TV's Version of "History"

My children are huge history buffs.

“History”, of course, being defined by what they see on television’s The History Channel. You might be familiar with this channel. When it first aired on cable, people used to refer to it as The Hitler Channel, since 90% of their programming seemed to be documentaries about World War II.

Over the years The History Channel has broadened its programming to include an enormous assortment of shows, many which I question as being relative to “history”.
True, there are still the documentaries about WWII. Last week the channel held a Veteran’s Day marathon of the program “Patton 360”, a series which focuses on the battles led by “Old Blood and Guts” himself, mixing archival footage, interviews with veterans and state of the art 3-D animation. My kids were riveted, and I must admit that I got sucked into the Battle of the Bulge episode.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that my kids have an interest in history. Last year, my younger son was given the “class historian” award from his third grade teacher. She commended him for knowing so much about history, to the point where she learned from him. Often, my kids will spout some piece of information about the Mayans or Pompeii or the San Francisco earthquake or some other historical reference and when I ask them where they learned that, the answer is almost always, “From the History Channel.”

So the truly historical information they are retaining is wonderful. My younger son is talking about wanting to become a historian when he grows up. Although their interest in history is being sparked by a television channel, they are expanding that interest with books and other resources. All well and good.

However, it’s the other programming on The History Channel that I question. For example, they can identify almost every type of military weapon, modern or antique, from watching shows like “Lock and Load with R. Lee Ermey” and “Top Shot”. There’s something about my nine-year-old being able to tell an M16 from an AK-47 that makes me uneasy. This is history?

And then there’s “Monster Quest”, the program that delves into the history of Bigfoot, Birdzilla, The Jersey Devil, giant killer snakes, dragons and the Chupacabra (not to mention several other monsters I’ve never heard of). “Ice Road Truckers” follows truckers in Alaska who haul supplies across a 350-mile highway made of frozen lakes and permafrost. Since the frozen highway lasts for only 8 weeks, a spin-off series entitled “IRT: Deadliest Highways” takes these truckers to India to let them drive trucks along the narrowest mountain passes. When I ask my kids how this pertains to history, they parrot back the History Channel’s catchphrase, “Mom, it’s history made every day.”

Personally, I do enjoy “Pawn Stars”, a series about a family-owned pawn shop in Las Vegas. It’s kind of like PBS’s “Antiques Road Show”, only not as classy (Hey, it’s Vegas). People bring in items ranging from old motorcycles to Pez dispensers, though the items are secondary to the grouchy banter between the three generations of men who run the place. In each episode, Chumlee, a bumbling employee, is guaranteed to break something or screw up in some way. Hilarity ensues.

For those who like their antiques on the less seedy side, there’s “American Pickers” which follows antique store owners Mike and Frank as they travel cross country in their van searching for found treasure to be “picked” from other people’s attics, basements, barns and sheds. My big mistake was watching this show before heading to the Brimfield antique fair. Every dented, oil can and rusty tin sign caught my eye, practically shouting “What, you’re going to pass me by? If Frank were here, he’d buy me.” My in-laws have several buildings full of stuff. I’m tempted to drop a dime on them with the Pickers.

I guess we’re a History Channel household. There’s something for everyone, whether you prefer the gloom and doom of “Nostradamus” and “Life after People”, the Ragin’ Cajun folk on “Swamp People” (“...Clint Landry owns a turtle farm and camp where he and his buddies like to swim in the alligator-infested bayou and play pranks on each other…”) or just a good, old-fashioned documentary on the Third Reich. And though I sometimes question the “historical” aspect of some of its programs, it’s a heck of an improvement over the tripe being shown on Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network.

Hmm. There’s an idea. Maybe we can get the cast of “iCarly” or “The Suite Life of Zack and Cody” to go bayou swimming with the Swamp people. Now that would make history.

What Moms Do

Last week I read a news story about a political candidate’s mother stealing a lawn sign bearing the name of her son’s opponent. My first reaction was to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Then I imagined the embarrassment the mother must have felt, being caught red-handed. Add in the embarrassment of the political candidate, who will now be known as “… that guy whose Mommy stole a sign for him on election day.” How do you live that down in your political career?

After reading the entire article, it became clear that the mother was embarrassed, the son disavowed any involvement in the incident and I was left thinking about the things that we mothers do for our children.

Granted, I have never stolen a political sign for my child (I did take one once just for fun, but I had had a drink or two and the name on the sign was just too tempting: Herb Lemon. Political candidate? Or chicken dish?) I’ve also never hired a hit man to bump off the mother of one of my child’s sports rivals, as Wanda Holloway did in Texas in 1991. Holloway thought that if she killed the mother of her daughter’s cheerleading rival, the girl would be so overcome with grief she’d drop out of the competition for a coveted place on the cheerleading squad.

The movies are full of female characters that go to great lengths for their children: Barbara Stanwyck as “Stella Dallas”, Joan Crawford’s “Mildred Pierce”, and of course Shirley MacLaine’s frantic turn around the nurse’s station, screaming for her daughter’s medication in “Terms of Endearment”. Though I haven’t had histrionics in the middle of a hospital, I do try to be the “squeaky wheel” when it comes to being an advocate for my child.

