Tears from The Ice Queen

My friends call me The Ice Queen.

Perhaps I should clarify. I’m not a cold person. I’d like to think that overall I’m warm and friendly (when I’m not being sarcastic and snarky.) But my friends refer to me as The Ice Queen because I have a reputation for being one of those women who never seem to cry at anything. Movies, books, news stories…not a drop. This is, of course, not true. But I can see how my friends might perceive this.

It’s not that I don’t cry. It’s that I don’t like crying at things that obviously try to manipulate me. For example, those movies that use music and dialogue and dewy sentiments that practically scream “You will cry now” at the audience. I hold it in just to spite them.

My friend and I went to see “World Trade Center” several years ago. Nicholas Cage starred in the true story of two Port Authority officers who were, against all odds, pulled alive from the rubble at Ground Zero. It was an incredibly moving story and my friend sobbed throughout the entire film. I didn’t sprout one single tear until the very end, when the main character is pulled out on a stretcher and he tells his wife “The thought of you kept me alive”. That did it. One solitary tear rolled down my face.

That same friend and I went to see “My Sister’s Keeper” a few years back. This was the fictional story of a girl who has to decide whether or not to donate her kidney to her dying sister. People were bawling all around me as the audience was bombarded with emotional images and maudlin music.

I shed not one tear. In fact, I kind of wished the folks around me would pipe down so I could hear the dialogue.

Thus my reputation as the Ice Queen grew. My book club would discuss books that had everyone in tears at the end...everyone, that is, except me. Even in bible study, while I was touched by the personal stories shared, I would remain dry-eyed while people around me reached for the tissue box. What’s wrong with me? I wasn’t always this way.

When my children were small, they took music classes in Scituate and at the end of every 8-week session, Miss Beth would play “Pomp and Circumstance” and hand out graduation certificates to the children. My eyes watered every single time. The same thing happened when Miss Vicky played the Olympic theme song as my kids showed off their toddler gymnastic skills at TumbleFun and placed medals around their necks. And the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life” always left me in tears. (“To my big brother George…the richest man in town!” Sniff…sniff).

So what happened? Have I become hardened with age? Is it my changing hormones as I approach fifty? Have I run out of tears? Whatever the reason, I’m no longer crying at the drop of a hat. Yet, I don’t think the term “Ice Queen” is completely appropriate.

Where are these people when I’m standing at a baseball game listening to the Star Spangled Banner? As soon as they get to the line “Oh say does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave?” and people start cheering, my throat gets tight and tears spring to my eyes.

Or how about when I took my kids to see “Toy Story 3” and had to wipe my face constantly during the last 20 minutes with butter-stained napkins? That scene where Andy reluctantly hands over Woody and all his other toys killed me. My friend looked at me askance over the top of my son’s head as I dabbed at my eyes. Was the Ice Queen really crying over Toy Story?

Worst of all was this past week at 4th grade memory day. The event was my son’s graduation from elementary school and I warned everyone well in advance that the Ice Queen would be bustin’ out the tears. One friend said, “Take a picture for me, I want to see what that looks like.”

For one hour and fifteen minutes, I sniffed and snuffed and dabbed at my eyes. From the first strains of “God Bless America”, the waterworks began. As the children marched into the gymnasium, I cried. When the principal read an emotional speech about giving our children back to us, I cried. When we watched a multimedia presentation featuring our kids, I laughed…and cried. When the principal said, “I give you the 2011 Graduating Class of Sylvester School” I cried. And when she asked the students to turn around and applaud their parents, I bawled. My son caught my eye and mouthed the words “I love you.” I mouthed the words, “I love you too” as the tears streamed down my face.

True to my word, I took a picture for my friend just so I could prove that even the Ice Queen is capable of melting every now and then. I’m only human. But don’t expect to see me dabbing at my eyes in the movie theater anytime soon.

Unless, of course, they decide to make Toy Story 4.

Twist(er) and Shout

As a parent my job, first and foremost, is to keep my children safe.

This is no easy feat. When our children are babies we lash down car seats and nestle them in beds with crib bumpers. When they are toddlers we install child locks and safety gates. As they grow we insist they ride their bikes on the sidewalk and wear their helmets. We admonish them when they run with a lollipop in their mouths or a stick in their hands.

We do our best right up until the moment they leave us at which point we cross our fingers, say a prayer and hope that all our lessons will be heeded as they climb the kindergarten bus, drive off with license in hand for the first time or enter their college dorm room.

Still, despite our best efforts, as parents we can only do so much.

I still vividly remember the horror of September 11, 2001. I had a 3 year old and a 6 month old. That day my children climbed the jungle gym and dug in the sandbox at a local playground, blissfully unaware of the hate and destruction that was occurring a few hundred miles away. As I watched them play, a sick feeling formed in the pit of my stomach, growing stronger with each passing moment: the realization that no matter what I do, I can never fully protect my children.

This feeling was reinforced last week when my son and 191 other students and chaperones from the middle school band and chorus went on a field trip to Six Flags in Agawam. The trip is an annual event, and my son had been chattering about it excitedly for months. Being a nervous mother, I was worried about his safety on several levels; rides designed to toss his body around at high speed; the park’s proximity to a city known for its crime; a cold which had caused his asthma to flare up.

Still, I knew that part of my motherly duty was to let him go and trust that he would do everything in his power to keep himself safe. He had his inhaler and the chaperones would keep an eye on everyone throughout the day. All the bases were covered.

What I didn’t plan on, however, was a tornado.

The forecast for the day was hot and humid, with the chance of severe thunderstorms in the afternoon. I hoped that perhaps the bad weather would skirt the area around Six Flags or turn foul sometime after they left the park. As the wind picked up in my area, a mother of another child on the trip texted me a copy of a weather alert she had received on her phone: “A tornado watch has been issued for most of Massachusetts”.

I knew the difference between a “watch” and a “warning”; a watch means severe weather is possible while a warning means that severe weather has been observed, or is expected soon. Though the idea of even a possible tornado made me uneasy, it seemed highly unlikely and so I tried to tamp down my fears.

Shortly before the kids were due to leave the park, another mom called and asked if I was watching the weather reports. She said that a severe thunderstorm was 20 miles west of Six Flags and moving fast. The tornado watch had been upgraded to a warning. I called my son, who had just gotten off a ride, and told him to start heading toward the busses. I felt like that scene in the film “The Perfect Storm” where the female boat captain tries to warn George Clooney by screaming, “You’re heading right into the mouth of the beast.”

Over the next hour I divided my time by trying to reach my son on his cell phone, texting and calling other moms with information, and praying. One friend said she received a text from her daughter saying a tornado was going by and the bus was shaking. She didn’t know if her daughter was joking or not. I somehow managed to miss a call from my son, who left the following message: “Mom, you will not believe this. I have literally just seen a tornado form next to the bus and it’s cutting a path of destruction across the road”. Another mother called to tell me that one of the teachers was phoning the same information in to the local news.

Thankfully, the middle school busses were spared and quickly left the area, heading home. According to a friend who chaperoned the trip, the drivers were in constant contact with their superiors who instructed them on which route to take to avoid the worst of the weather. Still, as I listened to reports of additional tornadoes, lightning and hail, I continued my prayers until my son walked safely in the front door.

My son, unaware of the true devastation of the storms, thought the trip was an adventure. He was more intimidated by some of the roller coasters than the tornado that swooped by his bus. It wasn’t until the next morning when news stations reported the extent of the damage and the lives lost that he was truly able to process just how close a call it had been for them.

And for me, this experience served as yet another reminder that, despite my best efforts, I cannot always keep my children safe. Thankfully, the bus drivers, chaperones and God were able to fill in for me on this one.

For Love of the Game

I have a new appreciation for baseball.

I’ve always enjoyed professional baseball. Growing up in New Jersey, my friends and I followed the Mets. This continued with my first post-college boyfriend who was a hardcore Mets fan and nearly cried with joy in 1986 (sorry Sox fans). I then became a Red Sox fan when I began dating my husband, who actually did cry with joy in 2004 and 2007 (not much crying lately though).

My renewed appreciation for baseball comes from my son’s recent return to a 4th grade baseball team.

