Handy with a capital "H"

Have you noticed that husbands tend to fall into two categories? There are Handy husbands (with a capital "H"). These husbands build additions, remodel bathrooms and finish basements. Then there are handy husbands, (small "h"), who paint, strip wallpaper, fix leaky faucets and install ceiling fans. Come to think of it, there's a third category: hopeless. The only tools these guys use for home improvement are the telephone and the checkbook.

I would put my husband somewhere between handy and hopeless. He can paint. He can kluge. He can repair something (usually) when pressed into service. Case in point: Recently, one of our kitchen cabinet doors cracked on its hinge. Our cabinets are completely outdated, so the idea of purchasing a replacement door was out of the question.

My husband took the door off its hinge, looked at it, thought about it, consulted the helpful folks at Home Depot ("you can do it...we can help") and came home with wood glue, new hinges and a few other items I would probably misspell and mispronounce. (I can identify a hammer, a screwdriver and a drill...everything else falls into the "miscellaneous tools" category. But then he probably can't tell the difference between an adjective and an adverb, so we're even).

Within a day he had repaired and re-hung the cabinet door. And while there might be a slightly larger gap between the newly hung door and its neighbor, in my mind my husband is a home improvement hero.

Several years ago I guilted my husband into re-tiling the non-carpeted area of our finished basement. It was a small area, so rather than pay a fortune to have laminate professionally installed, I packed up my kids, took them to my parents for a long weekend, and had my husband install peel-and-stick tile. To this day he maintains that he did a lousy job, but the tiles are only slightly skewed and barely noticeable only to those sitting on the toilet in the laundry room. Again, my hero.

An item currently on our "honey-do" list is the peeling paint on our metal front door. Each time I enter I cringe and think, "Something must be done." I ran the idea of stripping, priming and re-painting the door by a few friends who all had the same suggestion: Buy a new door. When my husband and I discussed this option, we (okay he) decided that buying a new door was one thing but framing and installing it was beyond his capability. Back to option A.

Visiting the charming folks at Lowes ("Let's build something together!") my husband returned home with paint stripper, putty knives, drill attachments, primer and paint. The long weekend forecast was for cool, sunny weather, so my husband decided to combine two tasks in one: peeling, stripping, priming and painting both the front door and the bulkhead. Bright and early Saturday morning, my husband applied paint stripper and was cheerfully scraping loose paint off the front door. The rest of us went about our day. My older son went to a friend's house and my younger son came with me to run errands. Several hours later, we returned home to find my husband tired, sweaty, groaning in pain and still scraping loose paint off the front door. Attending a party that night, a friend's husband (who's a capital "H" kind of guy) admitted that he would have probably just bought the new door.

Day two brought more door scraping, some cleaning and then a fresh coat of primer (which needed 24 hours to set). For the rest of the day, my husband continued scraping and peeling the bulkhead. By the end of the day, my husband was popping Motrin and grumbling under his breath. Day three finally brought an end to our home improvement project. With both the bulkhead and front door freshly painted, my husband stood back and surveyed his handiwork. Purchasing a new door would have been infinitely easier. Certainly less time consuming, but definitely not as "green" (there's one less door in the landfill). But I'm proud of my husband's achievement. And while he might not be handy with a capital "H", he certainly gives new meaning to the term Labor Day Weekend.

Doin' the Back to School Happy Dance

What’s that sound? Do you hear it? That tapping? Is it a woodpecker? It’s getting louder.

Oh, I know what it is… It’s the sound of mothers all over town doing the happy dance. The day beloved by parents everywhere (and bemoaned by children alike) is finally here. Let me savor these words: First…day…of…school. Ahhh.

Has anyone witnessed the happy dance first hand? It’s quite precise, you know. The mother walks her child to the bus stop for the first (and probably only) time this year. She greets the bus driver and wishes her child a great first day of school as he or she trudges up the steps and finds a seat. The door closes with a whoosh, and as the bus pulls away the mother waves to her child, a mixture of nostalgia and sadness playing around the edges of her brave smile.

