A Love Letter to Parents of Seniors -- I SEE YOU

My first born turned 18 last month and like so many of my hard-working mom peers, I have been collecting “likes” and “Congrats!” as I post pictures of him in his prospective college sweatshirt on social media. Graduation to us parents is kind of like our Oscars. After so many years of putting in the time and effort, we are finally seeing some recognition for our body of work. We might even receive an actual thank you! It is an exciting time but just as the Oscars are not at all representative of the daily grind for a working actor, the pomp and circumstance of graduation bares little resemblance to life as an actual parent. In fact, graduation is the exact moment I actually do not need praise. It is a thrilling time to be sure—somewhat like the downhill release on a roller coaster complete with the realization of all that potential energy and a boost of adrenaline. But parenting is so much more that slow creaky climb up the steep hill filled with anxiety and nervous expectations. This is the part of the ride where no one screams or claps just as this is the part of parenting where no one bursts into applause. Parenting is done behind-the-scenes, yet we don’t get to share posts or receive accolades during those in-the-trenches moments. But as I look back on the last 18 years, I want other parents to know “I see you.”

I see you finding a way to check out of the grocery store with a screaming child who has gone limp in your arms while pretending not to notice the judgmental glares from the other customers.

I see you miserably waking up in the middle of the night and not understanding how those moms in your baby group describe this “special” time as blissful.

I see you making slime even though you swore last time was the last time.

I see you in the airport bathroom with luggage, a stroller, a diaper to change, and those stall doors that open inward.

I see you sitting in a parent/teacher conference having to listen to negative feedback that you know in your heart is not true. And, I see you, using that moment as fuel to advocate for your child.

I see you waiting in a two hour line for the new release of silly bandz. Remember those?

I see you driving, driving, and driving some more with a car full of loud children as you feel that migraine coming on but know that you are hours away from any medication or caffeine.

I see you going through the trash in the back of the restaurant because you are not paying another $300 for a retainer.

I see you cheering from the stands and handing out water bottles even though your kid has not left the bench—all year.

I see you cleaning up barf in your brand new car.

I see you making that Shutterfly album only to have it disappear and start all over again.

I see you saving up for those concerts seats and wondering how much you could have scalped those Wiggles tickets for as you listen to “Fruit Salad” live.

I see you researching a 504 plan versus an IEP and then fighting like hell to make it happen.

I see you making lunches, filling water bottles, and serving up snacks like a short order cook.

I see you sitting up late at night googling a diagnosis because you had so many questions you did not want to ask the doctor in front of your child.

I see you composing those room parent emails with mindfulness only to get a “reply all” response with a minor grammatical correction from a parent who has never volunteered.

I see you giving your child the speech about how a few good friends is so much more important than a huge social circle and then stalking Instagram trying to figure out why your kid wasn’t invited to the party.

I see you feeling nauseous on the two-hour field trip bus sitting next to an anxious child who needs some extra attention even when it’s not your own kid.

I see you running the bake sale, working the auction, and sorting Lost and Found.

I see you allowing your child to fail because you know it is the right thing to do but so badly wanting to fix it.

I see you learning to cook vegan and gluten free.

I see you staying up until midnight to fill out that application for the charter school or summer program.

I see you trying to explain the significance of a hand-written thank you note to a text obsessed teenager.

I see you crying in the bathroom after four hours trying to get your anxious or scared or depressed or overwhelmed child to go to sleep.

I see you in all those waiting rooms.

I see you watching your teenagers form their own worldviews and being supportive even when you know there is so much they don’t know.

I see you doing the laundry every single day and not understanding why sports uniforms are ever white.

I see you trying to keep it together when your teenage daughter tells you she hates you for the first time.

I see you trying to explain to the grandparents why your child is in therapy.

I see you taking away something from your child as a “consequence” even though it makes your life ten times harder.

I see you teaching your teenager to drive. Oh do I see you!

I see you helping your child through a difficult life transition—a death, divorce, illness—when all you want is for someone to take care of you.

I see you walking in proudly to an event with your child who refuses to conform to what is deemed appropriate attire.

I see you buying and returning bras in an endless loop because there is no way your daughter is walking into a store.

I see you learning new pronouns and terms to become an ally.

I see you checking “Find My Phone” when you know your kid is at a party with alcohol and laying wide awake until you know they have safely arrived home.

I see you sending texts to your kids and getting no responses. Wondering why they are just not that into you.

You might not get a diploma or a shiny statue but you are seen. Your work has not been in vain. Just maybe, one day that adult you helped form will be a productive and engaged citizen of the world who just might actually acknowledge that you had something to do with it.

And to those parents who only wish these were their struggles but, instead, deal daily with mental health issues, physical limitations, financial hardships, single parenting, and more, I see you too. Mourning the vision of what you thought parenting would look like is another essay for another day.

I am also well aware that graduating and going immediately to a four-year college is a privilege not afforded or right for all kids. How annoying the bombardment of graduation and college hoopla must be! As a college counselor, I can say with authority, there is no correct path to take. It is not the grades or college that leads to ultimate success. It is the love, belief, consistency and support of a parent that creates successful adults.

You’re doing the work all day, every day and I, along with so many others, see you!

Happy graduation to those with seniors. You have kept them alive for 18 years!

KIDS ARE THE NEW BOOTY CALLERS

As a typical girl, I've had my share of booty calling boys who did not know my worth but had that smile and those abs that somehow excused such behavior. I'd swear him off at 8 pm when he didn't call. Promise my roommates I would not give in when he didn't invite me to his formal because of our "incredible friendship." And, vow this was the last time I was picking him up because he was too drunk to get home. Eventually, I matured. By senior year in college, I knew my worth and didn't tolerate such disrespectful behavior. In fact, I already knew my husband then and figured my days of being treated like, well, shit, were over. Boy was I wrong.