Here’s the problem. We all want to do everything we can for our children. But each day is a balancing act of just how much is too much? We don’t want to be classified as a helicopter mom, the ones who hover constantly over everything their child does. But childhood can be a minefield of tricky situations. When should we step and in when should we step back?

For example, if my child has an issue with another child, my first inclination is to let them work it out themselves. As long as my child isn’t being bullied or abused, it’s healthy to let them try to work out the situation without parent intervention. However, if that other child crosses the line, I have no qualms about picking up the phone and speaking with the teacher, or the other child’s parent. I would expect that parent to do the same if their child was on the receiving end and my kid was to blame (and guess what…I have gotten those phone calls. They are not fun.)

Homework is another issue. My friend, who is a mom herself, always asks me how many hours my parents spent cracking the whip while I did my homework. My parents were always available if I needed help, but they operated under the general assumption that I was completing my homework each day, on my own (I was). There was no constant redirecting of my attention to the books; they simply asked me if my homework was finished before I went to bed. Maybe this hands-off, sink-or-swim approach would work better than the constant badgering directed at my 7th grader each night.

When it comes to academics, social situations, sports and other activities, we just want our kids to do well and feel good about themselves. But what about those times when they do poorly? What about those times when they don’t feel good about themselves? When a child gets cut from a sports team, receives a poor grade on a test, or is not invited to a birthday party, do we step in and try to “fix” it or do we use it as a teaching moment? The road ahead is full of challenges. Do we soften the blow now or do we let them toughen up for those situations in their future when they will really be challenged.

There is no right or wrong answer. Some of us will hover. Others will let their kids tough it out on their own. I try to look to my own mother as an example. She didn’t steal lawn signs or hire hit men or call my teachers every week. She didn’t demand to know why I wasn’t invited to birthday parties or try to scrounge up some long lost cousin for a prom date. She didn’t chase the neighborhood boys away with threats, but she did visit my 8th grade principal to stop a classmate who was bullying me. She didn’t hover, but in everything she ever said or did for me, she let me know just how much she loved and supported me.

What better example to follow than that?

Trying to Live in the Moment

I love the fall. It’s my favorite season. Every year at this time, I drive through the streets of my town and marvel at the incredible palate of colors on display. Each day brings more beautiful colors than the one before, and I consider myself truly blessed to live amongst such a breathtaking display of nature. There’s something about an October sky that sets off these leaves to their best advantage. It seems as if the outline of each leaf stands out against the sharp, blue sky. Indian summer is always nice, but my favorite part of the season is the crisp cool air with just a hint of wood smoke. The air is also filled with the scent of dried leaves, and they make a crunching, shushing sound as you walk through them.

It’s true that I complain about our bitterly cold winters and our hot, humid summers. But I know that if I moved to an area with a different climate, I would miss those few weeks each year when the trees change from shades of green to rich hues of gold and red and orange.

Alas, I’ve noticed lately that there are now more leaves on the ground than on the trees. Thanks to a few rainy, windy days, many of the trees have shed most of their leaves. My front lawn is completely covered with leaves. At this point in the season, the beauty of fall suddenly becomes tinged with a bittersweet sadness. Rather than enjoying the last few days of nature’s unique art show, I begin envisioning bare branches, icy cold weather and a winter that seems to last for eternity.

Why do I have such a hard time appreciating the “now”? Why can’t I just live in the moment and not try to rush whatever might be in store for me tomorrow?

This is a common problem for me. I prepare a meal and, rather than taking my time to enjoy it, I rush through it to get to the next item on my “to do” list (in this case, clearing the table and loading the dishwasher). When I go to the theater to see a much anticipated movie, I check my watch several times throughout, wanting to get this experience “done” rather than just enjoying each minute of it. When my children were little I wished that they could be just a little bit older, so they could do more for themselves. Now they’re rapidly approaching the age where they won’t need me for much more than a ride to the mall and some cash for their wallets.

Maybe I should blame it on society. My first column dealt with the fact that people consider July 4th the mid-point of summer. Before the true mid-point of summer arrives, stores are touting their “back to school” items. This year I saw my first Christmas commercial on October 10th. We hadn’t even reached Halloween yet and suddenly it’s time to get ready for Christmas. We worry about our third grader’s MCAS results because one day (ten years in the future) that same score may prevent them from graduating high school. So can you blame me for having a hard time appreciating the “now”?

My friend Julianne is a Health and Wellness coach. Part of her mantra is to focus on the moment. Don’t dwell on yesterday (it’s gone) and don’t worry about tomorrow. The most important thing is to concentrate on this moment in time.
Julianne’s good advice applies to more than just exercise and eating habits. Rather than worrying about how to pay for my child’s college tuition in six years, why not just enjoy the progress report that came home with all “A”s? Instead of worrying about my parents’ future health, why not be thankful for their current good health and enjoy all that it allows them to do? Instead of beating myself up for the junk food I ate yesterday, why not embrace the healthy choices I’m making today?
And instead of picturing cold, icy roads and barren branches, why not enjoy the spectacular display of colors that is right in front of my eyes until the very last leaf falls to the ground?