At which point the bus turns the corner and the mother suddenly morphs into Rocky Balboa, pumping her fists into the air in victory and crying, “Yes, yes, YES!”

Okay, I know, there are many of you out there wishing for a few more days; lamenting the cold, rainy weather we suffered through most of June (and much of July). “If only we could just have a few more weeks of summer,” you cry. “If only we could take a few more day trips, eat a few more ice cream cones, get to the beach one last time.” My response is this: Pull it together and get over it. School is here and by this time next week you’ll be seeing things my way

I’ll admit there are advantages to summer vacation. But I’ll trade my mornings of sleeping late with mornings at the gym (with no children in tow). I’ll swap the constant fighting and bickering between my two boys (“Mom, I’m trying to play the Wii and he’s looking at me. Make him stop.”) with sitting at the table for a few hours each night, keeping my kids on track with their homework. I’ll trade late afternoons at the beach for soccer practice and Lego Robotics (less chance of sunburn and no sand to vacuum). I’ll gladly forgo my trips to the zoo, museum and arcade for the chance to buy toilet paper at Wal-Mart without a detour to the toy department.

Yes, there are things I didn’t accomplish this summer. I did not strip the wallpaper in my bathroom. I did not paint my hallway to match the living room that was painted three summers ago. And, as my kids have reminded me about a thousand times now, we did not make it to Canobie Lake Park. But we can still look forward to the weekends. Many of them, I’m sure, will be warm and sunny enough to squeeze in a few more activities.

And if that’s not enough to comfort you…there’s always Monday. Labor Day. Sleep as late as you want.

My Turn to Be The House Guest

Last week I wrote about being the host to houseguests. This week I am the houseguest. I write this column from Central New York, where my father-in-law is celebrating his 70th birthday. Such a milestone warrants a visit from family, so we loaded up our van with luggage and gifts and junk food and headed west.

With Ben Franklin’s quote in mind (fish and houseguests), we decide to break up our trip by staying no more than three days in a row at my in-laws. From there we will spend one night in Niagara Falls, back to the in-laws for two more nights, and then a night in Cooperstown on the way home. Hopefully this plan will reduce any houseguest stink we might generate.

Unlike my own guests, we arrive at 5:00 p.m., the exact time we predicted. Except there’s no one home. The house is locked up tighter than Fort Knox and my husband’s spare key is on his key ring back in Hanover. Then it starts to rain. Okay kids, back in the van. Ha ha, isn’t this fun? Luckily my father-in-law arrives within a few minutes, having driven down to the village to pick up the mail (yes, they still have villages here in Central New York, and even some hamlets too).

We haul in our stuff as my mother-in-law arrives with several dozen bags of groceries. Hugs all around. By the time our luggage is unpacked and the groceries put away, it is past six o’clock, the time when my children typically eat dinner. We chat and catch up on our lives and finally someone says,” I guess we should get dinner started” as my kids begin to gnaw off their own fingers. After another trip down to the village for local corn, my father-in-law throws some of his special, homemade burgers on the grill and we finally sit down to dinner (it’s 7:45 by the way). I am the guest this week, so I can’t really complain about the difference in meal schedules. We are thrusting ourselves into their lives. I count myself lucky that my in-laws are retired. When they were working full time they sometimes wouldn’t eat dinner until 10.

We opt not to shower the kids before bed since the water pressure in my in-laws house is quite low. Showering is a little like standing in a fine mist, and if someone accidentally flushes the toilet or washes their hands, you’re either scalded with the needle-like mist or the water stops altogether. If you just stand there for several minutes, covered in suds, eventually the spray will resume.

When it’s time to turn in, my kids bed down in the spare bedroom while my husband and I sleep in his old room. We open the one window in our room that has a screen (there are wasps building a nest inside the other window, so lets just leave that one shut, shall we?) I think our mattress was constructed pre-WWI, and as my husband and I involuntarily roll towards each other in the middle, (are there any springs left in this thing?) I think that this is what I deserve for making my sister and her kids sleep on that horrible, pullout sofa in our basement last week.