Both of my children played t-ball in Kindergarten. I have to admit that I thought the “t” stood for torture. Baseball can be a slow game, but t-ball can be interminably slow. The t-ball field is conveniently located at the intersection of two extremely busy streets, with no fence to keep spectators or players from running out into the road. At the time when my 6-year old son played t-ball, my -3-year old had to remain strapped into his car seat in my van watching videos for the duration of the game. The alternative was to spend an hour and a half chasing after my toddler, trying to keep him from becoming a grease stain in the road.

I did appreciate the tee which allowed my sons to actually hit the ball (most of the time). However, when my kids were in the field, they failed to grasp the finer points of the game. Whenever a ball was hit anywhere near them, they (and about 20 of their teammates) would run in a clump towards the ball, hoping to be the one to grab it. Not that there would be anyone left on base to throw it to (they would all still be in that clump). At the end of every game, just when I thought, “Thank God, it’s over,” the coaches would inevitably say, “Hey, how about one more inning?”
My older son played a year of rookie ball, but after repeatedly being reprimanded for sitting down in right field, he admitted that he found baseball to be too slow and boring. That year he switched to soccer instead.

My younger son never picked up a bat or glove after a year of t-ball. The game was just a little too slow for him, and his frustration level at never actually catching the ball (too many kids nearby) proved overwhelming. We stored our baseball gear in the garage.

Fast forward four years. My younger son is now in 4th grade, and just when I thought soccer was his game, he suddenly announced that this spring he would like to take another crack at baseball instead.

“Are you sure you don’t want to do soccer again?” I asked hopefully. Soccer involved only one practice and one game a week.

“Nope, I want to try baseball.” He said firmly.

Reluctantly, I signed my son up for a baseball skills class at an indoor sports center. The 12-week class taught him the basics of hitting and fielding, while adding in plenty of running and stretching as well. It also included an invaluable private batting lesson and an hour of free batting time every Friday night. He also participated in a week-long skills camp over April vacation. Trying to cram four years of baseball experience into three months wasn’t easy, but when the first game rolled around, I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

He was disappointed with his first at bat: he struck out. A few silent tears rolled down his face as he struggled to keep his composure on the bench. This did not bode well. The next time at bat he walked. The next time… another walk.

After a couple of games, I nicknamed him Walker Texas Ranger since his strength lay in the pitcher’s weakness. A few more games and he started getting hits. He got an RBI. He stole second base. He stole third base. He started chewing sunflower seeds and giant wads of gum. His motivation for playing well is the snack bar next to his field. A game that was once too slow for him is now just his speed.
And my attitude has changed since t-ball. Though I initially prayed for rainouts, I’m now okay spending two nights at the field every week. Game night dinners are casual (hot dogs or pizza). Though baseball games last twice as long as soccer games, there is an unhurried, languidness to the game. What felt interminably long a few years ago now feels like an opportunity to slow down, enjoy a warm summer night, socialize with other parents and cheer on all the players equally.

I’ve come to enjoy watching my son play. I like hearing his infinitely patient and supportive coaches call his name in their thick, Boston accents: “Coop-ah!” I like that he doesn’t get upset if his team loses. I like that he feels good about himself.

And I like his answer when I asked if he wanted to play summer baseball.
“No thanks, it’s too hot.”

Whew!

Wagons Ho!

Amidst all the rain, drizzle and fog of recent weeks, for one brief day the skies cleared, the sun shone, and Cub Scouts from all over the South Shore enjoyed a day of fun and friendship at the 2011 “Chuckwagon “ , held at Camp Squanto on May 21.

My younger son has been a Cub Scout for three years. As a Webelo, he participated in the Klondike Derby this past winter. For the uninitiated (that would be me), the Derby allows Scouts to demonstrate their skills in fire building, tent assembly, first aid, citizenship and a host of other areas. As they drag their sled from station to station, the scouts earn points, and winning packs are acknowledged at the end of the day. This year’s Klondike happened to fall on one of the coldest days of the winter. Add in all the snow we received this year and it made for a challenging day. My husband, knowing my intolerance for the cold (“You won’t last 20 minutes”) graciously offered to take my son to the Klondike while I enjoyed the comforts of central heating.

Fast forward four months to The Chuckwagon Derby, an event designed purely for fun. Scouts decorate a wagon according to a theme, don costumes and parade through Camp Squanto, and then spend the day participating in fun activities. Given that the event is held in (relatively) warm weather (and my husband’s prior commitment to coach my other son’s soccer team), it was my turn to chaperone.

This year’s theme was Disney. My son’s pack chose “Toy Story”; an ordinary wagon was decorated with a camouflage tank constructed entirely of cardboard boxes and tubes. A large round bin that had served as a recycling bucket in a previous life was painted to look like Andy’s Bucket of Soldiers. Each scout was decked out in army green pants, jackets, helmets and boots, looking for all the world like those plastic soldiers featured in the film. I guess my son isn’t the only one who frequents the Army/Navy store.

I spied a few other Toy Story wagons that day, as well as a group of scouts in white t-shirts with black spots (a nod to “101 Dalmatians”) and several “Maters” from the film “Cars”. However, there was a plethora of pirates. Apparently the release of Disney’s fourth “Pirates of the Caribbean” film inspired quite a few dens to don eye patches and bandanas in hopes of channeling the soul of Captain Jack Sparrow. This was no surprise given that many Disney films revolve around princesses; of course the scouts were going to choose movies that embrace guns and swords.

The boys visited stations throughout the day that combined scouting skills and general kid fun. The “Magic Carpet Ride” had scouts creating a stretcher from a blanket and two poles, toting teammates around to several points where they could answer questions about Disney movies. At “Space Mountain” they built homemade rockets from colored paper and launched them into space with a contraption made of PVC pipe, duct tape and an empty soda bottle. Several rockets got stuck in the treetops, in direct contrast to the “leave no trace” rule. “Mickey’s Monsoon” sounded ominous (we knew water would be involved), and the kids were delighted to find a rig that resembled a reverse dunk tank. Rather than throwing beanbags and dunking an adult in water, the kids attempted to trigger a water balloon to splatter on the grown-up’s head. Had I known that the other parents and I were going to become part of a wet t-shirt contest I would have packed extra clothes for myself in addition to my son’s.

After lunch the boys got down to the good stuff: BB guns and archery. Although many of our scouts were familiar with paintball and air soft guns, my son was a novice. I’m sure that wearing head to toe camouflage fanned the flames of his excitement as he listened carefully to instructions on how to safely load and shoot his weapon. For five glorious minutes the boys blasted away with Red Ryder BB guns (I resisted the urge to yell “You’ll shoot your eye out.”) Upon hearing “ceasefire” they obeyed like good soldiers and waited till it was safe to retrieve their targets. My son proudly held up his paper and showed me his direct hit in the center of the paper. Apparently all those hours spent playing “Call of Duty” on the Wii had paid off.

The packs headed back to the parade field mid-afternoon for the judging results. Each group had been given voting slips at the beginning of the parade with the opportunity to vote for best wagon design and best costumes. The kids in my son’s pack were ecstatic when they heard their pack number called as the third place winners for both wagon design and costume (First and second place in each category went to pirates…surprise).

At the end of closing ceremonies, the scouts and their families were given the option of setting up camp and staying for a campfire and skits. Tired but happy, my son opted to head home to show his older brother his prized BB target and tell about his day. In all, the Chuckwagon was an experience neither of us would forget.

So you still may not see me at the Klondike Derby next winter, (even if it’s a mild winter) but you can bet I’ll jump aboard the Chuckwagon in 2012.

A Few Font Memories

Throughout my life there have been only a few men who have had a profound influence on me. First to mind is my father who has always been, and continues to be, a steady, stabilizing presence as I navigate the waters of childhood, adolescence, adulthood and parenthood.

My 11th grade Humanities teacher, Mr. Michaud, was a life-loving free spirit who somehow managed to get hundreds of self-centered, hormonal teenagers to share his passion for Federico Fellini films, e.e. cummings poetry and Saul Bellow stories. Every field trip was an adventure; every class was an exercise in absorbing the emotion, beauty and spiritual essence of the world around us. Long before Robin Williams starred in “Dead Poets Society”, Mr. Michaud was urging his East Brunswick High School students to “Seize the Day.” Years later, I would remember Mr. Michaud on my wedding day as a friend read my favorite e.e. cummings poem during the service.