Hey, it’s a start.

Get Ready For Halloween

Halloween is Sunday. Are you ready? Have you draped your house in cobwebs, set-up fake gravestones and dusted off your favorite Spooky Sounds CD? Have you been to the Spirit Halloween store countless times to see what new and disgusting items are available this week? Have you scoured the internet looking for that obscure piece of your child’s Halloween costume, a character so below the radar that not only is the costume impossible to find, but your child is guaranteed to prompt endless inquiries of “And what are you supposed to be?”

If not, you better get going. Halloween was a big deal when I was a kid, for the sole purpose of the pursuit of candy. Yes, we wanted cool costumes, but that took a backseat to the potential trove of sweets awaiting us on Halloween. Back then, costumes were limited to the ones that came folded in cardboard boxes with clear plastic fronts, all the better to see the cheaply made masks of Wonder Woman or Superman. There were no specialty party stores where you could chose from hundreds of clever (and crass) costumes. It was either a boxed costume or your own imagination (and your mom’s sewing machine). When all else failed, we raided our father’s closets and went out as bums (what my kids now call hobos).

The costume selection has changed significantly over the years. During the fall, party stores devote a huge amount of floor space to elaborate costumes for both children and adults. And speaking of adults, since when did Halloween become more of an adult celebration than one for kids? I don’t recall my parents ever dressing up and attending Halloween parties. This year I was invited to three adult gatherings, each mandating that attendees come in costume. Adult parties prompt the dilemma of what type of costume to choose: Funny, clever, scary or sexy?

I enjoy the funny and clever costumes the most. A friend’s husband attended a party with what looked to be a large magnet around his neck and little yellow chicks glued to it (chick magnet.) A friend of mine once dressed in a grey sweat suit with shipping labels, packing peanuts and bubble wrap glued to him. He was a shipping magnate. It’s also fun when couples coordinate their efforts. One year my friend and her husband bought matching tacky tourist costumes, but added a twist: she dressed as the husband, complete with mustache and he dressed as the wife, with anatomical (ahem) enhancements. That same year my other friends decided to tap into pop culture crafting their own coordinating costumes: Britney Spears and K-Fed. It was frightening how well they nailed the look, she with a cheap blond wig and a baby doll hanging precariously off her waist and he in a white tank top and porkpie hat. I give them props for creating their own husband/wife costume, rather than resorting to the tired plug and socket combo from the party store.

Last year I attended a party dressed as a midwife from Hell, complete with bloody scrubs, surgical mask and a two-headed baby doll in tow. When it comes to Halloween parties, I’d rather have a silly or scary costume, but many women prefer to go the sexy route. Check out Iparty or ItzAParty and you’ll find that 90% of women’s costumes are short, skimpy, sexy outfits that have little to do with their subject matter. Lucky us! No longer are we limited to being Naughty Nurses or French Maids. Now you can be a High Speed Hottie (NASCAR), Caddy Shack Cutie (Golf), Naughty Wizard (Harry Potter) or the worst offender of all: Sexy SpongeBob. Imagine leaving your kids with the babysitter as you sashay out the door in your Sexy SpongeBob outfit? At least the manufacturers have thoughtfully included plus-size versions of these costumes so those of us who aren’t a perfect size 4 can join in the madness.

Why the flood of risqué costumes? My friend Jessie claims its all part of what she calls the “Snookification” of America. Too many hours spent watching programs such as “Jersey Shore” and “Rock of Love”, resulting in a warped view of how women should dress and act. Think I’m kidding? Iparty has a “Jersey Shore Snooki” leopard dress costume this year. Just add your own barf bag and arrest record and you’re all set to party.

Sexy or scary, clever or crass, or simply chaperoning your little princess or goblin, here’s hoping that no matter how you choose to celebrate Halloween, you give yourself over to the spirit(s) of the season.

Trick or Treat.

Happy Birthday Dad!

Recently I wrote about the milestone birthdays I’ve helped celebrate this year. This weekend, I will celebrate one of the most important of all.

This Friday is my dad’s 80th birthday.

You might know my dad from the bits and pieces I’ve included in my columns over the years. He’s the man who crafted my favorite Halloween costume of all time; a pack of Tareyton cigarettes. It was also my dad who took me to scary movies when I was a teen, though he would always see the movie first to be sure I could handle it. (“The Exorcist” when I was thirteen? What were you thinking Dad?)

It’s my dad who likes to order Christmas presents from the “Everything 3 for $20” catalog (I have two sisters…). Speaking of Christmas, it was my dad who happened to be standing next to my younger sister in church on Christmas Eve when she set her hair on fire during the candlelight service. Luckily, Dad beat out the flames before anyone noticed. You may also recall that my dad has eaten countless servings of Spam and Bean pie as well as the black jelly beans that no one wanted at Easter. Dad’s the one who tapes the Thanksgiving Day parade, so we can play back any mishaps ad nauseaum.

