently replaced it with a brown suede sofa that I really love. But, irony being the theme of my life; in a house full of dark furry pets, the only one that has claimed the couch as her personal domain is my white feline with the long hair. The brownish furry animals ignore that sofa in favor of my lighter-colored furniture. So I surrender, say “Uncle”, and frequently get out the Dust Buster. And I still have parties where I serve red wine. Oh, well. I guess I’ll tolerate the imperfections, because having kids, pets, and parties is so darned much fun!

Pass Me The Olives, Please!

I’ve always tried to be an “If Life Gives You Lemons, Make a Lemon-tini” kind of person. (That’s probably a loose translation of the old adage. I can’t remember it exactly.) So to celebrate the despised ever-plunging arctic temperatures, Little Squirt and I made “Mitten Ice Cream” yesterday. Every recipe I make with my 5-year-old involves a boatload of patience and the entire crew of Merry Maids.

I allowed him to pour the milk, sugar and vanilla into a little baggie, then we put that concoction into a bigger plastic bag filled with ice cubes and salt. Spider Man mittens warming his chubby little hands, Little Squirt kneaded the milk mixture back and forth with my coaching. The process should take only 5 minutes, according to the recipe testers, who clearly have never met, never mind made ice cream with a kindergartener.

He kneaded it for 10 seconds, then declared himself “too tired” to continue. Noooooo. I would not tolerate slothfulness! I gently made him pick up the bag and try again. He worked the milk mixture again for another 6 seconds, sloshing liquid all over everything, then complained that it was “too hard” and he could not do it anymore. To that remark I reminded him of the strong work ethic of the noble “Little Engine That Could,” trying with all his might and main to pull a load up the hill; all the while saying, “I think I can, I think I can.” My strong-willed son, never one to be influenced by a goody-goody fictional steam engine, announced, “Well, I think I can’t!” and lied down on the floor.

I caved. I picked up the bag, and rolled it about on the table for 10-15 minutes until it turned into something that resembled anemic squash. I gave him the bag and a spoon. He tasted it, proclaimed it “yucky”, and dropped it on the floor. The dog ran into the room and happily lapped it up.

So I go back to my original statement. Forget about “Mitten Ice Cream.” If life gives you lemons or depressing frigid temperatures, just make the martini. And sip it slowly in front of a cozy fire.

Martin Luther King, Jr.'s Birthday

“To take the first step in faith, you don’t have to see the whole staircase: just take the first step.”
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
“For there is no difference between (people)- the same Lord is Lord of all and richly blesses all who call on him.” (Romans 10:12)

Might As Well Be Antarctica

Could it be any colder? Here in Chicagoland, it is downright gelid; the kind of weather where it is so cold that you gasp when you walk outside and feel like your lungs have frozen. I have spent the day sprinting from warm car to warm building to warm car to warm house, while wearing my coziest winter woolies. I’ve been drinking cup after cup of something hot. Every year around this time, I contemplate a permanent move south of the border. I don’t care which border, just south of anyone, where it must be warmer than it is here. If you are reading this and live in a tropical climate, I am going to have to resent you for a couple of weeks.

Last night Super Hubs and I went to a dinner party at a large sprawling house in the country. It was beautifully decorated with collections of art and objects from around the world. We had a fabulous time visiting with this couple who are so gifted in hospitality. We sat by the fireplace sipping wine and warming our feet on the resident dog; an Australian something-or-other who resembles a large, furry brown bear.

When we drove home, the temperature was a record-breaking -6 degrees. Negative Six! There were very few cars on the road, and the landscape looked so bleak and raw that it made me feel lonely inside, and I was relieved when we arrived back at our warm home. Then our dachshund declined to go outside for his nightly elimination ritual. He flat out refused when I opened the sliding glass door and he felt a draft of the frigidity, so he ended up having to keep his legs crossed all night. He shrank away from the door again this morning, until I bundled him up in his brown canine wrap (which makes him look like a bratwurst-in-a-bun) and shoved his butt out the door.

I am making homemade soups and lighting fires on the hearth and worrying about the homeless. The thermostat is supposed to climb into the double-digits later this week, which will feel balmy in comparison. But still, I despair and long for spring and butterflies.

The Third Wheel

Another Friday. Another Date Night! This one, with a bit of a caveat.