Certainly my husband has been the most influential man in my life. What began as a work relationship blossomed into friendship and then love. He has been my biggest cheerleader throughout our 16 years of marriage, the voice of reason when I fly off the handle, the ever-patient father of my children, my partner in crime and the person who believed in my writing even when I didn’t believe in it myself.
This brings me to the next influential man in my life: My soon-to-be-ex-boss Matt Gill. When my predecessor, Cathy Harrington, chose to retire from writing this column, it was my friend Julianne who pushed me to call and ask for the position. But it was Matt who gave me the job, opening the door and allowing me to find my voice as a writer.

I’m sure I sounded a lot more confident than I felt as we sat down outside the South Shore Natural Science Center for my “job interview”. I was picking my kids up from camp and Matt was heading down to this office in Marshfield. Given that this was my first interview in years, I prepared a resume and brought several writing examples from my blog. I must have said or done something right, because Matt gave me the job and asked me to have my column in within a week.

That was nearly three years and 147 columns ago (but who’s counting?) I have to give Matt credit for allowing me complete creative freedom over my topics. Whether I wrote about pre-sliced cheese, smug Christmas letters, talking to your child about 9/11 or recipes for spam and bean pie, Matt’s feedback has always been overwhelmingly positive. Headlines have never been my strong suit, so I’ve left that particular chore up to him, which yielded such beauties as “Wii are enjoying our new video game system” and (my personal favorite) “My Undying Love for Zombies”.
While I appreciate feedback from family and friends, I look forward each week to Matt’s opinion. There’s something about being critiqued by a fellow writer that carries more weight than anyone else. And I’m flattered that Matt sought my opinion on his articles and columns as well.

Sadly, this will be the final column that Matt critiques as he leaves his position at The Mariner and turns his creative talents to corporate writing. I’ll miss the headlines, the comments, the bad puns and the humorous emails we’ve shared. Though he’ll no longer be my boss, I’m glad that he’ll still continue to be my friend.

Good luck Matt.

Do You Remember Your First Concert?

Do you remember your first concert?

I put this question to several of my friends this week because I took my son to his very first concert. My friends’ answers ran the gamut of musical tastes. Some were cool: Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones, U2 and Jethro Tull. Others were less cool: Andy Gibb, Back Street Boys and New Kids on the Block. Bands like Bob Seger, Charlie Daniels Band and Kool and the Gang fell somewhere in the middle.

My first rock concert was not really rock but pop. It was Shaun Cassidy, brother of teen heartthrob David Cassidy of “The Partridge Family”. I has Shaun’s album (back in the wonderful days of vinyl) and listened to hits like “That’s Rock and Roll” and “Hey Deena” for hours. When his tour came to the tri-state area, someone (my parents?) bought tickets. I have a vague memory of the concert, sitting in nosebleed seats while a tiny white dot the size of an ant belted out “Da Doo Run Run”. I screamed and sang with all the other teenage girls and went home satisfied with my first real concert. I assumed I was 11 or 12 at the time, until my older sister recently burst my bubble. “I took you to that concert, remember?” she reminded me, “I had just gotten my license and we drove all the way out to the Nassau Colliseum”. Doing the math I realized I must have been 15 when I saw that concert. An 11 year old seeing Shaun Cassidy is sweet. A 15-year old seeing Shaun Cassidy is lame.

As I grew older I walked that fine line between cool and lame with subsequent concerts: The Kinks were definitely cool, but Styx (who I still love) falls on the lame side of the fence. Queen was cool, and Cheap Trick was cool and The Ramones were definitely cool (even though they played at Six Flags). U2 and Bruce Springsteen were cool as well. Def Leppard was interesting (saw them in London). Peter Gabriel was quirky. Lyle Lovett, James Taylor and his brother Livingston were all laid back. A recent AC/DC concert was super cool and super loud. Looking back at the handful of concerts I’ve attended, I would definitely say they were more cool than lame. However, I can’t help but think that you are somehow defined by the first concert you go to.

This is why I took such great pleasure in bringing my older son to see My Chemical Romance this past week at The House of Blues. For those of you not familiar with the band, My Chemical Romance’s music, according to Wikipedia, is described as “…a blend of gothic rock, punk, heavy metal, glam rock, metal and progressive rock…” I became enamored with their music when they released their 2006 album, “The Black Parade”, and dragged my husband to the DCU Arena to see their concert. With his tastes trending more towards blues and The Grateful Dead, my husband indulged what he assumed to be a mid-life crisis moment and sat dutifully in his seat as I cheered and yelled and sang my way through the concert.

Fast forward a few years to MCR’s next album, “Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys”. As I perused their website I noticed an upcoming tour date at The House of Blues. I knew either my husband or a friend would indulge me again, so I purchased two tickets. Much to my surprise, in the months between purchasing the tickets and the concert itself, my older son became a fan of the Danger Days album. Back in 2006 he would hold his hands over his ears anytime I’d try to play “The Black Parade” and beg me to put on something else. I guess I couldn’t expect a 9-year-old to appreciate the nuances of their music, but with age comes wisdom and I suddenly found myself living with a full fledged MCR fan. When he asked if he could join me at the concert, I agreed.

After loading all of the band’s music on my son’s iPod, showing him their videos on YouTube and letting him read a few interviews in music magazines, he was frothing at the mouth to go. The bands’ single “Sing” was featured in promos for American Idol and used in an episode of “Glee” (much to Glenn Beck’s dismay). Suddenly MCR was everywhere.

We drove into Boston on the designated evening with my son wearing my Black Parade tour t-shirt (it looks better on him). Arriving at the House of Blues we walked to the end of a line which stretched all the way down Lansdowne Street, through the alley and behind the House of Blues. As we took our place at the back of the line, I noticed many teens and twenty-somethings in the crowd, but also several kids younger than my son and quite a few adults older than myself. As we entered the House of Blues, my son experienced his first security pat-down. We took our place in the floor section, about 50 feet from the stage and waited…and waited…and waited. My son’s concert initiation included not one but two opening acts. He deemed the first “pretty good” and the second “slightly more demonic”. Nearly three hours after we had entered the House of Blues, My Chemical Romance took the stage.
My son and I spent the next 90 minutes jumping, dancing, cheering loudly and singing along with each song. As the band blasted their hits, I snuck a peak at his jubilant face and knew that bringing him had been the right decision. When the music ended, we bought a souvenir t-shirt and walked out of the House of Blues, slightly more deaf than when we walked in. We returned home at midnight, tired but happy.

Years from now someone will ask him about his first concert. Hopefully he will smile and remember the night when he and his mom bonded over a “cool” rock and roll band.

Children are the Heirs to our Hair

I confess I watched a portion of the Royal Wedding last week. I turned it on shortly before the ceremony began, and as I watched the footage of Prince William and Prince Harry waiting at the altar for Kate Middleton, one thought kept cropping up in my mind.

Prince William is seriously going bald.

Standing next to Harry with his enviable head of thick, red hair, it was obvious to all that William had inherited his father’s balding pattern. My thoughts turned to my own children and the ways that they have become our “hair heirs”.

As a child, I absolutely could not stand my hair. Thick, curly and unruly, I favored my mother’s follicles while my sisters had the same smooth, straight locks as my father. The neighborhood bullies nicknamed me “Brillo”, a name that still brings a shudder forty years later. I suffered through long hair, short hair, a brief period when I tried to curl it into “wings” (thanks a lot Farrah Fawcett) and then settled on what could only be described as an afro throughout my high school years. College wasn’t much better and it wasn’t until my twenties that I discovered the value of a good conditioner and some serious hair control products. After experimenting with hair color (blonde, brunette, redhead, I’ve been them all), I’ve pretty much reverted to my natural brown in a more styled, controlled version of my high school afro. Other than the grey that is creeping in here and there, I don’t foresee a radical change in my hairstyle anytime in the future.

My husband has very straight, fine hair. Growing up in the sixties, he was encouraged to grow it as long as he liked (both his parents had long hair). The only bump in the road was his yearly summer visit to his grandparents in Williamsport NY. Though his parents were borderline hippies, his grandparents were straight out of “Leave it to Beaver”. A career military man, his grandfather’s first order of business each summer was to march my husband straight to the barber for a buzz cut. If his grandparents had known that my husband would start losing his hair in his late twenties, perhaps they would have been inclined to let him keep his lush head of hair during those summers.