Yesterday as I lay in my bed with the flu barely able to lift my head off the pillow, I had a realization. My children are that guy. It started in the morning when I somehow got out of bed to make lunches (a panini-pressed sandwich on pretzel bread by the way) and breakfast since my husband had an early meeting. As I stumbled around the kitchen hacking and moaning, neither child took notice. Then, I got in the car to drive my kids down to our carpool meeting spot and my daughter screamed that she wasn't coming because her favorite sweatshirt wasn't clean. Can you believe I didn't do the laundry in the middle of the night? Finally, when she came raging into the car, I handed her a bag of cereal. She threw it back. It apparently was not a cereal kind of morning. As we headed down the street, my son looked up from his important texting and asked if I was driving. Did I mention I was wearing pajama pants, a thermal with no bra and my hair on top of my head? "No, Gabe, I'm actually going back to bed because apparently you didn't notice, I'm sick."

After dropping them off, I went straight to bed and slept for four hours. I woke to a gnawing feeling in my stomach. My son had a school basketball game and I felt horrible that I just knew I couldn't make it. I, of course, try and support him with my presence at all of his sporting endeavors. I worked the phones and found a wonderful mom to help out. Then, I made sure my daughter could go home with another friend and her helpful mom (by the way, other moms are the best boyfriends ever!). Feeling relieved that I had it covered, I laid my head back on the pillow only to be startled by an incoming text. My son was now on the bus to his game and wanted to let me know I didn't pack his lunch. He was starving and it was all my fault. Feeling fairly sure that his lunch was, in fact, in his bag, I asked him to check again. "NO!," he wrote back. It was not there. I felt so guilty. My son was starving and it was my fault. I went downstairs and checked. No lunch. So strange. I texted said wonderful mom and lowered myself to admit my bad mommmying and ask if she had any snacks in her car. She went above and beyond and picked him up Subway. When I texted him to tell him the good news, he responded, "Make sure it's on Italian bread." It was.

A few hours of quiet. A little more sleep. Then the doorbell. My son was home. He dropped his bag and went to the kitchen telling me what homework he needed help with. I unzipped his bag and pulled out his lunch underneath his dirty P.E. clothes. When he saw the lunch, he laughed. I didn't see the same humor in the situation.

And so the night progressed. I did homework, fed my kids and wondered if either child might ever ask how I was feeling. My husband took over when he got home and I was able to get a good night sleep. Feeling a little better, I headed back downstairs this morning to make lunches and breakfast again. My son yelled at me because the printer wasn't working and he needed his work for school. My daughter freaked out because I didn't read her book last night. Somehow, we got in the car and drove to our meeting spot. Yet another incredible mom was driving her second day of carpool to help me because moms are the committed and loyal type.

Then, I got back in bed and cried. That's when it hit me. I knew this feeling--that of being treated without respect. That feeling that despite the ungrateful behavior, you keep going back for more. Yes! My kids are like those college boys--and just as outwardly cute too. The difference is I do unconditionally love them and while I am not going to excuse their behavior, I have to tolerate it because I am committed in this relationship for life. Still, if Zoey thinks she's coming in my bed at 2 am, she's got another think coming. I draw the line at booty calls.

THE "G" WORD

A few years ago, my writing partner and I pitched a show to the networks called "The G Word." It was basically about the new generation of grandparents who, well, weren't exactly the warm, fuzzy gray-haired definition we had grown up with. They were more of the face-lifted, over socially scheduled, ombre hair colored variety. We were met with blank stares from the young twentysomething newly appointed TV execs who just "didn't get it" and wondered who would want to watch older people on TV. Thus, that idea went where far too many other good ones reside--my old desktop Mac. But the G-Words in my life just keep on giving when it comes to material so I can't let it die. This brings me to the best part of blogging--I no longer need a clueless exec's permission to present you (the much smarter and savier audience than anyone ever gives you credit for) with my musings and observations. So here goes...

I always knew there would come a time when the roles begin to shift in the child/parent relationship. My Dad passed away years ago but I was prepared that as my mom got older, I would have to take on more of a parenting role. I figured much further down the road, my sister and I would organically become more of the caretakers. I pictured being an advocate, a nurse, a sort of aid to her at some point. But that's not what's going down. I've already become the parent--the voice of reason and caution and...dating advice. My mom? She's the teenager. And this is not an anomaly. It's becoming the norm. Most of my friends have parents who are either divorced, widowed or in second marriages. Some of them have lost money along the way and are having to learn to budget their lives the way a college graduate figures it out in that first year of sorta independence. The stability of Grandma and Grandpa quietly sitting in their paid-off home ready to offer words of wisdom or, well, even help with the babysitting is disappearing faster than your latest Snapchat. They are way too busy. Going back to work. Going out. Going online. Put it this way, the Zeke and Millie Bravermans of the world are an endangered species. Even they sold the family home and moved to the city!

Let's start with their relationships because those are way complicated. If you thought Carrie Bradshaw had it tough in Sex and the City, you've never seen over-sixty and single in the suburbs. It's all about online dating and let me tell you, it's ruthless, dirty and absolutely nothing you want to ever hear your mom or dad speak of but unfortunately the only thing they want to talk about. I get that being older allows you to skip the games and go for honesty but the profiles some of these G-worders put up could make even Samantha blush. They talk graphically about all of their wants, needs and desires. I find myself lecturing my mom on why she absolutely may not respond to this guy or that guy. I now give the "self-worth" speech to both my mom and my 8 year-old. I am constantly reminding Mom to meet in public places and never give her phone number or address out. Then there's the finances. Unlike college where breakups and hookups leave you with his sweatshirt or her toaster, there are assets and retirement plans. But the G-Worders are comingling and cohabitating without communicating with each other or their kids on this subject. A few of my friends have had to call meetings with thier parents and intended ones to make sure everyone was being careful. My almost teenage son is about to start dating and I'm already exhausted thanks to my senior citizen mom (who--full disclaimer--is not old and looks young in case anyone, mostly her, was wondering!)