Butterfly (16) flitted around all day, preparing for a weekend retreat up north with her church youth group. A nice thing about parenting teens is that they can pack for themselves. A difficult thing about parenting teens is that they pack for themselves. Items that are entirely inappropriate. But my gosh, I need to pick my battles, and I’d rather save up my “no’s” for issues like beer bongs. I did suggest, however, that Butterfly might want to think about bringing some warm sweaters in lieu of the light-weight, albeit trendy tank tops, considering the temperatures were predicted to be in the negative digits over the weekend. She answered with a snarl, and then complained about how she had no more room for anything else, since she still had to pack some snacks for the girls in her cabin. And to please stop trying to control her. So I bit my tongue as she stuffed enough junk food into her bag to feed the entire camp and a forest full of wildlife. And I said nothing as she jammed her large iHome iPod base into another bag, toward this supposedly electronic-free retreat weekend. Soon enough, she was on a bus full of teens, headed toward Wisconsin.

Then Rock Star (13) made plans to see “Cloverfield” with his friends. Adolescent boys are generally not ones to sweat details. He didn’t consider my questions; “What time is the movie playing?”, “What theater are you going to?” and “Who will be driving?” as anything more than annoying distractions that delayed his social agenda. So it took about 18 different phone calls between him and his friends to nail down the details. But finally he was off to his friend’s house; plans firmly set.

Now it was 6pm, and Super Hubs and I breathed deeply, looking forward to our evening together. The night was still young, and we looked forward to catching up over a romantic dinner of fabulous food! I poured us each a glass of wine to sip and enjoy while we mulled over various dining options for tonight. Did we have a yen for Italian? How about that sushi place? Maybe we should get a little crazy and drive to that new restaurant with the great tapas we’d heard about?

And then Little Squirt entered the room and declared he was hungry. Super Hubs and I looked at each other, and our eyes grew wide at the same thought. We had no sitter for Little Squirt! No older sibling was home tonight, to watch our youngest, as was usually the case on our weekly Date Night! The baby of the family would have to join us.

Resolved, we clanked our wine glasses together in a half-hearted cheer and said, “To a Date Night for Three!” And we headed to a local kid-friendly restaurant, where Little Squirt happily ate his pizza and chattered non-stop. It was not the amorous night we’d envisioned. No tantalizing of the food palates with gourmet. No deep soul-sharing; fingers linked over plates of fettuccine. It was a very different kind of evening that made Little Squirt extraordinarily happy; interloping on one of his parents’ mysterious Date Nights.

Now I Really Feel Old!

Conversation today between my son, Rock Star (13), and Me:
RS: “Mom, did you have Internet when you were a child?”
Me: “Uh, no.”
RS: (Incredulously) “So what did you do???”
Me: “To get information, we had encyclopedias at home. Or we went to the library.”
RS: “But what about My Space or Facebook? How could you talk to your friends?”
Me: “We called them.”
RS: “Oooooh.” (Nods head.) “Cell phones.”
Me: “No! We only had land lines. And no answering machines or call waiting.”
RS: “But what did you do if they weren’t home? How would you reach them??”
Me: “We’d call back.”
RS: (Shakes head.)
Me: (On a roll.) “And we didn’t have DVDs or VCRs. They weren’t invented yet.”
RS: “No way! What did you watch?”
Me: “Network television. No cable. And we didn’t use remotes. We had to turn the channel by a knob. Or we went to the movies. And we didn't have microwaves. We had to reheat our food on the stove top. Which sometimes tasted burnt.”
RS: “No video games, I take it?”
Me: “No. Or PSPs. We went outside to play and rode our bikes. Or did puzzles or board games. Read books. But we got an Atari when I was in middle school, and I thought Pong was really cool.”
RS: “But radio was invented, right?”
Me: “Yes. But no iPods or CDs. I had my own record player.”
RS: “What’s a record?”
Me: “Kind of like a CD. Only much bigger.”
RS: Patronizingly pats me on the back. “Poor Mom. I’m sure glad I didn’t live back then!”

No Botox For Me

Today I am feeling old-ish. But not in bad way. In an “Oh, isn’t this interesting how the years have completely flown” kind of way.

I had a friend come over this afternoon to give me samples of some skin care products that she’s selling. She’s in her mid-40’s and as cute as a button. She has 6 kids and a few grandchildren, yet doesn’t look a day over 30. So, I’m thinking, I’ll use whatever she’s using! She showed me all kinds of lotions and potions containing things like nanospheres and peptides and apha lipoic acid and explained how important they are to the skin for anti-aging. Who knew?? My grandmother used only Noxema and Nivea cream, and she had gorgeous skin until the day she died. (And a two-pack-a-day smoking habit. But I would not recommend that.) Nevertheless, my friend and I talked and I agreed to try the products, because at this point, Good God, I would spring for uranium if someone promised me it would make my skin look younger!