Fast forward a few decades to my own children. My older son seems to favor his mother’s hair type. Born bald, his white blond curly toddler locks have settled into a thick nest of coarse light brown curls. He prefers his hair long and while I wouldn’t classify it as an afro, I can see that without proper grooming and hair product it could eventually evolve into one. Long gone are the days of the “boy’s regular” cut he received as a child. The stylists at Just Hair Cuts know him by name, and sharpen their hedge clippers when they see him coming. The result is a somewhat manageable mane which typically gets mashed down due to the baseball caps he insists on wearing at all times.

My younger son, on the other hand, favors buzz cuts and Mohawks. While we try to convince him to let his hair grow in the cooler months (it keeps his head warm) as soon as the weather turns he’s clamoring for a buzz cut. Given free reign, he’d take the shortest setting on the hair clippers. Though he has a lovely scalp and I do enjoy the feel of his “peach fuzz”, the “1” setting makes him look like a post-chemo patient, which unnerves me. I urge him to let the stylist use the “2” or “3” setting on the clippers. For months he has been asking for a spiky Mohawk. My excuse has been, “not till after the school talent show.” Of course, the day after the show, he convinced me to bring him to the hair salon whereupon they shaved his sides down to peach fuzz and waxed the middle till he looked like a rooster. He loves it and I’m getting used to being poked by his spiky points when he leans in for a hug.

So be it short, long, thick, thin, curly or spiky, I’ve learned to let my children express themselves through their hairstyles (within reason). The important part is that they enjoy their hair. Because they need only look at my husband to see their potential future:

Hair today…gone tomorrow.

Royal Wedding

Don’t tuck away your Easter bonnets just yet. In less than 48 hours, millions of Americans will set their alarms to 4 a.m. in order to don their most regal finery and tune their televisions to the most anticipated event of the 21st century: The royal wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. All across our country businesses will close, allowing employees to stay home and wait with baited breath for a glimpse of Kate’s bridal gown. School children will be kept home in order to take copious notes on every detail of the royal nuptials. Life as we know it will grind to a halt as every man, woman and child weeps in joy for this long-awaited, blessed event.

At least that’s what the media would have you think.

Seriously, I don’t actually know anyone in my circle of friends that plans to watch the wedding. But you’d never know it based on the 24-hour royal wedding coverage that our American news outlets are ramping up as we count down to the big day. It feels like The Today Show’s Meredith Vieira has been in London for about 6 months now, visiting with the royal hat maker and collecting souvenir plates of Wills and Kate. Even our local news reporters have been in the U.K. for several days, looking for new angles on an event that has already been beaten to death long before Kate’s dainty foot has even set foot inside Westminster Abbey.

Why this fascination with British Royalty? After all, weren’t they the reason our forefathers escaped to this country in the first place? Why the change of heart? Is it because we kicked their butts in 1776 and saved those same butts in WWII that we’ve softened towards the monarchy? Or maybe it’s because we invested ourselves so heavily in the last “fairy tale” wedding between Lady Diana Spencer and Prince Charles, only to be disappointed. Rife with adultery, disapproving in-laws, bulimia and the tragic death and subsequent sainthood of Princess Diana, that particular fairy tale ended on a “Grimm” note.

Apparently, the media thinks we can’t get enough of William and Kate’s big day. But how can one royal wedding hope to compete with Lindsay Lohan’s jail sentence, Charlie Sheen’s Torpedo of Truth tour and the ever-changing “who’s dissing who?” on The Real Housewives of New York? I can see why the Brits, who still love their royal figureheads, are willing to put their lives on hold until the last piece of wedding cake has been eaten and the newlyweds have fondly waved farewell from the balcony at Buckingham Palace. But what makes the media think those of us “across the pond” are as interested as our British brethren?

Maybe it’s because we have a soft spot in our American hearts for Diana’s motherless boys. The two young princes appear to have inherited Diana’s playful nature, easy smile and empathetic spirit. Call me a foolish romantic, but the fact that William and Kate have been together for several years indicates real affection as opposed to a carefully engineered merger for the purpose of royal procreation. There may not be any fairy tale ending, but perhaps Wills and Kate have a shot at a loving, happy life together.

So for the sake of international relations, I’ll make time on Friday to enjoy a scone with clotted cream or a healthy serving of spotted dick (Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s a spongy cake-like dessert that has raisins in it. Look it up). I won’t drink tea, but I’ll have a good old American cuppa Joe while I turn on the telly and see if it’s worth all the fuss.

But just a peek.

Disposable Dishwashers and other Appliances

We live in a disposable society…

This should not come as a shock to those of us who drink bottled water, blow through Kleenex and turn up our noses at cloth diapers (full or empty).

In a time when that same bottled water has an expiration date, (seriously?) we have come to expect a short shelf life from the items we use and consume daily.
But I draw the line when it comes to appliances.

I’ve started to notice that dishwashers, dryers, washing machines and microwaves have developed shorter life spans. One friend commented that it used to be that your second set of appliances was the ones you died with. Not so much anymore. My parents have lived in their home for over 50 years, and they are only on their second washer and dryer. Even those were replaced relatively recently. This begs the question:

At the age of 75 and 80 respectively, will my mom and dad outlive their second set of appliances or will their appliances outlive them? Given the way these machines are now manufactured, my money’s on Mom and Dad.

When we moved into our current house, the dishwasher was working at less than peak performance. Dishes would sometimes come out dirtier than they went in. We called in our friends from George Washington Toma to solve the problem (we were frequent fliers with Toma back in the early days of homeownership). Our service technician advised us that it would be better to purchase a new dishwasher than to repair the old one because, “…dishwashers really only have a life span of about ten years.”

Ten years? Seriously? I’ve heard this phrase repeated often over my time as a homeowner (as ovens and dryers and other appliances have bit the dust) and I immediately defer to my in-laws who have had the same dishwasher, refrigerator and oven since they rebuilt their house in the early 1970’s. Apparently the 40-year old dishwasher is about as rare as the 40-year old virgin (apologies to Steve Carrell).

Granted, my in-law’s appliances are avocado-colored and honestly I have not since seen a stove that has only one large burner and three small ones. Yes, the dishwasher is so loud that it sounds as if the entire house is blasting off into outer space during the rinse cycle. But the point is they still work.

One friend in particular has had more than the usual share of appliance issues. Her refrigerator died and had to be replaced a few years ago. Then her microwave started turning itself on. Sometimes the numbers on the digital readout would convert to hieroglyphics. Not wanting to risk her family’s safety she replaced it. No sooner did that occur when her four-year old front-load washing machine died. The technician told her it would be $1600 to fix (it cost $900 new). Time for a new washer.

If we are a modern, technological society that can create miniature computers that hold tens of thousands of songs in the palm of our hands, why can’t we create a dishwasher that lasts longer than ten years? Were our forefathers from the 1970’s more advanced than we are today? Remember the “good old days” when the Maytag repairman moped through commercials with nothing to do?

You would think in today’s go-go-green society, appliances should last longer instead of cluttering up landfill every 10-15 years. What is the benefit of a new appliance every decade? The answer might surprise you (it surprised me). My current dishwasher, age twelve, had a problem and I brought our trusty friends from Toma in to fix it. “You sure you want to spend $125 to fix this, instead of buying a new one?” the repairman asked me? I assured him that I did. When I asked him why these newer models had a shorter life span than the trusty workhorses of the past he replied that materials used in older appliances are less likely to be able to be recycled. Newer models are able to recycle a much higher percentage of parts, so less goes into the landfill.

That makes sense. I understand the logic. But I still don’t feel like shelling out hard earned cash for a new appliance every decade or so.

So I propose a deal:

Give me a dishwasher that will last me another 40 years, and I promise that my family will bury it with me when I finally go.

That’s fair, isn’t it?

A Head Scratching Dilemna

The mind is a powerful, dangerous thing.

Last week I had the uneasy feeling that I might have head lice. Or bed bugs. I wasn’t exactly sure which one it might be, but I was nearly certain it was one or the other.

It started with a conversation at work. A co-worker casually mentioned that her daughter had contracted head lice. For the second time. As soon as she uttered the words “head lice” my scalp and skin started to itch. This happens to me anytime someone talks about head lice. Add in the fact that my hair is quite thick and curly, and it’s easy to imagine what a nightmare head lice might be for me.

However, I had not come into contact with anyone who actually had head lice, so I told myself that the chances of contracting it were miniscule. Eventually the itching abated.