On the upside, my in-laws live on a farm, so there is always something interesting to do. My children, who can’t be bothered to pick up their clothes, shove each other out of the way to get to the barn to clean up horse poop. High up on the hillside there are fossils to be found, trilobites to discover with a hammer and chisel. The neighbor’s bull has escaped, so if we’re lucky we’ll get a firsthand look at a tranquilizer gun in action.

I sympathize with my sister who had to wrangle her two little ones for (gulp) five days, away from their comfort zone, having to conform to my routine. For the next two days, my family and I will adapt to my in-laws’ schedule. We will make ourselves both helpful and unobtrusive. We will drink half-caff coffee (ouch) and send the kids outside when they decide its time to beat on each other. Because that’s what good guests do. And if I learn anything this week it’s that payback’s a…

Well, you know.

The House Guests of August

Benjamin Franklin was quoted as saying, "Houseguests, like fish, begin to smell after three days."

I'd never try to prove this theory with fish (eat it or toss it), but last weekend I tested the houseguest part when my sister and her family came to stay for several days. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy having guests. It gives me an excuse to clean my house (and not just shove items into nearby closets or under sofa cushions.) I also like planning activities that will enhance my guests' visit. Just call me Julie McCoy (does that make my husband Gopher?)

The purpose of this visit? My brother-in-law was playing in a disc golf tournament in western Massachusetts. He planned to drive from New Jersey to our house, drop my sister, my five-year-old niece and my three-year-old nephew in Hanover (along with fifty-odd suitcases, tote bags, car seats and umbrella strollers) and then head off to the tournament, camping out for three or four days.

Originally my guests were due to leave the Garden State on Wednesday morning, arriving at my house sometime later in the day. Then the departure time was delayed due to an MRI for my brother-in-law's knee (too much disc golf.) They told me not to wait on them for dinner. Then the MRI was cancelled. (Eek! Were they coming earlier? The house wasn't ready. What would I feed them for dinner?) As I began hyperventilating, my sister called to say they were still leaving late morning. Whew. Then that afternoon, around 4 o'clock, I got a message from my sister: "Hi, we're just leaving now...see you in six hours." Hmmm. Would they arrive before I fell asleep? Would her kids be wide awake at midnight? Would mine? The answers were yes, yes and yes.

Thursday, Day 1: Rain. So much for my idea of the playground and a walk through Scituate. Breakfast was a challenge, trying to calculate how much bacon and pancakes to cook for four extra people. Do we have enough plates? Where's that extra chair? Was that a smirk I caught on my brother-in-law's face as he installed his kids' car seats into my mini-van and escaped to his tournament? Oh my gosh, it's all on me now. Uh, how about the arcade? My kids played shooting games, the little kids played Spider Stomp and Skee-Ball and everyone left with chintzy prizes and Dum Dum lollipops. Success. Dinner was a huge pot of my homemade spaghetti sauce since my sister mentioned her kids loved my spaghetti. Turns out her kids just love the spaghetti. No sauce. Huh.

Friday, Day 2: Bright and sunny, the perfect day to spend inside the Museum of Science. After a quick breakfast, I made what seemed like six dozen sandwiches and we were off. Navigating the museum was fun, but tricky. My niece was content to follow her older cousins from one exhibit to the next, but my three-year-old nephew was the wild card. I forget how sore your neck can get when it whips around constantly, trying to keep track of a little one. Exhausting as it was, the kids enjoyed the museum. My sister, however, asked to stop at the local liquor store to get the ingredients for margaritas.