Dad’s the one who clued me in to our real family history, complete with gravediggers, jugglers and prostitutes. He’s the one who gave us rides on his back in our swimming pool, took us to the Jersey shore for two weeks every summer and who sent me a letter shortly after my college graduation telling me just how proud he was. He’s the man who still does the NY Time crossword puzzle in about 20 minutes…in pen.

These are all tidbits about my dad that you may or may not remember from my columns. But those are just a fraction of the things that make up my dad.
My dad was the first kid on his block to own a television. He charged his friends comic books to come and watch it. He has a divot in his forehead where one of those friends hit him with a rock.

My dad can build or fix anything. Our house is filled with bookcases and cabinets built by my father. When something breaks, the first person I seek out is my dad.
My dad is smart, MENSA smart. Yet he still enjoys watching “America’s Funniest Home Videos” and “Kung Fu Theater.” A doctor of education, he spent more than 30 years working as an elementary school principal in a tough neighborhood. After disciplining unruly students all day, my dad came home to three unruly daughters. But he stuck it out, year after year, in order to provide for his family.

Somehow my dad managed to send all three of his kids to college, including his middle daughter who chose a fancy, private college which didn’t offer much in the way of financial aid (hint…it’s me). He then proceeded to pay off that same daughter’s student loans. He bailed me out when I proved myself unable to manage my first credit card. He loaned money on several occasions and held me to a payment schedule to teach me the responsibility of paying back a debt.

My dad was the one who went driving around at 2 a.m. searching for his teenage daughters who ignored their curfew and didn’t think to call home. This was long before cell phones, and now that I’m a parent myself, I can’t imagine how awful that must have felt.

My dad gave each of us away at our weddings and danced with us at the reception, though he wasn’t much for dancing. He surprised us by joining an amateur theater group and played small roles in productions of “The Crucible” (as a magistrate) and “You Can’t Take It With You” (Mr. Kirby). He laughed about a reviewer’s assessment of his “wooden” performance. After he retired, he surprised us again by becoming a Mason. Zooming up the ranks of the order my agnostic father was appointed the group’s chaplain. He assured me this was proof that even God has a sense of humor.

Dad slices pizzas with scissors, loves licorice All Sorts, and once scared the hell out of his 2-year old grandson by plunking a Santa hat on his head and booming “ho ho ho” (we have it on video). He is generous beyond belief, devours library books by the dozen and is nearly deaf as a post. His back deck is the world’s largest buffet for the neighborhood birds and squirrels. He is on AOL Instant Message almost every day, and I chat with him every chance I get (it’s easier than shouting over the phone). He has been married to my mother for over 50 years, and has been a steady, stabilizing influence on his three daughters for nearly that long.

What do you get for someone who has done so much? A gift just seems inadequate. So Dad, this column is my gift for you.

Happy 80th Birthday, Dad. I love you.

Friday Night Lights

This weekend I got my first real taste of “Friday Night Lights”.

Let me be clear up front: I am not a football fan. Though I hail from the land of the Giants (and the Jets), football was never really a sport that interested me. I’m married to a Patriot’s fan, so I’m willing to give up television time for the sake of my spouse. Occasionally I’ll watch the Super Bowl, but only for the commercials.

I do enjoy watching other sports. Baseball is fine, though a little slow. Basketball, hockey and soccer are fast paced and exciting. But watching football at home, on television is my equivalent to watching paint dry…or grass grow. It’s just oh so slow.

Perhaps the problem lies with the fact that I have no idea how the game is played. This is what I have learned from watching football: One team has the ball. They go five feet. They stop. They go ten more feet. They stop. Somehow, someone else gets the ball and they go ten feet the other way. They stop. The referees have microphones so everyone in the neighboring state can hear what kind of penalty is being issued. And they dress like Foot Locker employees. The cheerleaders have perpetual smiles pasted on their faces and double stick tape on their short-shorts to avoid unpleasant wardrobe malfunctions on national television. And the commercials are all for mass-produced American beer, Doritos and Chevy trucks.

Granted, I’ve seen exciting moments in football. For example, the Doug Flutie “Hail Mary” pass. Imagine if Gerard Phelan hadn’t caught that ball? Talk about the agony of defeat. Speaking of defeat, how about the moment that ended Joe Theismann’s career? Whenever I mention the words “Joe Theismann” in my husband’s presence he winces in pain and tries to think of something else. Then there was the Patriots’ Super Bowl win over the St. Louis Rams in January 2002. I remember that game well in that it was one of the rare times that I’ve seen my husband cry (a feat to be repeated a few years later when the Red Sox won the World Series).

My kids have never had much interest in football, neither watching nor playing. Both of them enjoy soccer instead. However, many of my fourth grader’s friends are playing football this fall, and he asked if sometime we could watch a game so he could cheer his buddies on. Most of the football games conflicted with our Saturday morning soccer schedule, but this weekend’s game was scheduled in the evening, so we bundled up in warm coats and boots and headed off to the game.