A few days later, I had a conversation with a couple of friends about antiquing and buying clothes at secondhand stores. One of my friends who is a bit “germ phobic” said, “I can think of nothing more horrifying than walking through dusty antique stores and trying on used clothing.” She then went on to say that she read an online report stating that clothes bought in consignment stores was three times as likely to be infested with bed bugs. Even if the clothing itself is clean, it hangs in a person’s closet for who knows how long against other items of clothing that might not be bug free.

I laughed off her comment and then went home, at which point my scalp and skin started to feel itchy again. I asked my husband to look through my hair to be sure there wasn’t anything crawling around up there. Sighing with exasperation, he pawed through my scalp like a zoo monkey at grooming time and assured me that there was nothing taking up residence in the roots of my hair.

The next night, still slightly itchy, I settled down to watch a movie. The film was “The Switch” starring Jennifer Aniston and Jason Bateman. It’s a modest enough comedy, predictable and forgettable. However, the part of the film that had the biggest impact on me was the scene where the child of Jennifer Aniston’s character contracts head lice and her friend has to de-louse him. The extreme close-up shots of Jason Bateman running a comb through the kid’s hair and picking out nits nearly sent me into a conniption of itching.

After checking my scalp again my husband wearily explained that my itching could be caused by any number of things including the dry winter air or possible…ahem… hormonal changes.

As I showered the next morning, my gaze happened to fall on my bottle of hair conditioner. I had run out of Pantene, my usual brand, a week before and decided to give Garnier Nutrisse a try, since it seemed a more wholesome, natural alternative. (I’m a sucker for marketing) It didn’t matter that my son thought it smelled “like barf”. Hmmm. Could that be the culprit?

I switched back to Pantene the next day and though my itching isn’t completely gone, it’s back to its regular pre-Garnier status quo. Though I hate to waste a nearly full bottle of conditioner, it’s now relegated to a spot underneath the bathroom sink, in case we ever have house guests that prefer that brand.

I’m no longer convinced that I have parasites living in my hair. Switching back to my old conditioner helped cure the issues on the outside of my head. If only I could find something equally effective for the inside of my head.

And yes, for those of you who are curious; writing this column makes me itchy.
Sigh.

Welcome to the Teenage Years

I am now the mother of a teenager.

Do you ever get that “how did I get there” feeling? You know, the one when you travel the same route every day, and even though technically you are paying attention to the road and cars around you, your mind zones out and you find yourself miles closer to home thinking “How did I get here”?

That’s how I feel about suddenly becoming the mother of a teenager.

I use the term “suddenly” but this is actually an event that was thirteen plus years in the making. All the morning sickness, labor pains, sleepless nights rocking an infant, car seats, skinned knees, first days of school, recorder concerts, play dates, sleepovers and overdue library books finally add up to that milestone that heralds a whole new era of uncharted territory: the teenage years.

Of course, I vaguely remember my own teenage years, with shifting friendships, awkward moments, acne, insecurity and changes that made me feel as if my body was not my own. It was a terrible, wonderful, painful part of my life and when I emerged safely on the other side, I thought to myself, “Whew…Thank goodness I don’t have to go through that again.”

Except I do. But this time I get to live every uncomfortable, frightening, messy and crazy moment vicariously through my child. It’s amazing how the mind can block out whole chunks of memories. My own teenage years are buried in my mind somewhere beneath the countless seasons of “Survivor” and the plots from every trashy book I’ve ever read. I can’t remember how difficult I might have been towards my own parents (though I’m sure they’ll be happy to remind me once they read this).

I’m sure I was disrespectful and arrogant and a know-it-all when I was a teen. My days were spent alternately fighting with my parents and my siblings. Without cell phones, Facebook or the internet, the social dynamics at that time were certainly less complex, but turbulent just the same. Through junior and senior high school my core group of friends evolved and settled, but still contained dramatic incidents warranting teary phone calls and frantic scribbling in my journal. My body went through changes that I found both fascinating and repulsive. If I only knew then what I know now about the even more horrific changes thirty years in my future, I would have appreciated that teenage body more than I did.

But what good is all this knowledge and experience when my own child is sure to eschew my wisdom and turn to his friends, the media and pop culture for guidance? Eventually I’ll be relegated to the role of the ignorant parent who can’t possibly know what her teenager is going through.

I’m steeling myself for that day when my own newly-minted teenager decides that he’s just too embarrassed to be seen with me. When instead of greeting me with a smile and a hug he brushes past me with a grimace and a grunt. He’ll spend endless hours holed up in his room, iPod blaring in his headphones instead of recounting every detail of some ridiculous program he saw on Cartoon Network.

We’re not there yet, but I can see him inching his way ever closer. Until then I’m going to focus on the benefits of having a teenager in the house. Someone who (occasionally) helps shovel snow in the winter and mows the lawn in the summer. Someone who can watch his younger brother when I’m not home. Someone that still comes out to the car and offers to bring in my grocery bags. Someone who shares my love of British comedy and zombie movies and doesn’t mind sitting next to me in the theater instead of four rows behind me.

So if you see me around town and I look a little more frazzled than usual, just remember; I’m the mother of a teenager now.

Dispatch from the Pinewood Derby

There’s a feeling of excitement in the air. Pit crews are standing by and crowds hold their breath as the flag drops and the wheels hit the track. If you breathe deeply, you can catch just a hint of…graphite.

The Pinewood Derby is in town.

For the uninitiated, The Pinewood Derby is an annual event for boys in Cub Scouts. Tiger Cubs up to Webelos receive a kit containing a block of wood and some wheels and must design, carve and paint their vehicle into whatever shape they desire. Google “Pinewood Derby” and you can find a treasure trove of images of vehicles from past years. The Derby also has very specific rules about size, shape and weight of the car. No springs can be added, and the wheels and axle provided in the kit must be used.

Typically the kits are passed out to the scouts several weeks before “Race Day”. This gives the kids ample time to dawdle, tarry and procrastinate, ultimately rushing to finish their car mere hours before the start of the first heat. At least, that’s how it goes in my house.

On race day, the entrants bring their cars to the race location for the official weighing. Pity the poor scout whose car is over the 5 oz mark. At this point, fathers frantically pop off any additional lead weights that have been added to the car, or drill holes in the vehicle to remove unwanted ballast. The race itself lasts for approximately 6-8 hours (ok, that’s not quite accurate, it just feels that long). All the cars are given a chance to race in all four lanes so that everyone’s car has fair advantage. As the day winds down, the winners from each heat face each other until there are just a select few who take home the much coveted trophies. Everyone else goes home with a snazzy medal.

A great part of the Pinewood Derby is that the children are supposed to do most of the work themselves with minimal parental assistance. However, much like the annual science fair, it’s easy to tell whose projects have had more than a little “help” from an overeager parent. A friend of mine wrote a hilarious blog about The Pinewood Derby last year in which he opined that the young scout with the winning car must have had a father who worked for Boeing, given the aerodynamics on their extremely well-crafted entry.

This year was my son’s third year of racing in the derby. His first year’s car was a pretty basic design. He sawed (with my husband’s help) his block into a triangular shape. He then sanded it and painted it a forest green color, then added a white smiley face with a demonic expression. He christened it Mr. Happy. Though he didn’t do so well in the various heats that year, it was fun to listen to his den mates chanting “Mr. Happy! Mr. Happy!” as it rolled down the track.

Last year he chose an hourglass shape, painted orange with yellow flames. The car had the impressive name “Inferno” and though he came in first and second place in most of his heats, his average was dragged down by the fact that his car flew off the track in one of its runs. Trying to assuage his disappointment, I pointed out that his design was just too fast for the race.

This year’s car was shaped like a drop of water, painted electric green and titled “Acid”. My husband and son headed out to the Derby and I promised to follow in an hour to see his car run. Twenty minutes later my husband bolted back in the door. “What’s wrong?” I asked as he brushed past me and headed straight for the garage. “It’s one tenth of an ounce over!” he wailed as he grabbed his tool kit and drill and raced back out the door.

A short time later, I arrived to find the derby in full swing. With two four-lane tracks running simultaneously, the scout leaders were able to keep the action going as the crowd of scouts and parents cheered from the sidelines. In addition to my son’s car, I noticed some really interesting designs including several that contained Lego decorations (which didn’t always stay on the vehicle), a car that looked just like the DeLorean from “Back to the Future” and what looked to be a mostly unfinished block of wood on wheels.