Then there's the problem of putting technology in the hands of Grandparents 2.0 which I've already opined on in previous posts. Grandparents are worse than teens for two reasons. They have more hours in the day (without school getting in the way) and they don't really know how to use it. So, in addition to the numerous discussions, er fights, about social media boundaries and etiquitte, there are the annoying tutorial phone calls. The Facetime attempts where they just can't seem to get a picture. The voicemail asking if she should start "twitting?" The panic that sets in when the screen freezes. Should he go to the AT&T store? Nevermind that he has T Mobile. A few weeks ago, I was up early and didn't want to call and wake my mom but needed to give her directions. I texted her instead so that she would have them when she woke up. A minute later my phone rings. My text woke her up. Why? Because she keeps the phone right next to her bed with the alert sounds on. I think it's time for some technology rules. Maye she needs a technology basket for nighttime. However, I fear, unlike my son, she won't be able to part with her iPhone at night and really she's not afraid of me.

The good news is that this booming generation is living longer and healthier than ever before allowing for much fuller lives in the 60s, 70s and 80s. They are always cruising (both the seas and the scene), taking in shows and trying out whatever cuisine is trending. The bad news is that having such a full life doesn't allow much time for dance recitals, spring concerts or heaven forbid Saturday night babysitting. When my daughter calls my mom for plans, I have to remind my mom to let her down easy. My friend told me a great story about her Mom and Step-dad reccommending a new restaurant that they had been to with great detail about the magnificent wine list and savory small plates. "You must go," demanded her mom. When my friend replied that she would love to but it was expensive to get a Saturday night sitter, her mom insisted, "It's worth it!"

There's a new Nana in town and she looks a lot like that rebellious teenager down the hall. The only difference is that she does want to talk to you and tell you about everything. Yup, it's complicated.

P.S. If any new twentysomething execs do "get it," G-Word is registered with the WGA. You can pass on the idea but can't steal it.

NO MORE FAKING IT IN 2015

I've decided 2015 is the year of truth. I'm over 40. No more bullshit. No more #blessed (although, let's be honest I could never stoop to such a hashgag). Social media has begun to feel like an invasion of my mind and soul. A black hole of braggadociosness. A ticket to the False Frontier. I can't help but hear the "do do do do" chiming in my mind as a Rod Sterling-like voice reminds me each time I click on Facebook that I am willingly about to enter a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind (fuck). A journey into a land whose boundaries are that of imagination (in that there are no boundaries). I am about to enter--The Highlight Zone. And then all the highlights come scrolling down photoshopped to perfection with accolades, achievements and superlatives. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends and want good things to happen to and for them. But I've also lived long enough to know that there's unfortunately more of life with bad hair days, blotchy skin, kid meltdowns, disappointments and cranky episodes than one would think based upon any (mine included) facebook status streams. My kids, however, do not know better.

Since granting Gabe, my 11 year-old son, persmission to enter this new dimension, I have watched him continuously capture moments for the sole purpose of creating a filtered Instagram image to garner "likes." Likes apparently equate with number of friends. Because everybody needs 81 friends who "like" your show-off Laker game seats. I'm sure you can call each and every one of them when you need help moving furniture or running to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription. I listen to conversations between my kids and their friends about which photos to put up as they carefully craft supposedly casual taglines about what they are doing. My son takes greater care with his postings than he does with his homework. They must be "perfect." I get it. He's creating a brand to compete with all the other brands, er, kids out there.

It's not just the younger generations getting caught up with keeping up. My 71 year-old mom and her peers use Facebook as the Grandma Brag book 2.0. Each grandchild is smarter, cuter and more advanced than the next. Every time my mom whips out her camera phone, my kids plead with her not to post the picture before they have "approved it." They are apparently the self-appointed editors of my mom's lifestyle story. And it's not all about the grandkids either. After endless practice pics, Grandma has perfected the selfie so that she looks "younger and thinner." I know this because Zoey, my 8 year-old daughter, told me so.

Let's face it. Facebook is more like Fakebook. All of us who take part in social media are contributing to the marketing and branding of human beings. I am just as proud of my kids as you are of yours but I'm pretty sure it's not helpful for them to grow up in a world where we only share our triumphs. So for the next 365 days, I'm stripping it down to the raw me-- going Real World (and not in the MTV kind of way). I've decided to post one Facebook status a day that is real. That doesn't mean they will all be complaining, bitter and grumpy. I am grateful that I do have truly wonderful days and feel lucky and priviliged often. But I also feel like crap a lot too. That's the point. Life is complicated and ever-changing unlike a static glossy magazine advertisement.

I may embarrass my husband and kids, but ultimately I hope to show them what a real life looks like. Happy 2015!

First Facebook Post - January 1, 2015

Licked the frosting off 2 cupcakes for dinner after Zoey kicked, screamed and massively melted down with an NYE hangover to rival partying like 1999. Oh and then Ohio State won.*

*I wonder how many likes I'll get?

MORNING MISSONI MADNESS

Okay, I'll admit it. About a week ago, I heard about the "Missoni for Target" line making it's debut today, September 13th. A google or two later, I was fully acquainted with the official look book and pretty certain that I wanted those zigzag rainboots for my five year-old daughter. So I typed in a little reminder in my iPhone and forgot about it. Then last night, I heard the ding of my alarm and there it was in bright, bold Helvetica staring back at me -- Target Sale Starts. I looked down at my screen in embarrassment. Who puts a Target sale on their calendar? I felt lame and super suburban but apparently not enough to skip my local Target after dropoff at 8:30 am.