Despite my lack of enthusiasm for football, there’s something about sitting on freezing cold bleachers on a crisp, autumn evening that seems so right. As we walked to the field, the setting sun filtered through the red and gold leaves while a teenage girl sang the national anthem. Since we were the visiting team, our hike to the visitor’s bleachers was lengthy. Our opponents that evening were the Scituate-Cohasset Sharks, a team with the unlikely nickname of “Sci-Cohs” (pronounced like the Alfred Hitchcock film.) I guess that’ better than being known as “Sickos” but it still seemed odd every time the announcer made a comment about a member of the “psycho sharks”.

We don’t have announcers in soccer. When my kids play, no one is sitting up in the booth giving shout outs to players over a loudspeaker. Given my ignorance of the game, the announcements were quite helpful to me. Whenever one of my son’s friends got a mention, I’d let out a huge cheer. Luckily, none of them were injured or taken off the field on a stretcher as that might have made my cheering a bit embarrassing.

My sons discovered another bonus to football: the snack shack. Dollar after dollar found their way into my kids’ hands for popcorn, hot chocolate, Swedish fish and Reese’s peanut butter cups. I consoled myself with the fact that the walk from the visitor’s bench to the snack shack was long enough to burn off the calories of anything they ate.

Did I learn anything from watching the 4th and 6th graders play? Well, if anything it was more difficult to understand the game itself, without the advent of overhead cameras, telestrators and instant replay. But from sitting in the bleachers, I could feel the camaraderie of the parents as they cheered for each other’s kids. I could see the devotion of the coaches as they rotated players in and out, trying to insure that each kid had his fair share of playing time. I watched the younger brothers running up and down the sidelines, tossing footballs to each other and anticipating the day when they could become part of a team. And I marveled at the way my son, who has no real interest in football, jumped up and down, cheering and waving to his friends on the field as they each played their part in an hour of glory under the stadium lights on a crisp October night.

I get it now.

When Kids Can Watch Themselves

Last weekend my husband and I planned a movie date. Like many couples, we spend most of our weekend time with our children, shuttling them to sports activities, overseeing weekend homework and sharing that rare family occurrence when everyone sits at the dinner table at the same time.

So “Date Night” seemed like a good idea. We chose the movie, checked the theater times, fed the kids dinner, bid them goodbye and were off.

Do you recognize what’s missing in this series of events? The noticeable absence of a babysitter. Until recently, any outing that involved both my husband and me required a babysitter to watch our two children. Unlike many of my friends, my husband and I have no family in the area to help with the kids, so we’ve relied heavily on sitters over the years. Most of my babysitters began sitting for me when they were twelve. Now my own “baby” is twelve, and over the past year I’ve been allowing him to take responsibility for watching himself and his younger brother without a sitter.


I tried to calculate just how much money I’ve spent on babysitters these past twelve years. $ 5 -$8 per hour multiplied by all the hours spent at book club, Newcomers, my Pampered Chef business, dates with my husband, weddings and funerals equals enough to purchase a luxury vacation for my husband and myself (a vacation we couldn’t take because that would require…a babysitter).

This led me to reflect on my own experience as a babysitter. As an early teen, my Saturday nights were spent sitting on a scratchy couch keeping an eagle eye on Adam Gilbert, age 4. Surrounded by metallic wallpaper (this was, after all, the 70’s), I’d watch “Love Boat” and “Fantasy Island”, sneaking chips or cookies from the pantry in unnoticeable increments, despite the Gilbert’s admonishment to “Help yourself to whatever you’d like.” Sometime after midnight I’d be roused from sleep by the sound of the garage door opener, at which point Mr. Gilbert would drive me home as quickly as possible, always in silence, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of making conversation. For this I earned the princely sum of $1 per hour, an amount that seems like slave wages compared to today, but one that paid for a steady supply of candy necklaces, Tiger Beat magazines and worthless trinkets from Spencer Gifts.

Now that my son is the same age that I was when I began sitting, I’ve eased him into the idea of being home alone. At the start of fifth grade he was given a key to the front door and strict instructions to call my cell phone if I’m not home when he gets off the bus. In sixth grade, he graduated to getting himself in the door and getting his brother off the bus shortly afterwards. I would always arrive home soon after, since leaving these two boys together was like leaving a lit match in the company of a powder keg. On the rare evening when I needed to go to book club or a school event before my husband arrived home, I would entrust my boys to watch each other for the overlapping hour. Even this resulted in no panicked phone calls to my cell phone or bloodshed.

Then last month, the true test: We left our kids home on a Saturday night in order to attend a friend’s party. The party was five minutes from home, and our children had already been fed dinner, minimizing the risk of cooking or choking incidents. From 7-11pm, we mingled with other grown-ups without worrying about how much the evening was costing us in babysitter fees. A friend at the party whose kids are older than ours, said, “It’s great when the kids are old enough to watch themselves. See, it was totally worth having them!”