But as we discussed the anti-aging elements, I had a memory. I remembered reading beauty magazines as a teenager, and looking forward to the day when I would have laugh lines. Back then, I always thought women in their 40’s were more attractive than women in their 20’s because their faces were more defined, and they carried themselves with a sophistication and confidence unknown to youth. And I thought laugh lines were beautiful, because it showed a life lived with joy. My mother had no laugh lines, and she was an unhappy person with a flat affect. I did not want to be like her. So, in my innocent, 16-year-old pea brain, I actually longed for a future with laugh lines.

Flash forward a number of years. I am now in my early 40's. And have laugh lines. And I ain’t laughing about them. In fact, I’d love to turn back the clock to the when I was 16 and had flawless skin.

But today as I was driving my kids to the library, I studied my laugh lines in the rear view mirror. (And almost rear-ended the car in front of me. So I stopped obsessing, for safety’s sake.) And I thought of my 16-year-old Self, and that piece of wisdom that she possessed about wrinkles. And I thought, she had it right. Every little wrinkle on my face was earned, by God! I am a passionate person with an expressive face, and every line displays a full, rich life well lived. Lots of laughter over the years. Many intense, amazing experiences. All mine.

So I’m going to be okay with my wrinkles from now on. Let the good times roll! Although I will still try out my friend’s skin care line……….

I'd Take The Seasick Crocodile

In addition to my usual two cups of coffee with French vanilla cream this morning, I’ve needed a Pepsi. And another cup of coffee. And some extra heavy concealer to cover up my dark circles and try to convince the world that I am not a slept-in-the-gutter meth addict. It’s all Mr. Grinch’s fault . You’re a mean one, Mr.Grinch!

Little Squirt is, under most circumstances, as fearless as they come. He has Superhero powers in his own mind and is afraid of nothing. He is remniscent of Scrappy Doo; fierce and mighty and entirely unaware of how peanut-sized he actually is.

Being the youngest child by 8 years, Little Squirt has seen many movies that, in our most permissive parenting moments, we would never have allowed our older two to view at his age. Like "Saw." And "Halloween." And "Lord of the Rings." I know, I know; we're woefully negligent. But none of those movies have ever caused him to lose a wink of sleep. Until, that is, he saw the Jim Carrey version of the movie, “How The Grinch Stole Christmas.”

For whatever reason, Little Squirt is ferociously terrified of Mr. Grinch. That formidable green foe has slithered his way through my son’s dark bedroom and into his dreams on many a night since, reaking havoc with his sleep, and, hence, ours. The nasty, wasty, skunk.

Last night was such a night. I slept a beautiful two hours of REM sleep until 1am, when Little Squirt threw open our bedroom door and jumped into bed between us, yelling, “I dreamed about Mr. Grinch again! I’m not sleeping in my room!” And with that declaration was launched "Insomnia Time." For the next five hours I experienced Little Squirt tossing and turning, felt him play with my hair, and heard him scratch the headboard and whisper to the cat. No more sleep was actually gotten for the rest of the night. Now how come that didn't happen to The Whos, I ask you??

So I blame Mr. Grinch for my caffeine overdose, lack of concentration and my hair-trigger irritability today. I’m a “Needs 8 Hours of Sleep” kind of woman. Which did not happen last night. All because of stupid Mr. Grinch, the emerald-colored Who-hash and sleep-stealing goofball with the brain full of spiders, who is, according to Dr. Seuss: “A three-decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce.” I could not say it any better myself. Stink. Stank. Stunk.

I Remember Jello

Do you ever have the experience where you smell a certain odor, and it takes you back in time? That happened to me, this morning. I entered my kitchen, and caught a whiff of a sweet scent by our refrigerator that reminded me of my grandmother’s kitchen. I immediately felt myself soar into the past, back to late 60’s.

My paternal grandparents owned a summer cottage that resided by a lake in Rhode Island, when I was very young. My family lived about a half an hour away, and would visit most weekends. The cottage was located on tiny, dead-end street that concluded into a dock overlooking the tiny lake. I loved to stride on the boardwalk with my older cousins, and watch the boats.