Saturday, Day 3: Another sunny day, and my husband home to boot. Chaos loves company. After a breakfast of waffles and bacon where I ran out of both flour and baking powder (thank God for my neighbor, Cindy), we loaded up the car and headed for the beach. Packing 12 dozen more sandwiches, boogie boards, skim boards, chairs, buckets, towels, shovels and an umbrella, we headed to Duxbury. Though I was worried about comparisons to the smooth, sandy, warm-water beaches of New Jersey, the beach gods were smiling on us that day. The water was warm, our section of the beach wasn't overcrowded and we arrived at low tide, perfect for the little kids. Any illusions my husband might have had about a relaxing day in the beach chair with his Sports Illustrated were shattered by my niece and nephew's non-stop requests to jump in the waves, hold their boogie boards steady, play catch, build sandcastles and look for crabs. That night, the margarita ingredients dipped dangerously low.

Sunday, Day 4: What's that smell? Oh, it's my nephew. As he backs up towards me with the words, "I made a poopy, will you change it?” I send him in search of his mother (sorry, I did my doody duty, I'm done.) I make 60 dozen sandwiches for today's destination, the YMCA outdoor pool. Once again we pack up towels, swimsuits, Cheez-its, sippy cups and goggles and head to the YMCA. Most days my kids and I park ourselves near the deep pool but today it's nothing but Mushroom Pool. Ah, to relive those days of standing in suspiciously warm, ankle-deep water while the kids frolic under the giant mushroom. I look longingly at my lounge chair and library book as the lifeguard reminds me to stay within arms length of my nephew. I zoom my niece through the water around and around until I feel nauseous, only to have her shriek "Again, auntie, again!" Is there any tequila left in that bottle? Do we need more limes?

That night, my brother-in-law returned from his tournament tired, sweaty and in need of a shower (ironically, Ben Franklin's three day rule applied to the one person who hadn't been our houseguest, but that was mainly due to the lack of showering facilities at the campground). Our guests treated us to dinner at Beijing House (Mai-Tais all around) and I could finally imagine what my house would be like when my guests headed home. Too quiet? Too empty? Too boring?

Oh well, I’ll just have to suck it up and make my own margaritas.

The Joys of a Summer Lemonade Stand

Ah, the joys of a summer lemonade stand.

A few years ago, my children begged me to let them run a lemonade stand. They must have seen one of their favorite television characters doing this (and you can be sure that high jinks ensued.) A lemonade stand ranks second on the list of things I dread orchestrating, topped only by hosting a Halloween party (yes, we've done that too. You'll read about it in a few months.)

Finally I caved. I bought the cups and the lemonade (Frozen from concentrate. Who wants to drink homemade lemonade? If you're going to pony up fifty cents you might as well get something palatable). I hauled out the table and placed it under our shade tree by the road. I made neon poster board signs and hung them on either end of our street. I stopped by the bank and got a roll of quarters and some singles, in order to make change.

Are you noticing a pattern to any of the aforementioned sentences? Yes, the key word is "I". I did all the prep work. I mixed up the lemonade. I even baked a batch of my incredible, homemade chocolate chip cookies, since the kids felt a free cookie would sweeten the deal (Who wants to eat store-bought cookies? If you're going to pony up fifty cents you might as well get something palatable.)

With everything in place, my children sat down at the end of our driveway and shouted to any and all passing cars "Ice cold lemonade, fifty cents a glaaaaaa-aaaass. Free cookie with every purchase." A carnival barker would have been proud. I, of course, had to station myself in the front yard to discourage any would-be kidnappers from driving off with my children. As cars zoomed by, I was affronted. Who wouldn't want to stop and help out a couple of budding entrepreneurs? (Forgetting of course the many times I myself had zoomed past other people's kids hawking lemonade).

Eventually, however, the cars began to slow and then stop. Kindhearted strangers (and more than a few friends) decided a nice cold glass of lemonade (don't forget the free cookie) would certainly hit the spot. Most people told my children to keep the change, and by the end of the day my kids had earned about forty bucks. Jackpot!

I wish I could tell you that my children were altruistic in their endeavor. I read all these stories about wonderful, kind-hearted children who donate all their lemonade proceeds to the local food pantry or the animal shelter or the American Cancer Society. How proud those parents must be of their little philanthropists-in-training. What a wonderful beginning of a lifetime of service to others.