The jam packed parking lot was my first clue that most people didn't need a reminder about this day. As it turns out, it was lame to write it on a calendar. Most of these women had the date memorized. In fact, my dirty, little secret was neither little, nor secret. But dirty? Oh, yes. This was a major event with serious players who had all intentions of getting down and dirty.

I walked in the doors and immediately saw the pretty and polished display rack topped with fancy lettering and chic floral patterns. The signage was screaming, Missoni in the house. Only it wasn't. The rack was completely stripped, albeit for a lone hanger and dangling hook. It was the same thing in women's clothing, the kids department, housewares and bedding. The shelves were disheveled. It looked like the place had been ransacked. So where was the merchandise?

This is where the story takes a turn for the worse.

In contrast to the lonely shelves lining the store was a mass of loud, rude, pushy, greedy, they-give-women-a-bad-name crowd. As for the merchandise? It was with them.

Without uttering a word myself, I began to gather information about what went down. Most of these women (and yes a few men) had proudly waited outside at dawn for the chance to be among the first to grab their mix and match Missoni wear. When the doors opened, they came, didn't need to see, just conquered. They grabbed everything off the shelves, piling their multiple carts with anything, any size Missoni. Only after hoarding what they could, did they go through their booty to choose what they wanted. As for what they didn't want...it wasn't going back. Oh no. It became a means to barter for other items.

There were serious trades going down--a floppy hat for two scarves and an umbrella. A throw blanket for a shower curtain. This was not done quietly. Women were yelling out their goods, wheeling and dealing as if this was the New York Stock Exchange. Luggage was king. Like scalpers at a concert, I was approached by whispering strangers asking if I had a traditional spinner roller bag (whatever that is). Then every so often amidst the frenzy, a fight broke out. "Did you just take that from my cart?" "That bitch stole my toddler poncho." Grown women were dropping the f-bomb at other women and I witnessed an actual tug-of-war between two soccer moms over a canvas tote.

It wasn't just women. There was a mom with her three teenage daughters, bragging about them missing school for Missoni. They took photos with their mounds of stuff and called the morning a bonding experience. There were also men. Specifically, there were two burly looking guys with four carts filled to the brim with kids clothing in multiple patterns and sizes. They had no qualms sharing their excitement about going to put everything up on ebay for triple the price. (By the way, I looked and they did.)

You can imagine what a fun morning it was for the Target team members. They were berated and yelled at for not being able to stop the stealing from one cart to another. They were blamed for having sold out in five minutes and they were physically pushed aside by eye-on-the-prize shoppers who would let nothing and no one get in their way. With a smile and an eye-roll or two, they each took it for the team.

At one point, I saw a huge line form at the rear of the store. Fully engaged in the human experiment before me, I followed the crowd. "What are we waiting for?" I asked the woman in front of me who had just told her friend she grabbed baby girl gear because one day she would have a grandkid and it likely could be a girl. The not-yet-expecting grandma excitedly informed me that there were a few more housewares items available and if I waited in line, I could receive two items. "Which two items?" I asked. She looked at me perplexed. Does it matter? It was Missoni. Who cares if I like it or if she likes it? It's Missoni and the price is right. I watched as the long line of people waiting to get their two items not of their choice elbowed their way to the front and then gripped their loot tightly beaming with pride at having such luck.

When it was simply too much to take, I started filling my basket with that other stuff that Target sells--Lysol wipes, Coke Zero, toothpaste. Back to the real world or so I thought. But then there was Tori Spelling with a friendly entourage walking the aisles. Could this day get any more surreal? Yep. Next came a booming voice from the Missoni masses sounding off for all (Tori included) to hear, "What is Tori Spelling doing here? Like she doesn't have enough!"

I wanted to say either...

a. Takes one to know one.
b. Don't you know...stars,they're just like us.
c. Maybe she's taking invenTori

But I was scared. These women were frightening. This scene was insane. I wanted absolutely no part of this. So I checked out and ran for the exit with my head held high.

Then I immediately called my friend and had her go on the website and buy me the zigzag rainboots before they sold out.

Amanda Has Honestly Updated Her Status

I love scrolling down my Facebook page and seeing all the beautiful, smiling faces of my friends' children. I truly enjoy hearing about their accomplishments, successes and special moments. I browse through the enviable family vacation snapshots, birthday parties and celebrated milestones. Such joy. Such happiness. Such fun.

Such a complete disconnect from what’s really going on in my own family. Maybe it’s just everyone putting their best feet forward or maybe they are truly experiencing parenthood as bliss. I don’t know. But I do know that if I’m telling the truth, most of my days are not chock full o’ bliss with my children. For example, after my daughter chucked her bagel at me in the garage this morning because it did not have the precise amount of toasting she wanted, I wasn’t feeling all warm and fuzzy. No bliss today. Yesterday, when I stepped on the same Lego I had asked my son to put away for a week, it felt completely blissless. And really, I don’t have high hopes for happy happy tomorrow considering it’s my son’s first orthodontist appointment.

So here are my updated statuses, if you will. My truth for the moment.

My daughter is in a major tantrum phase. They are everyday and can last for up to two hours. She has been known to hit, bite and on many occassions tell me she would like to go live at her grandmother’s house.

My son has been in speech therapy, eye therapy and educational therapy. Sometimes it’s overwhelming.

My daughter won’t wear anything but leggings.

My son pukes when he is over-tired.

My daughter still has potty accidents.

My son is not great at sports but is a super star at trash talkin’.

I yell too much.

My son has a fruit roll-up everyday.

My daughter survives on pizza.

My son can’t read Harry Potter. It’s way too advanced for him.

My daughter knows all the words to Katy Perry’s, “ California Gurls.”

My son still struggles with tying his shoes.

My daughter comes in our bed almost every single night and we’re too tired to deal with it.