But mostly, I loved my Irish grandmother’s kitchen. For a few years, until my brother came along, I was the youngest and tiniest of the grandchildren, and she delighted in trying to fatten me up. I’d sit at the formica kitchen table and feast on pastina and jello, while watching her prepare a beef stew for the adults. It felt like a place of honor to be the only one allowed in her kitchen; The Matriarch’s Private Domain; while she chopped carrots and potatoes and prattered on about life. I didn’t understand most of what she said, but I felt loved and special.

That was a gift, this morning. A warm-hearted memory sparked by a stale refrigerator smell. I just thought I'd share.

It's Date Night, Stupid!

I know the secret to a long and happy marriage, I believe. No, it is not separate sinks in the bathroom. Although that does help. If I have to rinse out Super Hubs’ whiskers one more time……..but I digress. No, it is not regular……..private activity. Although that is nice. But I will not discuss certain topics in my blog that I would be embarrassed, as a former Catholic, to have Sister Mary Thomas read about. (Should she have Internet access from her convent. And read blogs in her spare time.)

I will save you thousands of dollars in marriage counseling by telling you: If you are married, jealously guard a regular Date Night. I have shared in posts past that Super Hubs and I get out alone weekly, usually on Friday nights. And it has transformed out relationship. Our marriage used to be good, but now it is better. WAY better. We often go to a restaurant, because, not only do we enjoy eating out, but we can talk without distraction. And listen to each others’ hearts. We become a couple again, not two roommates vying for time and attention in competition with three children and all of their needs. We remember why we fell in love.

Today I was feeling physically and emotionally depleted for a variety of reasons, so I was especially looking forward to a night out with my husband. Little Squirt helped make pizza for himself and his siblings, which required a great deal of Little Squirt time. He was quite persnickety about cooking independently; painsteakingly spreading the tomato sauce over every inch of the crust; carefully placing the mozzarella shred by shred. Secretly I wanted to yell, “Just be done, already! You are not a contestant on America’s Top Chef!” But I was a pillar of patience on the outside.

Super Hubs came home as I was taking the pizzas out of the oven. I recognized the weary look on his face, and knew what he was thinking as he said, “That smells delicious! Maybe we could…..”

“Nooooo! Don’t even think about it!” I blocked his offense with my defense. “We MUST go out! I have had a long and tiresome week and I am wearing Date Night clothes. And perfume. I do not care where we go, just take me SOMEWHERE!”

So we went out for Buffalo wings and cheese fries. And I had my Mandatory Date Night Glass Of Wine. And we relaxed. And talked. And laughed. And I was reminded that he is the very best man that I’ve ever known.

Let Me Entertain You

I woke up this morning with some physical yuck-ification brewing throughout my body: Sore throat, swollen glands, general feeling of malaise. I had every intention of resting, but I needed to go grocery shopping first……then I homeschooled my two boys. After that, I meant to rest on the couch for a while, but Butterfly (16) called from school, and said she was bringing 4 friends home for lunch, and would that be okay? I have always tried to welcome my kids’ friends into our home, so I said the affirmative.

That was the point at which my Insane Perfectionism kicked in. “Butterfly’s school friends for lunch??? Oh, let me pretend I’m Martha Stewart!” I madly ran around cleaning the first floor. I popped some pizzas into the oven, and set the table with my white porcelain plates and Tuscan glasses. I placed Country French Waverly cloth napkins into wrought-iron rings on the plates and fanned them artistically. I filled a glass bowl full of clementines, and a crystal pitcher with strawberry lemonade and fresh cucumber slices. I whipped up a batch of brownies, put a fire on the hearth, and Liz Story on the CD player. My scented candle lit, I sat down in an easy chair, feeling completely spent and feverish.

Butterfly came through the door a few moments later, followed by 4 of her friends. Their eyes grew wide. They descended on the table, gorging on the food, like a flock of seagulls on the remnants of a picnic. I heard snippets of conversation: “Are we supposed to use these napkins or are they just for decoration?” “This is like eating gourmet.” “My mom just gives us paper plates!”

In thirty minutes they were finished, and ready to head back to class. Butterfly came into the library where I was resting, and whispered, “Thanks a lot, Mom! This made me feel really special.”

So it was worth it. I am an Idiot who should be resting when I am sick and not turning my home into a Four Star Restaurant for a group of teens who are fine with plastic cutlery. But my daughter felt special for an afternoon. So it was definitely worth it.

Fueled Up

My 16-year-old daughter is a “throw caution to the wind” kind of woman. Case in point: She’ll say she’s going out to lunch with friends but has no money. “Then how will you pay for your food?” I ask. “Oh, it’ll all work out,” she’ll say. How??? I think. The diner might have a Free Food Give-Away Day? You might get lucky and find a $10 bill in the parking lot? And yet somehow she’ll come home fully satiated.