My children, on the other hand, begged me to take them to the toy store as soon as we were done counting the money so they could blow the whole wad on Transformers. Sigh.

As I write this, I am taking my last batch of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. The signs are made, the lemonade is cooling in the downstairs fridge and my kids are gearing up to hawk their wares.

This summer, however, will be different. This summer the proceeds will not be spent on a bunch of Transformers.

This summer, in all likelihood, the money will be blown on Legos.

Addendum: The sale was a success, in large part due to a mass email sent to friends, suggesting they might like to detour by our house during their daily travels. Social networking at its best! Thanks to all the kind strangers who stopped and supported their endeavor as well. And finally, both children decided to donate a portion of their loot to buying food for the Food Pantry. There's hope for them yet.

It Wouldn't Be Summer Without Mayonnaise

I would like to take a moment to applaud my Mariner colleague, Dana Forsythe, of "Fat-To-Fit" fame. Dana is currently trying to do something that I would never have the courage to attempt: Lose weight in the summertime.

Now summer seems a logical time to try and lose weight. We're outdoors much more, so theoretically we're more active (swimming, walking, biking, etc.). We wear much less clothing than the rest of the year, so we have a vested interest in making those exposed body parts more appealing. And with the abundance of summer fruits, vegetables and grilled meat and fish, healthy eating habits should be a snap.

So why is it so difficult to lose weight during the summer? I have my theories.

First of all, when my children are home from school, it is much harder to get to the gym. Therefore, my exercise routine goes out the window. Its no fun being pulled out of spin class only to be told that your child is vomiting in the hall sink (yes, that happened to me once.) Or worse, that your child has bitten another child in the day care (and that other child just happened to be the instructor's son). Better to wait until school starts again and then hop back into my gym ritual.

Secondly, every weekend seems to bring another party, barbecue or neighborhood get-together. Ample opportunity to sample my friend's hamburgers, hot dogs, shish kebobs, baked beans, etc. Not to mention all those cool, fruity summer beverages that are offered. Who can say no to an ice-cold margarita at the end of the day? I can't.

Then there's vacation. Whether you travel for a week or a weekend, food obstacles wait at every turn when you are away from home, and the mentality of "I'm on vacation" forgives even the most egregious food choices (Deep dried Oreos? Why not?) And as for those healthy summer fruits? Well, they do make the tastiest pies and cobblers, which can only be fully appreciated when topped with a scoop of ice cream. And speaking of ice cream, what summer day would be complete without a trip to JC's, the Dairy Twist or Far-Far's for an after supper treat?

During the summer I allow myself the one food item I deny myself the rest of the year: mayonnaise. All the best summer foods are made with mayonnaise. Potato salad? Mayonnaise. Macaroni salad? Mayonnaise. Egg salad, chicken salad, and cole slaw? Yup, yup and yes ma'am! And for the record why do they call them deviled eggs when they taste so heavenly? A good friend of mine enjoys mayonnaise to the point of being tempted to eat it right out of the jar. Every burger and sandwich she orders must come with an extra side of mayonnaise. This supports another friend's theory that food is just a vehicle for condiments. If mayo be the food of love, slather on!

You can argue that it’s harder to lose weight during the winter when we are tempted by comfort foods like soups, stews and macaroni and cheese. In cold weather we can camouflage our bodies with bulky sweaters and multiple layers. But think about it. If God intended us to lose weight in the summer, then why did he create New Year’s resolutions?


So good luck to you, Dana. I applaud your dedication and willpower. I raise my margarita glass (and my Hellmann's jar) in salute to you.

A Staycation to Write Home About

In 2009 the Merriam-Webster dictionary added the term "staycation, defining the word as "a vacation spent at home or nearby". In this summer of recession, many are opting to stay home by the pool or the beach rather than take an expensive vacation. We sometimes forget that some of the most beautiful and interesting places are less than an hour's drive away.