My son would watch TV all day, everyday if we allowed it.

I dread washing my daughter’s long hair.

My son has never met an item for sale he didn’t want.

My daughter hates dance class. No tu-tus. No tights. No recitals.

My daughter and son fight incessantly.

I hate making lunches.

This is the truth. The truth is also that in between all the tantrums, whining, homework, activities and fighting, there are glimpses of bliss, of love and of all the everyday highs and very lows being worthwhile. Still, we’ve never taken a family photo with everyone looking the same direction, let alone looking good and certainly not while on a fabulous vacation where everyone got along. So, don’t ever expect that picture to pop up on my profile.

Author's note: It's been a bad few weeks but the best thing about parenthood is that it's always dynamic. I know this too shall pass.

BEAUTIFUL

I always wondered when it would happen. Would there be warning signs? Would I see it coming? And when it came, would there be an exact moment or would it be gradual? How would I know the invasion had begun? Well, it has. I knew it instantly. The clock read 8:02 pm last night. This was the moment my daughter's notion of beauty revealed itself to have been hijacked seamlessly by them. You know who they are--the perfect alliance of the media, the peer group and the constant chatter by well-meaning grown-ups (this mommy included) who have themselves been taken as prisoners of the beauty war long ago. My daughter is four.

"I'm not beautiful," my unbelievably beautiful (okay, I'm her mother but still) said, seemingly, out of nowhere. "Of course you are beautiful," I responded instinctively and completely without thought or meaning. "No I'm not," she repeated. I paused. I call this the parent pause and I highly recommend it for those moments when a child says something that you know must be coming from somewhere and it's your job to find out where without blowing this instance of guidance your child is clearly seeking. No pressure.

I collected my thoughts and did my best to push my own beauty baggage out of the way (no easy feat). Then I asked her what beautiful meant. She stared back at me blankly. This is my girl who proudly carries a Buzz Lightyear lunchbox to school instead of the more popular princess variety, who dresses as Woody (specifically not Jesse) for all costume events and who never allows me to put a ribbon or barrette (sometimes not even a brush) in her hair. I wanted to be certain what beauty meant to this girl before I entangled her in my own definition. So, I tried again, "Who is beautiful to you?" Suddenly, the lights went on and she began to talk about a few girls in her class, mentioning what they wear and how they do their hair.

Here was my chance. I knew it would have to be a careful balancing act so that she left the conversation feeling okay with wanting to dress up and be girlie but also knowing that beauty comes from within. I started to sweat. Then, I asked her if she would like to maybe change some things about the way she dresses for school. Her face lit up like a marquee. I could tell she was feeling understood. Point, Mom.

We perused Old Navy on the net and I let her pick out four new items. She felt very proud of her choices. We went in her room and I showed her many options already existing in her wardrobe that had been forcefully pushed aside by the girl of yester, well, day. She let me brush her hair (yes Grandma, you read that right!) Next, she looked up at me with those--I have to say--beautiful eyes of hers and asked, "Do you think you can do a French braid?" "Of course," I promised rather naively. I realize now I should have also promised her a trip to the moon because after two hours spent on the internet practicing on Toy Story Barbie, I now realize French braiding is right up there with rocket science but I digress...

After the fun was had, I laid in bed with my sweet girl and tried my darnedest not to overwhelm her with my definitions of beauty. Even I realized she was probably a little young for a bedtime story by Naomi Wolf. All in good time. But I did explain to her that while compliments are nice, they don't make you feel beautiful. Only she can make herself feel beautiful. We talked about taking care of the outside beauty with healthy eating, exercise and clothes that make you feel happy. I assured her that it was okay that she cared about what she looked like and that it was, in fact, fun to be a girl. And THEN, of course, I went into great detail about inner beauty--probably giving too many examples, using way too many over-her-head metaphors and too much jargon. But she asked!

So night one of the beauty battle passed and we, as mother and daughter survived. Today, I dropped my girl off at school in her carefully planned out ensemble and then ran into the market to grab a coffee. On my way out, I scanned the magazines and all the headlines seemed to shout out at me..."Lose Weight," "How She Kept It Off," "Diets of the Stars," etc...

It's going be war!

Where was I?

June 10, 2010

I grew up privileged. I am an American Jewish woman who had the privilege of never truly experiencing prejudice due to religion. I have spent most of my life on the west coast surrounded by other Jewish people. Where I live, Target carries Hannukah decorations. The public schools are closed on Yom Kippur and the Coffee Bean sells challah on Shabbat. Israel is a destination vacation. This has always been my Jewish existence...except for the one week I spent in Poland as part of The March of the Living, an educational program that brings students up close and personal with the Polish remnants of the Holocaust, culminating in a silent march from the notorious concentration camp, Auschwitz to Birkenau.

It was there at Auschwitz that I stood on the railroad tracks and felt my body tremble. The Holocaust had always been this horrible nightmare I'd read about in history books and Elie Wiesel's profound writing. I'd met survivors and seen the tattooed numbers on their arms. But nothing prepared me for the real thing. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. Why them? Why not me? How was I lucky enough to be born years later in America? As we walked from Auschwitz to Birkenau, I made a promise to myself and to them, those not as lucky, the souls I could feel surrounding me without a voice. I promised to be a voice for them. I promised to raise my children Jewish and give them a voice. I promised to Never Forget so that this would Never Happen Again.

I returned from that trip and began devouring all literature and film I could find on WW II. I remember becoming so angry that there was knowledge of the concentration camps in the U.S. long before anybody did anything about it. In typical Monday morning quarterback fashion, I judged my grandparents harshly. Why didn't they do anything? Didn't they notice the growing antisemitism?