We arrived home that night to find the house and children still intact, and that’s when it dawned on me that my husband and I could now get some of that all-important alone time that was sacrificed when our kids were little. We no longer have to wait for a “special occasion” to get out for a few hours on our own. We don’t have to go to the bank or make change to pay the babysitter, or take turns driving her home. We don’t have to take out a second mortgage in order to pay for dinner, a movie and a babysitter.

We do, however, have to figure out a way to get the kids to put themselves to bed before we arrive home past their bedtime.

Baby steps.

On Milestone Birthdays

This has been a year of milestone birthdays.

Thankfully, none of these milestone birthdays have been mine. My next “big” birthday ushers in a whole new era, allowing me to apply for membership in AARP and checking off that box on surveys for people “50 and above…” But that’s three years from now, so let’s return to the milestones I helped celebrate this year.

In June, my mother-in-law celebrated her 70th birthday. On the last day of school we picked up our kids and drove to central New York to share this momentous occasion. As a child I thought 70 to be a particularly ancient age, but my in-laws run their farm, volunteer and participate in several social organizations in their community. I’m often exhausted when I read emails from my mother-in-law Sara, detailing the myriad of weekend activities. If I’m this tired on the dark side of 40, how does she manage to stay so active at 70? Maybe Sara can clue me in to the secret of increasing your energy as you get older. Good clean country living…or Geritol?

In September, my nephew turned 21. Sadly, the emphasis of this milestone birthday is the ability to drink alcohol legally. Since you can drive at 17 and vote and serve in the armed forces at 18, the one remaining activity restricted to age 21 is drinking. Visiting the party store last weekend, I noticed that all the “milestone” themed items for ages 30, 40 & 50 were very different from the “21” items. The majority of these novelties revolved around alcohol. My nephew is a smart kid, his one vice an excess of video games. I’m hoping that now that he’s “legal”, he’ll stay smart and drink only in moderation.

Recently, my sons’ taekwondo teacher invited my husband and me to a local pub to celebrate her husband’s 30th birthday. 30? An unpleasant truth settled in my brain: I was old enough to be his mother. Pushing that thought aside, I tried, without success, to recall how I spent my own 30th birthday. I have no memory of it whatsoever. I can, however, remember my husband’s 30th. Vividly. It was my first visit to his parents’ house. His stepfather had planned a barbecue for the occasion, but as he fired up the hibachi, it began to rain. Undeterred, his stepfather brought the hibachi inside, setting it on top of the woodstove. Smoke filled the house as my future husband ran from room to room opening windows: A truly unforgettable milestone birthday.

Last weekend, I helped organize a party for a friend who turned 40. She accepted this milestone with good grace, though she looks about 25 so perhaps that makes all the difference. On my 40th birthday I spent the day in my bathrobe, crying and feeling sorry for myself. Then the two dozen roses arrived from my husband and I managed to pull it together. When he arrived home with a spa gift certificate and tickets to the musical “Mamma Mia”, 40 suddenly didn’t seem so bad. The day ended with several friends taking me to dinner, and I finished that milestone on a high note.

Next month I travel to New Jersey to celebrate my father’s 80th birthday. This milestone is bittersweet: my dad is reaching it but many of his friends and past acquaintances did not. Though his mind is as sharp as ever (he still does the NY Times crossword puzzle in about 20 minutes…in pen), his body is feeling its age, something that concerns us both. I’m thankful that he is reaching this birthday, but then again I am grateful for every year that he and my mother bless my life.
Which brings me to my final thought: Isn’t every birthday a milestone? Is 30 that different from 29? Will 50 be that much different than 40? All of the milestone birthdays this year had one thing in common: they reinforced the notion that time passes all too quickly, and we need to appreciate every day, every hour, every minute that passes, regardless of whether this particular birthday happens to have a zero on the end of it.

So when my next milestone birthday comes, think I’ll be okay with it. I’ll celebrate with a smile, a prayer of thanks and a cup of coffee purchased with my senior citizen discount.

Antiques Roadshow

It’s comforting to know that there’s a place where you can buy a prosthetic leg, a stained glass window, or an ammunition container, if you need one.
And that place is the Brimfield Antique Show.

Brimfield Massachusetts is home to three thousand residents. But for one week each May, July and September, the town welcomes over 250,000 visitors and 5000 antique dealers. True antiques muscle for space with found objects, collectibles, knickknacks, clothing, tools, books and pretty much anything else you can imagine.
Let me just state for the record, I’m not an antique aficionado; I wouldn’t know a priceless antique from a worthless piece of junk. But with the advent of programs like “Antiques Roadshow”, “Pawn Stars” and “American Pickers”, my interest in secondhand treasure has piqued.