This past weekend I took my family on a "daycation" (okay a day trip) to Salem. Breaking free from our South Shore cocoon, we figured we'd see what that other shore had to offer. My last trip to Salem was almost ten years ago. My sisters were visiting from out of town and we thought it would be fun to check out one of the haunted house attractions (with my two-year-old in tow). Chasing after my son as he fled the premises was not one of my finer parenting moments, and so I hadn't been back to Salem since.

Now that my children are eight and eleven, Salem seemed a more manageable expedition. We began our day at the Peabody-Essex museum. The admission fee for adults was seriously discounted (thanks to a pass from The John Curtis Library) and our kids were free. Our first stop in the museum was an incredible exhibit called Trash Menagerie. The exhibit featured a variety of animals, insects, fish and other creatures made from recycled trash and other found objects. The rabbit made from cigarette filters and an insect made from Singer sewing machine parts fascinated my kids. With lots of hands-on activities, this was the perfect way to start our visit.

Our next stop was the Yin Yu Tang house, a 200-year old Chinese house that was dismantled, shipped and completely rebuilt inside the museum. Stepping across the threshold was like stepping back in time, and the free self-guided audio tour gave us a wealth of facts about what it was like living in such a home in China. My kids loved the koi fish but were less than thrilled to learn that the children of the house were the ones who emptied the various chamber pots.

After our tour of Yin Yu Tang, we wandered through the rest of the museum, viewing everything from photographs of surfers to figureheads from old sailing ships to a wedding dress made entirely of seashells. When my younger son accidentally triggered an alarm, we decided it was a good time to leave and have our lunch.

We timed our visit perfectly as the town common was the site of the Salem Culture Fest, a gathering of artists, artisans, musicians and other unusual vendors. With the smell of patchouli wafting past, we sat on the grass, listening to music and eating our picnic lunch. At one point, a group of adults and children set up a tent nearby, carrying armloads of gauzy, brightly colored scarves. We assumed they were vendors preparing to sell their wares, but then everyone in the group grabbed a scarf in each hand and began swaying and waving them in unison. Interpretive dance? Religious cult? Whatever they were, it was our cu e to finish lunch and move on.

After lunch we wandered down to the waterfront, stopping briefly at Crow Haven Corner, the oldest Witch shop in Salem (more patchouli, lots of candles and a Chihuahua at the front counter greeting customers). We worked up a sweat walking out to the small, square lighthouse on Derby Wharf, so the kids cooled down with enormous ice cream cones from a nearby cafe. Passing by the Witch Trials Memorial we eavesdropped on a tour guide's description of the panic and hysteria that gripped Salem in 1692 and cost twenty men and women their lives.

As we walked back to our car at the end of the day, the kids caught glimpses of the Pirate museum, the Wax museum and several other attractions we hadn't had time to see. "Can we please come back to Salem again soon?" they pleaded as we headed for the highway. My husband and I exchanged a satisfied grin. Our daycation to Salem, Witch Capital of the World, was a "wicked" success.

Thank God for Summer Camp

All hail the summer savior, that lifeline I have come to call "mother's little helper". I'm referring, of course, to summer camp.

I have friends who can't wait for school to let out. Partially due to the release from homework, lunches and bus schedules but mainly because they can't wait for their children to be home with them 24/7. In June, a friend of mine and a mother of four children asked me "Aren't you looking forward to having your kids home with you all the time?" to which I replied "Hell no!" Now, I love my children, and I enjoy spending time with them, but the problem lies with spending time with them together. My kids love nothing better than to needle each other, which leads to complaints, whining, tears, tattling and eventually someone's hands on the other's body. Which leads to more complaints, whining, tears, tattling and...well you get the picture.

And that's where summer camp comes in. Wedged in between our trips to the beach, Canobie Lake Park, the movies, relatives and the zoo are those blissful weeks when someone else is responsible for enriching my children's lives. For those few short hours, I can feel confident that my children are exercising their bodies and their minds, away from the temptation of video games, television and the computer. (And when I say temptation, I mean my temptation. After enough begging, pleading and cajoling, I tend to cave, especially if I am trying to get something done).