Of course, as time passed, these thoughts and my March of the Living memories became less and less in the forefront of my mind. But in the last few weeks, hey have returned, louder than ever. I don't want my children to ever look back and wonder where I was when the world turned on Israel and the Jewish people. I made a promise and I intend to keep it. We need voices to express outrage at what is currently going on in the world. It has become clear to me lately that the liberal media will not be that voice. President Obama will not be that voice. And, sadly, the assimilated Jewish mainstream will not be that voice.

I find it hard to believe that I had to turn to Glenn Beck to hear shouts of anger and rage regarding the "freedom" flotilla incident. It was only on his show that I heard the first communications between the Israeli Navy and the "peace" fighters. When the Navy identities themselves and indicates that the boat is approaching a blockade, a voice responds, "Shut up. Go back to Auschwitz and then continues, "We're helping Arabs going against the U.S. Don't forget 9/11, guys." We all know what happens next...or do we? It recently came out that Reuters had cropped one of the most-seen images of the event. It shows a bloodied Israeli soldier lying on the ground surrounded by "peace activists." However, in the original photograph, one of the "activists" is holding a bloodied knife. Not quite sure what editorial reason they came up with for the blatant omission. Hard to believe this is Reuters--not Al Jazeera.

Then there's legendary White House correspondent Helen Thomas and her comments that the Jews are occupying Palestine and should return to their homes in Germany and Poland. Fortunately, she resigned, but apparently that was unnecessary. Just ask the women of The View. Whoopi Goldberg dismissed Thomas' comments as horrible and hurtful but wondered about a country that takes away a person's right to make a living because of something he/she says. I guess Whoopi and the gals never heard of consequences. Thomas is a reporter covering the White House. I believe the fact that she does not acknowledge the existence of Israel might make her just a little unable to do her job of unbiased reporting. But, hey that's just me. Many others feel differently like the man who wrote a letter to the Washington Post suggesting Thomas' comments simply made her "human" and then compared her "blunder" to the umpire who cost Detroit pitcher Armando Galarraga his perfect game last week. Yes, really!

The point of all of this is that I get it. My life of privilege has come to an end. I am no longer asleep. I am awake and vow to make good on my promise. I will not sit quietly waiting around for things to get better. I've seen what happens when we're too late.

The Helicopter Has Landed

May 27, 2010

I don't consider myself a helicopter parent (does anyone actually?) but I have been known to hover a little too long on occasion. There are some areas where, as a parent, I've learned that my children actually do need an extra push, a bit more help, or even a personal cheerleader. But there are many areas where they do not need to be handled with such care. On their own, without Mommy, Daddy or even the security of a friend, they can be just fine. Actually, they thrive. This is something I have known about in theory for years but a lesson I recently learned from experience at, of all places, the baseball field (yes, the same one I moan and bitch about all the time).

Because my son is not a natural athlete, I am guilty of attempting to micromanage his sporting experiences. I worry that if he gets a coach he doesn't know or a team without a familiar face, he'll...well, I do not know what I think might happen but I definitely fear for him to have to step out of his comfort box. Now, I suppose, I also consider my own comfort box.

This season, my son's previous coach (a good family friend) and I broke a little league rule. My son is age-wise on the cusp of two divisions. The coach and I discussed my son, his abilities, his confidence level, etc... and decided it would be great if he could stay one more season in the lower age range. The coach suggested this to the baseball powers-that-be and, well, that's when the trouble started. Apparently, those powers really like their power and don't appreciate being told anything. To make a long story short, they eventually granted our wish but made it clear they would NOT be putting my son with any of his friends or on a team with a previous coach. We were clearly being punished--banished, if you will, to the much-whispered about "mean" coach who used to be in the military. Any time someone mentions this coach (someone who doesn't know him), it's as if his last name is "used to be in the military."

The first team meeting was, in fact, a bit intimidating. We are used to the friendly, neighborhood dads who admittedly coddle the boys and cancel practice if, say, Laker tickets happen to appear. Coach Jack* was different. He was serious about baseball and the boys' commitment to the team, serious about punctuality, preparedness and practice. He wanted the boys to be better. He wanted to win (okay, so we're not supposed to keep score but still...). And, he wanted the boys to work hard and feel proud of their personal and collective achievements.

I left the meeting a little nervous. I didn't really know any one on the team and I wasn't used to such discipline. But, I did not say a word to my son. Instead, I suited him up per my instructions and got him to practice with time to spare. Within the first hour, I saw my little guy working harder AND having more fun than I ever have in any sport. He was listening, learning and laughing with his newfound friends. I also learned in that first hour that Coach Jack was a stay-at-home-dad who devoted his life to his four sons, coaching everything for each one. He was a cancer survivor with a zest for life and tons of heart and passion. He wasn't mean, but he was different from the dads in my crowd.

The season was truly special for my son. He got hits, even two home runs and attempted to run to the ball, rather than away from it. He learned the value of practice. He truly improved. And his team became a force to be reckoned with on the field. There was definitely a little too much yelling for my liking and a bit too much intensity, but there was plenty of encouragement for all the boys, no matter what level. There was comraderie and pride. Most of all, there was a lot of good times.

Yesterday, one of those powers-that-need-to-be came up to me and asked with a wink, "How did your season go with Coach Jack? I smiled and surpised myself when I said and meant, "Fantastic. Thanks for putting us with such a great coach."

These days, win or lose, every kid gets a trophy. My son has a shelf full of them. But now, he has one that he truly earned.

I might even have to fight for Coach Jack next year. Then again, maybe I'll just stay out of it! This helicopter has landed...for now.

The Way I See It

May 05, 2010

Vision therapy. Ever heard of it? I hadn't until twelve weeks ago when it became yet another piece of my mothering journey.

But first a little history. My husband was diagnosed with dyslexia after years of struggling with reading and writing. He was a freshman at an Ivy League college at the time of his diagnosis which made for some frustrating and stressful school years. My mother-in-law remembers doing some sort of eye exercises as a child and still hates to read. I was very aware of these things when my son was born.