Sadly, Acid did not fare well this year. It came in third (out of three) in three heats, moving up to second place during its final run. While my son was disappointed that his hard work didn’t yield more favorable results, I hugged him and told him that my most proud moment of the day had nothing to do with his car’s performance. At one point he had noticed some younger scouts were laughing at a car that had gotten stuck not once but twice at the track’s halfway mark. Knowing their laughter might hurt the feelings of the car’s owner, he firmly said, “Don’t laugh at that. It’s not funny.”

So while his automotive designs may not earn him any trophies, his compassion that day definitely made him a winner in my book.

Charlie's Sheen is Starting to Wear Off

Gee, I wonder what Charlie Sheen is doing today?

I say that because apparently nothing else is happening in the world right now. I mean, it’s not like we had not one, but two earthquakes (one in Christchurch, New Zealand and the most recent in Japan), a tsunami, an overthrow of one Middle Eastern government and civil unrest in several other Middle Eastern countries resulting in an increase in oil prices. We have our own “civil unrest” in Wisconsin, and a repeat of The McCarthy Hearings with Muslims as potential targets in place of Communists.

But forget all that, because what I really need to know is what Charlie Sheen is up today.

I admit that I am as guilty as any of my friends who have been watching with fascination the train wreck that is Charlie Sheen rocket out of the station and head full-speed towards a destination of self-destruction and mayhem. I’ve seen the parodies on Saturday Night Live, Jimmy Kimmel and Regis and Kelly. I’ve been sent links to the “Charlie Sheen Quote Generator” and been solicited to buy t-shirts that say, “Duh. Winning!” on the front. My own children have roamed the house parroting that phrase over and over until I want to scream.

But I’ve had enough. There’s no reason to beat this dead horse anymore. I was never a huge fan of “Two and a Half Men”. The few episodes I’ve watched seemed to revolve around the Charlie character’s lecherous, drunken behavior. Is the program that brilliant that it warrants Sheen’s million dollars per episode paycheck? Is he really irreplaceable? Some of you may not remember “Bewitched” but those of you who do know that the character of Darren was played by two different actors. As was Catwoman on the television series “Batman”. When Suzanne Somers chose not to return to “Three’s Company”, another blonde actress stepped in without pause and the show continued. Cheryl Ladd easily replaced Farrah Fawcett in “Charlie's Angel’s”

But this is not just about a television program. It’s about watching a pop culture icon implode. We can’t resist staring as public figures like Brittany Spears and Lindsay Lohan take one misstep after another, landing themselves in jail, rehab and, unfortunately sometimes, the grave. We’re fascinated when Mel Gibson begins spewing racist, misogynistic rhetoric, or when Christian Bale has a temper tantrum on the set of his new movie. Can you blame us? These clips are played over and over on television, the radio and via the web. We can’t escape it.

There was a time when the name Charlie Sheen brought to mind an actor with decent films to his credit (“Platoon”, “Wall Street” and “Major League” to name a few). Now he will forever be associated with words like “Tiger Blood”, “Adonis DNA” and “Vatican Warlock Assassin”. His children have been taken from him, one of his “goddesses” has moved out, he leaves a trail of unhappy ex-wives in his wake and he has taken to the internet with a series of entertaining, horrifying rants that leave many of us wondering whether they are fueled by drugs, mental illness or both. I can’t look at him now without feeling sympathy for his parents and siblings. I keep hoping he’ll pull a Robert Downey Jr. and turn his life around, but that seems unlikely at this point.

The latest gem is that Charlie Sheen is taking his madness on tour, performing live “comedy” shows in Chicago and Detroit. Entitled “My Violent Tornado of Truth/Defeat is not an Option”, the program promises more of the same craziness we’ve seen in recent weeks, albeit in a live setting. If the show comes to Boston, I’ll opt out. Call me a troll but my life is crazy enough.

Winning? Well Charlie, I guess if you call racing towards an inevitable finish line of humiliation, degradation and possibly death, then yes, you are indeed winning.

Lessons learned from vandelism

I’ve lived in my town for twelve years, and for as long as I can remember there has been an ongoing battle to build a new high school for our children.

The idea has been proposed, vetoed, proposed and approved. The construction was temporarily halted due to issues with the chosen contractor. And yet, despite these setbacks, the new high school continues to grow, inching closer to its projected opening of September 2011.

And now the latest setback. Last week, three teenagers were arrested for vandalizing the interior of the new school. Glass was broken and walls were spray painted. The incident made the front page of the local paper and many town residents are buzzing about the identity of the perpetrators (two were from our town, one from a neighboring town). Since the kids are underage, their names have been withheld.

I’m glad I don’t know who the kids are. It would be too easy to point fingers and pass judgment. When something like this happens, I try to say “There but for the grace of God go I” and hope that my own children will avoid making a similar mistake when they hit those difficult, teenage years.

As a mom, I’ve tried to instill the idea that my children should respect the property of others. Every time I sent one of them off to a play date, I would remind them to play nicely with the other person and be especially careful with that friend’s toys. I’ve also tried to emphasize that they need to be respectful of each other’s possessions. Still, I’ve lost count of how many times one has complained that the other has “ruined” their Lego set.

Yes, it’s a bit of a stretch from breaking down a Lego set to breaking windows and tagging walls. But these same teenagers were kids once too, and though I don’t know them personally, I’m willing to bet that their parents tried to instill the same values in them when they were children. Despite our best efforts, our kids sometimes make poor choices.

My oldest is on the brink of his teenage years, which means that he may soon morph from my sweet, good natured son into a sullen, moody, unrecognizable teen. When that happens, will he remember his lessons from the DARE program or will he ignore them? Will he continue to pursue a place on the honor roll or will social relationships become more important? Will he remember to respect the property of others or will he give in to peer pressure and damage someone’s property?

One of my good friends is the mother of two teenagers and as we discussed this week’s incident, she commented, “Raising teenagers is like being on an amusement park ride. You just have to hold on tight and hope you all get to the end safely.” Though her children, in general, make good choices, they’ve also had their share of mistakes and missteps. During our conversation, she and another friend revealed some poor choices they made when they were teenagers. I think many of us cringe over at least one thing we’ve done during that time in our lives

Getting back to the high school. I’m sad that these kids chose to vandalize something that has faced so many setbacks already. I can’t begin to guess what might have motivated their actions, nor would I want to try. It’s not my job to place judgment or grant absolution. That’s for the courts to decide.

But I have hope. I hope that those teens will use this incident as a life lesson and put that type of behavior behind them. I hope that when the new high school finally opens, all of our children will take pride in what they have been given. I’m hoping that the new halls and classrooms that surround them will give them a sense of ownership about something that their community has worked so hard to
provide.

One can hope.

Boredom "On Ice"

There are many things I miss as my children get older. I miss participating in activities in their classroom. I miss naps. And I miss the sweet smell of the tops of their heads as they dozed on my shoulder.

But the one thing I will not miss is sitting through anything that ends with the words “on ice”.

Don’t get me wrong. I love hockey. As a teenager, I was a huge fan of the New York Rangers, and though I’m still a little sketchy on the term “off sides”, I still enjoy the fast paced action of a good hockey game.

I also really enjoy figure skating. When the winter Olympics aired last year, I was riveted to all the figure skating. Even ice dancing.

No, the words “on ice” that I refer to are those skating revues that sprout like mushrooms at our local sports arena each year during winter vacation. This year’s production: “Toy Story 3…On Ice”.

Something‘s happened to these ice revues over the years. When I was a kid, there were no movie tie-ins for the ice show. It was simply called “The Ice Capades”, and usually it featured an assortment of B-list skaters and possibly a former Olympian or two. And yes, it took me 40 years to realize that the title “Ice Capades” is a play on the word “escapade”. (What can I say? I’m slow to catch on.)

I have a vague memory of my parents taking my sisters and me to see “Ice Capades” at Madison Square Garden in NYC. I can’t remember how old I was, but I remember being transfixed by the sparkly costumes, the majestic music and the grace and beauty of the skating. I also remember my father purchasing a small souvenir flashlight on a string. The trick was to swing the flashlight around in a circle, and if you looked throughout the audience you could see thousands of circles of light in the darkness. It took me less than a minute to hit my dad in the face, at which point the flashlight disappeared into my mother’s purse for the remainder of the performance.