Planning for summer camp is my favorite winter activity. I mean really, who doesn't love trying to envision your entire summer schedule in the dead of winter? Let's spin the roulette wheel and try to guess which camp my children will feel like attending in five months. Will it be nature camp? The YMCA? Park & Rec? Choose wisely my friend, because if you hesitate there is someone right behind you, hungry for your child's spot.
My younger son is pretty easygoing when it comes to camp, so this year he opted for Park and Rec. His counselor was great, he had friends in his group, and his only major complaint was that there seemed to be an unusual shortage of Italian Ices (perhaps the boat from Italy was held up in customs? Or maybe Italian Ices are out of season.)

My older son is a bit more challenging when it comes to camp. He's not a sports enthusiast, and he's done nature camp for several years. So this year we chose College Academy (or as my friend refers to it: Bill Gates Camp. Yeah, Bill Gates is a geek but he's the world's richest geek, so I say bring it on!) My son has been enjoying days filled with cartooning, video production and something called "Going Green" a class that focuses on recycling. And yes, Fantasy Adventures (a generic title for Dungeons and Dragons). Say what you will, but each day when he steps off the bus and I ask about his day, his reply always begins with "Great!"

One year I re-painted my entire living room during the first two days of summer camp, which set the bar for summers to come. Since then, I've always made a mental list of all the things I'll get to once the kids are in camp. (Forget about the fact that I never got to these things while the kids were in school). Stripping wallpaper, weeding flower beds and re-painting trim were all projects I had hoped to achieve in the weeks when my children were at camp. Yet when a friend would call, luring me to the beach or to lunch or a quick trip to Boston, I'd always allow myself to be swayed, thinking that there would be plenty of other camp days to get my to-do list done.

And now that my younger son is finished with Park and Rec, and my older son has just a week of camp left, did I accomplish any of these tasks?

Umm...let's just say these will be wonderful, enriching, bonding activities my children and I can do together in the remaining weeks of summer.

The Magic of Harry Potter

All hail the summer savior, that lifeline I have come to call "mother's little helper". I'm referring, of course, to summer camp.

I have friends who can't wait for school to let out. Partially due to the release from homework, lunches and bus schedules but mainly because they can't wait for their children to be home with them 24/7. In June, a friend of mine and a mother of four children asked me "Aren't you looking forward to having your kids home with you all the time?" to which I replied "Hell no!" Now, I love my children, and I enjoy spending time with them, but the problem lies with spending time with them together. My kids love nothing better than to needle each other, which leads to complaints, whining, tears, tattling and eventually someone's hands on the other's body. Which leads to more complaints, whining, tears, tattling and...well you get the picture.

And that's where summer camp comes in. Wedged in between our trips to the beach, Canobie Lake Park, the movies, relatives and the zoo are those blissful weeks when someone else is responsible for enriching my children's lives. For those few short hours, I can feel confident that my children are exercising their bodies and their minds, away from the temptation of video games, television and the computer. (And when I say temptation, I mean my temptation. After enough begging, pleading and cajoling, I tend to cave, especially if I am trying to get something done).

Planning for summer camp is my favorite winter activity. I mean really, who doesn't love trying to envision your entire summer schedule in the dead of winter? Let's spin the roulette wheel and try to guess which camp my children will feel like attending in five months. Will it be nature camp? The YMCA? Park & Rec? Choose wisely my friend, because if you hesitate there is someone right behind you, hungry for your child's spot.
My younger son is pretty easygoing when it comes to camp, so this year he opted for Park and Rec. His counselor was great, he had friends in his group, and his only major complaint was that there seemed to be an unusual shortage of Italian Ices (perhaps the boat from Italy was held up in customs? Or maybe Italian Ices are out of season.)