I inadvertently purchased a “collectible” in 1987, buying a sealed copy of a limited edition Stephen King novel. “I can’t wait to read it“, I enthused to the bookseller, causing him to literally look down his nose at me and reply, “You don’t buy this book to read it.” At which point I shrank to about six inches in height, paid for my “collectible” and slunk out the door. The book is still encased in plastic, buried in my attic, now worth about $250. I read the paperback instead.
I first visited Brimfield 15 years ago, with an interior designer friend. As we trolled through trash and treasure, I noticed a vendor displaying what looked like large wooden hatboxes. This was during my hatbox-collecting phase (they’re all in the attic now too). The vendor explained that these were, in fact, cheese boxes, once used to store giant wheels of cheese. While I debated about whether to buy one or two, (there were three for sale) my friend offered up this interior design nugget: “You should only group things in threes and fives.” Who knew? I bought all three and they still reside in my living room (not the attic).

I haven’t been back to Brimfield since, though a friend and I often talked about going. Bad weather cancelled an attempt last fall, but this year the week’s weather turned out sunny and cool.

My friends picked me up at 5:30 Saturday morning and we were off. As our coffee kicked in, we talked non-stop all the way to Brimfield, to the point where we completely miss our exit, necessitating an 8-mile backtrack. Riding up Rt. 20 into Brimfield, we marveled at the lack of traffic. Apparently everyone else decided to sleep in. As we drove along the main road, flanked by fields of tents, we could see someone already rolling an early morning purchase to their car, an antique claw foot bathtub. We parked our car in the middle of town and began to wander through the vendors. Some were still closed, others just opening for business, but many were ready to bargain with eager customers.

Not wanting to spend great amounts of money, a friend suggested I play “the dollar game”. She had been to Brimfield many times and always tried to find the best item for one dollar. As we walked through the stalls, my cohorts began racking up purchases: a tin wall decoration ($20); a decorative tree made from twigs ($25); and the one item my kids would have fought over: an authentic army ammunition box ($20). I debated about that one, but suggested my friend purchase it for her son instead. Not wanting to lag behind, I bought a mason jar with the words Queen Wide Mouth and an old anesthesia bottle for my 9-year-old’s bottle collection. Vintage comic books, one for each son, depleted another two dollars from my wallet, but who can resist a title like “Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos”? I bought a metal “X” for my son Xander and a two-dollar wooden shoe last. My friends found other bargains, such as a stained glass window for $50 and a wooden wall carving for $30. And my “dollar game” purchase? A magazine from 1960 entitled “Calling All Girls” which lent a peek into the decade in which I was born.

We spent the day laughing over items like the single-legged-lion-head-end-table and the abundance of scary clown art. As we headed home, our bodies tired from miles of walking, we recapped the events of the day and declared it a huge success.
But the best part of our excursion wasn’t the items packed in the trunk of our car; it was the time we spent together. Our wallets may have been a bit poorer, but we drove home rich with memories.

A Different Sort of Homecoming

This past weekend I attended Homecoming. Often when you hear that word, Homecoming, your thoughts turn immediately to football. Homecoming brings to mind images of a crisp, autumn day; cheerleaders shaking pom-poms, their cheeks rosy from the cold as heavily padded football players take the field; pretty girls wearing pastel gowns and cheap tiaras, smiling and waving to a crowd of cheering onlookers, bundled up in LL Bean and North Face jackets, a cup of steaming coffee or cider warming their hands.

But this weekend was a Homecoming of a different sort. This Homecoming was held at my church, The United Church of Christ in Norwell. For many, Labor Day is the official end of summer, but for me it is my church’s Homecoming Weekend. On that day, our Sunday service returns to its regular 10:00 a.m. time slot. Those of us (and I consider myself one of the worst offenders) who spent summer Sunday mornings sleeping in, reading the paper and making our leisurely way to places like Canobie Lake Park, Duxbury Beach or the New England Aquarium now set our alarm clocks in order to be showered, fed and in our seats by 10:00 a.m.

Summer is a time for vacations. Families take vacations from their everyday lives. Workers take vacations from their jobs. Kids take a vacation from their studies. And I, unfortunately, despite my best efforts, tend to take a vacation from the things that are good for me: healthy eating, exercise and religion.

During the summer I have every intention of eating fresh fruits and healthy salads. I tell myself that I will bring the kids with me to the gym, or go while they are in camp. And I will absolutely, without a doubt, continue to attend church every Sunday. Unfortunately, burgers and margaritas are awfully tempting, and when the kids are in camp it’s much more fun to go to the beach than the gym. And though our church’s summer service lasts only 45 minutes, most Sundays I just couldn’t seem to get myself out of bed in time.

Muscles that are not worked regularly become flabby, and the same holds true for my soul when I skip church for too long. It doesn’t help that my weekly Wednesday morning bible study takes a break during the summer months. While tidying my bedside table, I was disheartened to find a thin film of dust on my bible. A friend and I had decided to do a bible study together on our own this summer, had even gone so far as to order the workbooks online. We made it through one chapter.
That’s not to say that God wasn’t present in my life during the summer months. I found myself praying all summer long; for friends who needed strength; for my husband as he lay in the emergency room with acute appendicitis; for my children as they traveled on the bus to and from camp. Still, it just wasn’t the same

So clearly, Homecoming was an event that could not be missed. As I parked my car, I wondered if anyone would reproach me for being away so long. The first face I saw was my friend Cathy, who runs the church school program. “There she is!” she cried exuberantly as she threw open her arms wide for a hug. We caught up for a few minutes on our respective lives before I walked up the stairs and into the sanctuary. I nodded and greeted other familiar faces as my sons and I settled in our seats.