My son sees a wonderful and highly-regarded educational therapist semi-regularly and I've pretty much been asking her if he is dyslexic since the first visit at 2 1/2. For years, she's kindly ignored me explaining that there is no way to tell at such a young age because many young children transpose letters, have trouble tracking words on a page and, well, don't like to read. I knew this was true but I also knew in my gut that his eyes were holding him back--not the sole cause of some of his learning difficulties but a piece of the puzzle.

Finally, with my son almost 7, we went to an educational optometrist (did you even know they exist?) for testing. And that's when my new journey began--a journey of research, instinct and ultimately, trust. Even before entering the office, the controversy began. It seems vision therapy is a hot button in the parenting world. One quick Google was all it took to unleash a firestorm of naysayers dismissing the therapy as a waste of time and money. I heard it from friends, colleagues and my pediatrician (more on that later). But I decided to trust my own mother inner voice and take my son to the top guy in town. In the waiting room, I met incredible mothers who had driven over 50 miles for their children's weekly sessions. They were all kind, articulate and passionate about this doctor and this therapy.

When it came time for our appointment, I sat in on the one hour testing and was truly amazed. I saw very clearly that my son struggled immensely with tracking words and numbers across a page. He lost his place as frequently as I lose my keys. He had difficulty distinguishing patterns and could not stay focused while following even a pen light. The doctor took me through a series of diagnosis which I won't bore you with but it was very clear that the eyes were not working effectively together (commonly referred to as convergence issues). He recommended 30 sessions at which point we would be done with vision therapy. Apparently, once you retrain the eye, it doesn't go back. If only all therapies were like that! But I digress...

To vision therapy or not to vision therapy? That was now the question. It's expensive and not usually covered by insurance. It's time consuming with a one hour weekly visit and half hour home exercises daily. And there's no guarantee it works. While debating the topic, my husband and I were bombarded with a chorus of nos, most notably from our pediatrician who actually chuckled at the idea, insisting that the American Academy of Pediatrics found no scientific evidence to claim that academic abilities can be improved with treatments that are based on visual training. She further dismissed my point that I wasn't looking for better grades, but rather less frustration and straining on the part of my son. When I asked her if she had any patients that had found success with vision therapy, she simply could not recall. I left that appointment pretty disappointed. Luckily, I wasn't a first time mom, new to the game of parenting anxiety. So, I made some calls to people I trust, educators and child advocates to gain more information. Then, I took to the mommy blogs to hear what those in the trenches had to say. And, finally, I used my mommy experience, wisdom and instinct to make my own decision.

Yesterday, my son was tested after completing his first ten sessions. On one test, he jumped from the 16th percent to the 75th percent. On another test, he went from the level of a 4 year old to a 7 and 10 year old. The improvements were staggering. Then again, I didn't really need the doctor or the tests to show me what I've seen with my own eyes. My son is more focused. He gets his reading/writing homework down in twenty minutes, down from an hour and a half. And he reads willingly every night with excitement and confidence.

Is he fixed? Of course not. Is vision therapy right for everyone and every diagnosis? No way. But as mother's day nears, I can't help but think, sometimes moms really do know best!

Snack Attack

April 21, 2010

When it comes to Jamie Oliver and his food revolution, I am so in. In case you missed it, the so-called Naked Chef is leading the fight against childhood obesity, specifically by taking to task the American school system for the crap they serve in the cafeteria labeled as nutrition. He has already changed the way Brits serve up students and now he's come stateside to do the same. Sign me up.

I am astonished at what passes for fruits (ketchup) and vegetables (french fries) in school lunches. I am sickened at the thought of children eating pizza for breakfast and vending machine Cheetos for snacks. I am not a vegan/granola girl (although I see nothing wrong with that) but I do try and eat healthy and TRY to help my kids do the same. We eat hot dogs but they are made of lean turkey. We eat chickenless nuggets (don't knock 'em 'till you try 'em), baked chips and lots of fruit (still working on veggies). We also eat pizza, ice cream and donuts but in moderation--and not for breakfast.

I live in a suburb of Los Angeles where eating healthy is truly a way of life made very easy with ready-packed fresh produce available everywhere at reasonable prices. The beautiful weather makes it so kids can play outdoors year round. And the Hollywood adjacent thing means that fortysomething women out here live and look as if they are keeping up with the Kardashians. Every mom I know uses her precious free time to get in some sort of daily workout be it running, Bar Method, pilates, yoga, spinning, or time with a personal trainer. Lululemon active wear is practically a uniform around here. These moms are the picture of healthy living but for some reason, it's a very different picture when the moms show up at the baseball field.

Which brings me to the snack shack at my son's much ballyhooed baseball park. Despite its location, smack dab in the middle of the place we bring kids to exercise, it is truly a crap shack -- a beacon of unhealthy eating. The most popular items include blue or coca-cola slushies, hamburgers and hot dogs on white buns, churros, sour-patch kids, nachos, blue or yellow Powerade, corn nuts, drumstick ice cream cones and my personal favorite, Fritos covered in thick straight-from-the-can chilli with sprinkled cheese on top. Nestled among the fields, as the sole food provider, this calorie-packed cafe is a cash cow feeding the players and their schelpped-along siblings who return over and over again to feed their boredom.

I had the "opportunity" to volunteer in the shack this weekend and was literally sick to my stomach at the sight of children downing sodas and candy before 11 a.m. Moms, drinking non-fat lattes in skinny jeans, opened their wallets generously to stuff their kids with junk. And then came back for more.