Yesterday, as I was ready to drive my car to the train station to pick up Super Hubs, she warned me that the gas level in the car was "a little low.” She’d been the only one driving it for the past two days. “But you should have enough gas to get to the train station,” she reassured me. Should have enough to get to the train station?? I turned on the ignition. The gas gauge read “Empty.” It kept flashing E! E! E! I wondered what exactly that meant. Did that mean “Completely Empty?” Or “Sort of Empty?” Or “Just Think About Getting Gas Sometime In The Next Week??”

I nervously pulled out of the driveway. The nearest gas station was two miles away. Did I have at least two miles worth of gas? I had no idea. It was a new car, and I had never let the gas tank get below 1/4 of a tank. I cautiously drove down the street, one eye glued to the gauge, my mind thinking of all the ways I would punish my daughter. E! E! E!

I drove slow-ish-ly, scanning my brain to think of what I’d read about gas and cars. If you drive slowly, it conserved gas, right? Or should I drive very fast, thus getting it to the gas station before the car realized the gas was gone and stopped completely? Should I turn on the radio to distract the car from its low-fuel issue? Turn up the heat to warm it into submission? I mentally berated myself for not paying attention to most of the car/gas information Super Hubs told me. I’d found car/gas information boring. And where had it gotten me? In a car, about to run out of gas, and having no idea what to do!! My pulse raced and my palms became sweaty.

So I did the only thing I could think of. I headed down the highway and prayed. “Please oh please, Dear God, don’t let me run out of gas!” E! E! E! I played classical music to soothe myself and the car, and continued to pray. “You, the God who could part the seas for Moses can surely get this car to the gas station on Empty!” And I continued driving toward the gas station, praying and hoping and encouraging the car with sweet talk. E! E! E! The two mile drive seemed to take forever, and I was a nervous wreck the whole way. It was dark and cold and drizzly, and I SO did not want to run out of gas.

But I pulled into Amoco 10 minutes later, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. We’d made it! The car and I. I drove up to a pump and gave myself a moment of solitude. I breathed deeply, letting my pulse return to normal. I felt more deeply bonded to this car, having survived a harrowing adventure together. And I called my daughter and told her I’d made it to the gas station. “I knew you had enough gas to get there!” she said.

Boys Will Be Boys

I took Little Squirt and his friend, Nate, out to McDonald’s today. While they played in the Play Land alongside a little girl, I noticed distinct variation between the sexes.

The boys kicked off their shoes at various places in the Play Land. They dropped their coats and left them wherever they landed; Little Squirt's on a pool of spilled chocolate milk. They each grabbed a handful of fries, stuffing them into their pockets, then shimmied up the tubes and ladders playing Superheroes. They wrestled each other, slithered down the slides backwards, and whooped it up all over the Play Land, making fake burping noises.

The Girl, however, took off her coat and handed it politely to her mother. Then she unlaced her shoes one at a time, and placed them neatly together in the proper shoe container bin. She glanced up at the two rascally boys, shook her head, heaved a sigh, then proceeded up the ladder where she lectured them. “Boys, I need to tell you something. Eating up here is not allowed!” she said, as they defied her by shoveling fries into their mouths.

“I’m Spiderman! I will web you!” yelled Little Squirt. “And I’m Batman!” yelled Nate. The Girl declared herself a “Princess” and proceeded to follow them all over the Play Land, sermonizing. She forbade them to yell loudly, warned them not to go up the ladder backwards, and admonished them to be careful not to swing the rope bridge so wildly. She was clearly some undercover McDonald’s employee, sent to police the unbridled savages! I admired her gumption, because the two boys gave her a run for the money. Yet she was relentless in her attempts to govern them. "You're not following the rules!" she kept yelling with frustration.

Later, as I rounded the boys up for the ride back home, Little Squirt said to me, as I zipped up his chocolate milk jacket, “You know what, Mom? Princesses are weird!”

Break A Leg!

I’ve had a large case of “The Frantics.” My symptoms included but were not limited to: extreme anxiety, insomnia, and obsessive thoughts of “OMG, I cannot do this!” Once I received a big dose of Confidence, I was well on my way to recovery. What was the cause of my diagnosis? A church drama performance this weekend for two services; each with an audience of almost 1,000.