My older son is a bit more challenging when it comes to camp. He's not a sports enthusiast, and he's done nature camp for several years. So this year we chose College Academy (or as my friend refers to it: Bill Gates Camp. Yeah, Bill Gates is a geek but he's the world's richest geek, so I say bring it on!) My son has been enjoying days filled with cartooning, video production and something called "Going Green" a class that focuses on recycling. And yes, Fantasy Adventures (a generic title for Dungeons and Dragons). Say what you will, but each day when he steps off the bus and I ask about his day, his reply always begins with "Great!"

One year I re-painted my entire living room during the first two days of summer camp, which set the bar for summers to come. Since then, I've always made a mental list of all the things I'll get to once the kids are in camp. (Forget about the fact that I never got to these things while the kids were in school). Stripping wallpaper, weeding flower beds and re-painting trim were all projects I had hoped to achieve in the weeks when my children were at camp. Yet when a friend would call, luring me to the beach or to lunch or a quick trip to Boston, I'd always allow myself to be swayed, thinking that there would be plenty of other camp days to get my to-do list done.

And now that my younger son is finished with Park and Rec, and my older son has just a week of camp left, did I accomplish any of these tasks?

Umm...let's just say these will be wonderful, enriching, bonding activities my children and I can do together in the remaining weeks of summer.

Memories of Michael Jackson

This week there were several “celebrity” deaths reported but none as shocking or surprising as that of Michael Jackson. While I wouldn’t call myself a fan (I’m not one of those hysterical girls you saw crying uncontrollably at his concerts) I will say that I had an appreciation for his talent.

The first record I ever bought was “Rockin’ Robin” by Michael Jackson. My friend Patti Mirenna sold it to me for fifty cents (unbeknownst to the real owner, her older sister Jolene.) I played that 45 over and over, listening as the music mixed with the pops and scratches of the vinyl. (Remember 45s? You had to put that little yellow adapter in the middle otherwise the record would slide all over your turntable making the music sound even more psychedelic than usual.) Although I enjoyed The Jackson 5, I was really more of an Osmond Family fan. Michael Jackson had the pipes but Donny Osmond was dreamy.

Fast-forward a decade to December 1983. I spent the first half of my junior year of college studying abroad. Spending time in France, England and several other European countries left me significantly out of the loop when it came to American pop culture. Returning home after four months in Europe, my sisters pounced on me not to find out about the latest Paris fashions, or whether the men in Italy really pinched your butt as you walked by. The first thing they asked me was “Have you seen Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’?” Of course I hadn’t; the phenomenon had not yet reached European shores, and so we plunked ourselves down in front of MTV for what seemed like hours (and probably was) and waited for the next showing. (Remember those days before the Internet and YouTube when you had to wait for something to be shown? For that matter, remember when MTV actually showed music videos?)

Of course I was blown away by the music, the dancing and the special effects, but most of all by Michael Jackson himself. Clearly he was a visionary when it came to music, but even more so when it came to showmanship. The “Thriller” album went on to become the highest selling album of all time and a superstar suddenly became an icon.

Over the years my admiration for Michael Jackson’s talent was tempered by his increasingly odd behavior: A chimpanzee for a best friend; purchasing the Elephant Man’s bones (and even more disturbing, purchasing the Beatle’s music.) A hyperbaric chamber installed in his amusement park of a home; the allegations by young boys. And through it all, the ever-changing face of Michael Jackson. A friend’s daughter once innocently asked, “How did Michael Jackson go from being a black man to a white woman?” How indeed?

For many, the passing of Michael Jackson will be one of those “Where were you when you heard…” events. I was on my way to TJ Maxx to find a dress for my husband’s reunion. When I heard the news, I wandered through the store, telling anyone who passed that Michael Jackson had died. I guess I needed others to share my disbelief, to validate the shock I felt. How could such an iconic figure be gone so suddenly?

As millions mourn, I join them in recognizing the loss of an immense talent. Despite the financial woes, legal battles and bizarre behavior, I will try to remember the Michael Jackson whose voice first entertained me for hours on a cheap turntable and entertained the world for nearly five decades.