Throughout the service, I realized just how much had I missed the sounds of our impressive choir, the sweet strains of the organ, the steady sureness of our minister’s sermons. I missed hearing the sincere prayers voiced by other members of the congregation, reciting The Lord’s Prayer while holding hands with the person on either side of me, and greeting those around me with a warm handshake and the word, “Peace”.

It was all so familiar, and yet there were subtle changes as well. A young couple sitting behind me had a new baby in tow. There were new faces in the choir. Friendship Home, which was still a construction site last spring, is nearly complete. And my older son, who used to enjoy going up to the front of the church during the “time for children” opted to stay in his seat instead, whispering ,”Mom, I’m too old for that.”

When the service was over, I collected my things and made my way to the back of the church. A woman came up to me and said, “I haven’t seen you in such a long time!” There was no reproach in her voice, just a warmth that told me she was genuinely glad to see me again. I admitted that I had been the invisible woman all summer. “However,” I said, “I’m back now.”

With a smile, she replied, “That’s all that matters.”

I now know why they call it Homecoming.

Food Fight

There is unrest brewing in my town. People are taking sides and there is a line being drawn in the sand. And sadly, that line is made up of…hot dogs.

Each September, the start of the school year brings new teachers, new friends and new adventures in learning. This year, our town also introduced a brand new school lunch menu. With childhood obesity growing at an alarming rate, a group of concerned residents and school staff members created a Healthy Kids Initiative with the goal of providing our children with better food choices during school hours.
In general the whole buy-lunch-or-bring-lunch debate splits right down the middle at my house. My older son prefers to bring lunch every day, while my younger son prefers to buy it. Though it takes me very little time, I don’t enjoy preparing the older one’s lunch each day (Yes, he’s old enough to make his own lunch. Perhaps it’s time to suggest that). So the lazy part of me has always enjoyed the fact that my younger son prefers to buy. True, I sometimes have to scrounge through seat cushions or the bottom of my purse to come up with the change for lunch each day, but it’s a small price to pay for having one less task in our usual chaotic morning.

The downside to my son buying lunch each day is the possibility of him living on hot dogs and bagels. He’s the type of kid who likes to try new things, but on days when he’s unwilling to risk his taste buds on something exotic, a hot dog or bagel is his trusty stand-by.

The night before school began, I looked up the lunch menu online and immediately noticed that hot dogs were no longer an option. The plain bagel is now replaced by a whole wheat bagel. I told my son that the menu option was ham and cheese on a croissant and that hot dogs were no longer available. His response: “Okay, I’ll bring my lunch instead.”

The next afternoon, while on Facebook, I was surprised by the volume of comments posted on multiple friends’s pages regarding the new lunch menus. No hot dogs? No plain bagels? Some kids chose to skip lunch all together, rather than trying one of the healthy options, and came off the bus starving. Parents who were ready to pay for the entire year in advance were ripping up their checks. It was incredible to see people prepared to eschew an entire year of school lunches after just one day.
You would think that our new lunch menu consisted solely of Brussels sprouts and tofu. Not true. Nachos, chili, hamburgers and meatball subs are still part of the menu. However in each instance the food is prepared with lean meat. Nachos and tacos are served with fresh shredded cheese instead of canned cheese product (If you look at the list of ingredients on the old cheese used for nachos, cheese is the fourth ingredient listed. Not first. Yuck) Not every kid will want to try a grilled chicken Caesar wrap, but some might and actually find that they like it. And though hot dogs are not part of the menu at this time, perhaps a healthier version will reappear in the future.

Believe me, I’m not a health food guru. I keep a supply of fresh fruit and healthy snacks in the house, but I have bags of chips and cookies in the pantry as well. I want my kids to make good food choices, but I don’t always make good choices myself. It’s a tricky balancing act for parents and children alike.

Kids are hard to feed, starting from the moment they begin solid foods. Remember that toddler sitting in his high chair, shaking his head from side to side to avoid a spoonful of applesauce, yogurt, or something equally healthy? We didn’t give up on the first try. We stuck to our guns and continued to encourage healthy foods instead of throwing up our hands and feeding them just Pepperidge Farm goldfish instead.

The second day of school, the menu item was “healthy pizza”. My son bought it and enjoyed it. A friend mentioned that the kids in her neighborhood got off the bus talking about how much they loved the pizza. Perhaps if we give it a little time, we’ll find that our children actually like the new choices. They might surprise us. And if they absolutely refuse, there’s always the brown bag option.

So let’s give the new menu a chance. Let’s see how our kids respond to it for more than just one day. Let’s find out if we can live, temporarily, without hot dogs for lunch.

Because when it comes down to it, do we really want our town divided because of a few weenies?