I was not originally cast in this particular sketch, but an actor dropped out because of a family emergency, and I stepped in. So I had only 2 days to memorize my lines; a feat that usually takes at least a week to do. So I “lived, breathed and slept” script memorization for the past 72 hours. And I stretched those old brain cells and did it!.

We had great fun in this ensemble of 6 with a terrific director. This sketch included Four Demons, An Angel and A Regular Guy. I played a Demon and performed wickedly;-). So now I am gloriously and completely emotionally drained.

I just love this Drama Team of talented, wonderful actors, who are also dear friends! I truly enjoy every minute that we hang out. Performing together is an incredibly bonding experience.

I am rewarding myself tonight for a job well done with a new episode of Desperate Housewives, a glass of pinot noir, and an early bedtime. Halleluiah!

Melancholy

Bad Bad Coupl’a Days.

1.) Took Rock Star to the orthodontist.
What the hygienist said after his appointment: “He has not been wearing his head gear as recommended. He needs to wear it for 12 hours day. Bring him back in 1 month. If there’s not significant improvement, we will apply bolts in his mouth and charge you $300.”

What I heard the hygienist say: “Since you’ve been a totally incompetent mother and have not been properly enforcing your 13-year-old’s head gear wearage 24/7, You Spineless Wimp, we will punish you both by torturing him with some mysterious painful things in his mouth, and shame you by charging $300 so you cannot afford to re-decorate your Master Bathroom as planned. You Completely Inept Loser Mother Loser.”

I’ve been upset about it two days. Angry at the orthodontics office, angry at myself, and angry at Rock Star. The only thing that has helped is M& Ms. So now my son will be being strictly monitored (because I really need my Master Bathroom redecorated.)

2.) My dog entered Petcare Dog Grooming as a dappled long-haired dachshund and exited a dapple-er short-haired dachshund. We had just asked for a trim! He got a complete buzz cut; timely for this sub-zero weather. They might as well just have shaved everything off and called him a sphinx. And now he has a new bad habit of sleeping on the furniture; a “No No” in our house. So my question is: “Is this really my dog??” Hmmmmm.

Tyrant Training

Little Squirt, my 5-year-old, is extremely strong-willed. He is also very intelligent. This combination of qualities will make for a pretty good leader of a country some day, assuming that we can guide his powers to be used for good and not for evil. More like Abraham Lincoln than Saddam Hussein, I’m hoping.

I am not strong-willed by nature. I am far too lazy. Given a conflict, I will usually roll over on my back and say, “I surrender.” (Kind of like my submissive dog, Rudy, but without the peeing-on-himself part.)

As a parent, I learn to pick my battles. And today I was choosing to put my foot down on computer time. Little Squirt had been playing far more than the amount per day recommended by the American Academy of Pediatrics. He needed to broaden his horizons beyond the internet; explore, dream, create! We had decided to limit his time to 30 minutes daily.

So I gave him fair warning and set the timer. He had 5 minutes left to play his webkins game. And that was that! I was proud of my stick-to-it-ive-ness, and went back to washing fruit in the kitchen.

Then I heard him run up the stairs……race into his bedroom…….and then pound back down the stairs again and into the computer room. Curious, I took a peek. Little Squirt glared at me as I entered; smug defiance written all over his face. “Now you can’t make me get off!” he said. My little Future Dictator had found some plastic handcuffs in his toy box, and manacled himself to the chair.

I admit I was secretly proud of his ingenuity. (But made him get off anyway, even though I needed bolt-cutters.)

To Know What Is Great In '08

I loooove new beginnings. Fresh starts. Out with the old. Which is why I am charmed by this present holiday.

I have spent past New Year’s Days plotting out resolutions designed to vastly improve my body and my house. My perfectionism rears its ugly head with impossible goals that leave me feeling defeated by February. What are the ways in which I can transform myself into a middle-aged super model?? How can I create a home environment that would be the envy of Martha Stewart; where she would visit to get ideas for her show??

But, call it uncharacteristic maturity or a growing realization that life is quickly fleeting, this New Year's Day I am thinking about how I can improve my soul. What would it look like for me to become a more loving, more beautiful person in ‘08? What are some of the areas of my character that need to be sanded down by The Master Potter?

One of the resolutions that I have made for this year is "To be more grateful." They say that “gratitude” is the antidote to “discontent.” No more grumbling for me in ’08. I desire to reach above and beyond contentment; to be overflowing with delight for all that I have. I want my eyes be opened to see all the gifts that God has given me, and to count them as I lie in bed at night. To look around at my life and say, “It is good.”

Happy New Year to you! May you be blessed beyond measure. And realize it.