Fast forward 35 years to a February vacation where I was the mom and my own children were begging to see the ice show du jour: “Disney’s The Incredibles On Ice”. As I mentioned, ice shows have morphed over the years to focus on one central theme for the program. The year I took my children, the theme was Disney/Pixar’s “The Incredibles”. Since I have two sons, it seemed a more appropriate choice than “Disney Princesses On Ice” or “The Little Mermaid On Ice”.

As my family waited for the program to begin, I noticed several vendors walking through the stands hawking popcorn and cotton candy. Apparently, inflation has severely affected cotton candy prices, because the vendors were asking an astronomical $10 each. Popcorn wasn’t much better, and purchasing a Slushee for each child would have involved a second mortgage. Each treat was housed in some sort of “commemorative” packaging, so when the actual snack was finished, kids would have a cheap plastic cup or wand to remind them of that special afternoon that sent their parents into bankruptcy.

I ignored my children’s cries of “I’m hungry” and “I’m thirsty” and reminded them to focus on the ice skating instead. As the lights dimmed, I leaned forward in my seat, anticipating the “incredible” skating ahead.

90 minutes later I realized that “The Incredibles On Ice” was basically one big commercial for Disney World, thinly veiled in a story featuring the characters from the movie: Syndrome, the villain from the film, chases The Incredibles throughout Disney World, as the family checks out all the featured rides at the theme park. The skating was adequate, but what I remember most about the program was deflecting the million dollar question as we exited the arena: “When are we going to Disney World Mom?” Gee, thanks Disney.

The other day I was relaying our “Incredibles on Ice” story to a friend of mine. He laughed and suggested that perhaps they should base an ice show on a different movie: “The Expendables”. If you’re not familiar with that film, Sylvester Stallone leads a team of mercenaries to South America to overthrow a dictator. The film also stars Jason Statham, Dolph Lundgren, Jet Li and a handful of other tough guys. I can just imagine “The Expendables on Ice”. A combination of mixed martial arts and ice skating. Pyrotechnics and triple Salchows. Cotton candy hanging from plastic souvenir Uzis.

Now that’s something I would pay money to see.

Surviving School Vacation

If you’re like me, you are probably wondering how to style your hair…or what’s left of your hair after pulling out most of it in frustration because it’s February vacation week.

Now February vacation is a challenge under the best of circumstances. There’s a week off at Christmas. Then two weeks later a long weekend for Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday (and if you live in my town you have an exceedingly long weekend since a professional day was tacked on the Tuesday after MLK day. Thanks.) After MLK weekend, it’s just a few short weeks until President’s Day, heralding yet another week of vacation.

So you can see how parents might be a little bit punchy with all those vacation days under normal circumstances. However, this winter has been anything but normal. With four snow days thrown into the mix (and a couple of early dismissals as well), we’ve had only two full weeks of school this year. I heard rumblings about possibly eliminating some of either February or April vacation, in order to make up snow days, but so far, no such luck.

By the time this column reaches your hands we will have all heard the following phrases more times than we can count:

“I’m bored.”

“I’m hungry.”

“What are we doing today?” (Also rephrased as the statement, “There’s nothing to do.”)

“He/she is hogging the television/video game system/computer/iPad/iPod/iTouch.”

Sound familiar? Here are a few survival tips on responding to these phrases allowing you to regain a small amount of sanity over these last few days of vacation.

A friend has a brilliant solution whenever her kids say “I’m bored.” She whips out the vacuum cleaner, toilet brush, dust rag and directs them to whatever needs to be cleaned. As you can imagine, the words “I’m bored” are rarely uttered in her presence. Give it a try. The first few times your kids utter this phrase, you’ll end up with a sparkly clean toilet bowl or kitchen counter. Stock up on extra Lysol and Windex so everyone can have their own bottle. After they catch on, your kids may only think or whisper “I’m bored” under their breath, but as long as you don’t have to listen to it, who cares?

My nearly-teenage son frequently says, “I’m hungry”. I helpfully reply, “Well, what are you hungry for?” to which he usually says, “I don’t know.” At this point I start to list everything in the refrigerator and pantry, all of which gets rejected. From now on the phrase “I’m hungry” will be countered with the response, “So am I. What do you feel like making me?” It’s a great opportunity for your child to learn how to prepare your favorite goodies. Watch it come in handy when Mother’s Day rolls around.

The question “What are we doing today?” sets my teeth on edge. As it is, I hear this most weekends, not just school vacation week. It’s as if I’m Julie McCoy and I’ve created this mysterious agenda for each non-school day, but just haven’t shared it with them yet. Rather than respond with “Well, we’ve got shuffleboard on the Lido deck and Isaac is giving bartending lessons at three in the Coconut Lounge”, I’m going to give them an honest answer: “I’m cleaning out the fridge and I could use your help. Can you taste these items and let me know if they’re spoiled? (This might actually tie in with the aforementioned “I’m hungry” complaint).

When the inevitable “there’s nothing to do” comes up, counter with all the things you have on your agenda: “Sure there is! Can you pull the stove out and clean that little area I can’t reach where all the food falls down between the stove and the counter? And when you’re done, can you clean the grout in the shower? Just grab your toothbrush and use it to scrub, that’s what I do when you’re at school.”

Inevitably one of my kids will complain that the other is hogging the television, Wii or computer. Distract them with something shiny, and then surreptitiously throw the circuit breakers on those items. Explain that sometimes there are partial blackouts that only affect these items and suggest they read a book….in their room…with the door closed. Be aware that this does sometimes backfire. Be prepared to get sucked into a marathon game of Monopoly or Clue. When you can’t take one more trip around the board, excuse yourself and throw the circuit breakers back on.

And for those of you lucky enough to be relaxing on a tropical shore or schussing through the mountains of New Hampshire, I wish you a wonderful vacation week with just one word of warning: Your day will come. Perhaps during April vacation week.

Good luck.

Down for the Count

The cold and flu season is upon us. I don’t consider myself to have a super immune system. I try to prevent colds by practicing good hand washing and taking vitamins (when I remember). Typically, at the first sign of a cold, I pop extra vitamin C or those immune-boosting tablets you see advertised on television. Still, with all these precautions, I did find myself coming down with a cold this week.

Even when I succumb to a nasty cold, I find myself continuing with my daily routine. The advice “get plenty of rest” doesn’t apply to moms. If we were to suddenly plop ourselves down on the couch with a box of tissues and a cup of tea, who would drive the kids to taekwondo and baseball practice? Who would pack lunches in the morning, run five loads of laundry, do the food shopping and make dinner? Who’d crack the whip over the kids as they do their homework, find their AWOL baseball glove or the head from their Lego Star Wars clone trooper?

Yes, we ignore medical advice and continue with our daily routines because we know that if we didn’t, civilization as we know it would grind to a halt.

Or would it?

My husband has a similar ethic when it comes to being sick. Unless he is at death’s door, he will drive 60 minutes to work and put in a full day, despite looking and sounding like the creature from the black lagoon and potentially infecting every co-worker within a five cubicle radius. However, on those rare occasions when he is just too sick to work, he stays in bed for the entire day and sleeps, rousing himself only for bathroom breaks or a bowl of chicken soup.

Since my current cold presented itself near the end of the week, I decided to forgo my usual routine of blundering through my daily chores, embrace my sickness and take to my bed. Fortunately, my husband works half days on Fridays. He was home in time to take one of our boys to his taekwondo practice, and then drive the other son to his school dance that evening. But what about dinner? Under normal circumstances I would go ahead and cook, adding a smidge of germs to whatever dish I was making. This time, instead of picking up a skillet I picked up the phone and ordered Chinese takeout. A breakthrough! Besides, we all know hot and sour soup is good for a cold, right?

The next day was Saturday. One son had baseball while the other son was scheduled to participate in a service project at church (for which I had volunteered to drive). Luckily, my son caught my cold, and was sniffing and coughing as much as I was. As I was about to call the project coordinator, my husband walked into the room. “Can you call him?” I asked, using my diminished strength to hand him the phone (I hate making those calls under the best of circumstances). I added a few coughs for good measure. “Of course I can,” he replied as I fell back against the pillows and reached for the television remote. I was starting to get the hang of this.

I spent the entire day in bed, surrounded by tissue boxes, throat lozenges, magazines and my television remote. I watched “The Godfather” in its entirety and dozed on an off through a marathon of “American Pickers” on the History Channel. I drank orange juice and ate leftover Chinese food (“feed a cold”). I read an entire book, cover to cover. And when it came time for dinner, I sat back and let my husband whip up a chicken casserole. Who knew that being sick could be so therapeutic?

Still, all good things must come to an end. Tempted though I was to spend another day in bed, it was my turn to teach Sunday school. On the way home from church, I stopped to buy groceries for the week. As I type this I’m baking Valentine’s cupcakes and helping my son create cards for his classroom. There’s laundry in the dryer, the house needs a good vacuuming, and there’s youth group this evening.
Though I’m still sneezing and blowing my nose, I feel like a human being again. Had I not spent the entire day in bed, I’m pretty sure I would be feeling worse today, not better. Though no one likes being sick, I did enjoy absolving myself of all my regular duties for that one day. Still, I doubt I’ll have the chance to repeat it anytime soon.

Unless…unless I catch that stomach bug I hear is going around. Hmmmmm.

Happy Valentine's Day

Valentine’s Day is nearly here. Have you bought your chocolates? Booked your table at a fancy restaurant? Snuck red-faced into Victoria’s Secret looking for that special item for the woman in your life? Well, what are you waiting for?

Some people love Valentine’s Day, others hate it. Is it really a day to cherish those people we love most or a day for Hallmark, Teleflora and most restaurants to suck all the money out of our wallets?

Well...it’s both. Valentine’s Day can be the most wonderful day of the year when you are in love. If you’re not in a relationship, it can be torture. The day is filled with love songs, roses, romantic movies and retail specials geared towards everyone and everything: “Show your car how much you love it…bring it in for an oil change on Feb. 14”.

After reading “Waiter Rant” a tell-all memoir by a professional waiter, I learned that Valentine’s Day is one of the absolute worst days to dine out. Restaurants create “special” menus which feature the priciest items and service tends to be less than stellar. Get take out and bring it home, or better still, prepare a special meal for your loved one in your own kitchen (men, I’m directing this to you, since I’m willing to bet that a large portion of the women reading this do the bulk of the cooking on a day to day basis. Does this make me sexist? Yup).

And then there’s candy. Forget the Whitman sampler. The best part about Whitman chocolates is the map that tells you how to avoid the nasty ones. However, I find most of them are nasty, so go for the good stuff: Ghirardelli, Godiva or Lindt. Avoid the candy conversation hearts like the plague. One year my son handed me one of those cute little candies with the phrase “I Luv U” on it. “Eat it mommy,” he urged, and like a good mother I did. Crack. That sound you heard was my tooth breaking apart. The only one feeling the love that year was my dentist, who was more than happy to replace my crown.

Somehow Valentine cards spiraled out of control at my house. Growing up, we bought cards for each member of our family. I continued this tradition when my children came along. But then one year I finally realized that I was sending cards from myself, my husband and my kids to my mother, father, in-laws, sisters, brothers-in-law, niece and nephews. It was like some kind of crazy math problem from my son’s homework:” If you have 15 people and each person sends a Valentine to each of the other people, how many Valentines will you have sent in all?” I may not be a math whiz, but when I added up all the cards and postage, I realized Valentine’s Day was becoming almost as expensive as Christmas. That was the year I discovered the one-size-fits-all photo card. Much like a Christmas card, I could customize it with photos of the entire family and send one card to each person on the list. This year I’m going to get creative with e-cards. By the way, the photo card also works well for those kids who don’t want to hand write their name on their classroom valentines. For the last couple of years my son has given classmates snazzy photo cards preprinted with “Happy Valentine’s Day from your friend Cooper.” They cost a bit more than Hannah Montana, Justin Bieber or “Toy Story 3” boxed cards, but the time you save…priceless.

Remember mix tapes? What better gift to give than a customized CD of music for the one you love? I did this one year for my husband. I compiled a playlist of romantic songs, each one designed to express my feelings for the wonderful man in my life. The mistake I made, however, was choosing romantic songs by artists that I liked: James Ingram, Celine Dion, Styx, and even a few show tunes made it onto the CD. I couldn’t figure out why my Grateful Dead-Beck-and-Stevie-Ray-Vaughn-loving-husband didn’t appreciate the gesture more. Next time I’ll look through his iTunes library before compiling a musical tribute.

Finally, why not wrap up your Valentine’s Day snuggling on the couch with a romantic movie? Sure you can limit yourselves to the obvious choices like “Sleepless in Seattle”, “Casablanca” or “The Princess Bride” (my husband’s personal favorite). Why not cast your net a bit wider and try a less conventional film? “Truly, Madly, Deeply” stars Alan Rickman (aka Severus Snape) as the deceased lover who returns from the grave to hang out for a bit with the woman he loves (and no, this is not a zombie flick. Think “Ghost” before there was “Ghost”). Want your man to get in touch with his feelings? Sit him down to a double feature of “Field of Dreams” and “Brian’s Song”. Have Kleenex nearby. And for those who are looking for something truly bizarre, may I recommend “Boxing Helena”, the story of a surgeon who becomes obsessed with a woman and removes her limbs in order to keep her close, in a box. Now there’s someone who should have stuck with the Whitman Sampler.

However you choose to celebrate, I wish you all a very Happy Valentine’s Day.
XOXOXO

Date night for Mom and Dad

The other night my husband and I had dinner together.

We had talked for quite a while about getting out for a “date”, just the two of us. There were no movies we were dying to see, so armed with a gift certificate to a local restaurant, we both looked forward to reconnecting as a couple for just a few short hours.

Naturally, our children tried to derail our plans.

I think my first mistake was telling our two boys exactly where we were going for dinner.

“We’re going to The Fours in Norwell, “I said, hoping to reassure them that we would be close to home and able to return quickly should some unforeseen reason arise.
“The Fours?” they chorused in disappointment. My kids associate The Fours with good food and fun. How dare their parents decide to dine there without them? Had I been smart, I would have told them we were trying a new French restaurant that specializes in frog’s legs, sweetbreads and escargot. The idea that their parents were venturing out to the place that served their favorite burgers and nachos was unthinkable; practically treason.

A short time after our announcement, the kids tried to play the guilt card. My younger son attempted to school my older son in the nuances of passive aggressiveness. “Say it this way, “he instructed, continuing, “Oh well, I guess we’re not going to The Fours with you for dinner tonight. We’ll just have to stay home and eat stale bread and water instead.” Not bad for a nine year old. A few more years and he’ll be even more skilled than his mother.

A bit later, I called the two boys to the table for their dinner. They trudged up the stairs with heavy footsteps, their shoulders slumped and their heads hung low. Clearly they were trying to use body language to convey their displeasure with our plans.

I gently explained to the boys that moms and dads need time alone to reconnect. Time to talk about everything and nothing. Time to laugh at each other’s jokes and enjoy a quiet dinner without having to referee fights or remind someone to sit up straight or stop picking on their brother.

They countered with this logic: “You know you just went to your friend’s house for dinner a couple of weeks ago.” (True). “And you went to see “The King’s Speech” while you left us home with Nana and Grandpa!” (Yes…at Christmas).

My nine year old decided it was time to pull out his final trick, the ace in the hole: “You mean to tell me you don’t want to stay home and spend time with your own children? What’s wrong with you?” This phrase is a running joke between us, yet I knew there was an underlying note of truth in his jest.

Time to pull out my own lethal weapon: “Do you know, “I asked them, “what happens sometimes to moms and dads who don’t get to spend enough time together as a couple?”

“What?” they asked.
“They get divorced. “ Silence.

I continued, “Think about it. Do you really want to spend every other weekend and Wednesday nights with your father?”

“No,” they answered grudgingly as my husband murmured that Tuesday nights would actually work better for him. Resigned to an evening with no one to monitor their video game playing and YouTube viewing habits, they waved goodbye as we headed to The Fours.

Less than two hours later we were home, sated by a good meal, a couple of drinks and enough time to laugh and remind ourselves exactly what we love best about each other. Aside from a depletion of cookies from the cookie jar, our children were no worse the wear for our brief evening out.

There will be more opportunities ahead for my husband and I to enjoy our “alone” time. However, if we decide to visit The Fours again, this time we might have to bring our passive aggressive, guilt-inducing, nacho-eating children along too.