I'm a mom so I am all too familiar with not wanting your child to feel like the odd man out. Of course I let my kid get a snack after playing a two hour game. But I try to teach him what exactly he's putting in his body and, honestly, does anyone even know what's in a blue slushie? How can we, as parents, allow snack shacks like this to exist without alternative choices? I realize cost is an issue and it's much more expensive to have fresh food but there are small changes that can easily be made. How about apple slices with string cheese? Turkey dogs? Veggie burgers? 100 cal packs? Almond trail mix?

After Jamie's done with school cafeterias, I say it's time he heads to the ballpark. We are way past three strikes. Snack shack revolution anyone?

I'm Hanging Up

April 02, 2010

Yesterday in the car, my almost-four-year-old little girl and I were playing the "you're so silly game." It's pretty straightforward. I say, "You're so silly because you like to wear your converse with dresses," or "You're so silly because you won't eat jelly with your peanut butter." You get it. So we were going back and forth fast and furious like a good tennis match until she brought the rally to a dead stop. "Mommy," she giggled, "You are the silliest mom ever because you talk on the phone too long. Always on the phone. Too much, Mommy!" My instincts went into immediate defensive mode. I do not. I am not always on the phone, looking at my phone, texting, talking, typing. I am not. That is so completely UNtrue. I mean, there is not a morsel of reality in that statement. NO! NO!

And then I took a deep breath and admitted, she had hit it right on the nose. What I haven't been able to admit to Oprah by joining in her no car phone and texting revolution, I better be able to admit to my daughter and, well, my self. Uh-oh, I do have a problem and it's not silly at all.
Now I realize it's cliche to say I am a mom and I use my iPhone too much (I'm a mommy blogger too so apparently I'm into cliches!), but cliches are just that for a reason--they are more often than not, true. We all know that our kids are more likely to do as we do than do as we say. How can I strongly limit my son's DS and Wii playing while banging on my own mini-keyboard? I get that he is playing games while I am, for the most part, on the phone scheduling dentist appointments, taking a conference call or figuring out the logistics of the next playdate. BUT, there are also plenty of times I am out with one of my kids and the phone rings. I look down to see it is one of my most-fun-to-gab-with-girls and I pick up. Why? Can't the call wait until I get home? Do I really need to chat aimlessly at that very moment? Or do I truly need to reply to an email the second after it comes into my account? NO, I don't.
The other night my husband and I went out to dinner for our one night of the week sans children. There was about a 30 minute wait for a table so we went outside to sit on a bench underneath the beautiful night sky. There were others waiting nearby. It is not an exaggeration to say that every single one of the couples or groups had at least one phone out. Everyone was glued to their little devices. There wasn't much conversing or connecting going on and I realized, we have all become so afraid of dead air, of doing nothing, or god forbid of waiting with nothing to do to distract us from doing nothing. We don't know what to do with ourselves if we're not surfing the net, facebooking or playing with our of-the-moment app. I can't be the only one who recognizes this. My little girl is a pretty smart cookie. She obviously gets it too. I'm betting your little ones are just as bright.

And this doesn't even address what they think or take in when they watch us talk, text or type in the car. I have tried to cut it all off like Oprah wants us to pledge as part of her No Phone Zone, but I won't lie, it's been harder than I thought. Out of necessity, I do need to sometimes make calls in the car because due to my carpooling schedule I am often in my car for three hours a day. But there are plenty of other times, I do not need to be on the phone and I never need or should type or text in the car especially if some day I want to lecture my then sixteen-year-old driver about the dangers of doing such things while operating a motor vehicle. How can I stress this as a life or death situation if I'm not treating it as such? Sometimes, I'll notice myself glancing at my emails when I come to a red light for no other reason than I've grown accustomed to never doing nothing! That is not something I am okay teaching my children.

Enough is enough. This is one cliche I want to shed. I embrace the convenience my iPhone has brought into my life but it's time for me to be in control of it and not let it take control of me.

Great Expectations

September 01, 2009



Yesterday, I was driving in the car with my college roommate who is visiting from New York. Now that we both have two kids, it is very rare for us to have an adult moment to talk about something other than tantrums, preschools or the latest "friend" from college to have surfaced on F-book. There's not much time for substance. So I was taken aback when she sighed heavily and said, "I am not the mother I expected to be." It was so honest, so vulnerable, so relatable. And I knew exactly what she meant. Her comment stayed with me all day like a bad headache that just wouldn't go away. At first, I felt sad. Then I tried to figure out where it all seemed to go wrong for me. Why wasn't I able to be the mom who rarely lost her cool? When did I start having to yell just to get us all out of the house in the morning? Why were there so many times I just wanted to walk out of the house and be alone without anyone tugging at my clothes or asking me repetitive questions? I thought about all of this for a long time and actually came up with an answer. It happened when I went from one to two.

I am not saying everything was happy and perfect with a single child. I was sleep deprived, impatient and often a nervous nellie. But as my son grew out of the baby stage, I was, in fact, almost the kind of mother I imagined or wanted to be. I hosted tons of playdates and planned lots of fun-filled museum/park/beach days. I read all the time with my son snuggled in his bed day and night. We cooked together. We played board games and worked on puzzles. We spent hours making train tracks and then testing them out with our coveted battery-charged Percy. Most of all, we laughed a lot. And when we weren't together, I had time for myself either working or reading or even seeing a movie by myself (my ultimate luxury). I even had time for my husband and my eyebrows were always waxed.

But being double teamed has certainly rocked my world. Time is at a premium. I hate that I don't have the same amount of energy and time that I did when I only had one. I feel like my family is always rushing. Getting the three of us ready in the morning puts me in a sweat. The car rides are now filled with shouting and fighting and phone calls because it's the only time I can actually make appointments or call people back. We are heavily scheduled with activities (which I limit to one per child). With practices and games and birthday parties, it feels like we are on a treadmill.

I love my youngest more than I thought possible. She's my only daughter and I relish our time alone because it is so infrequent and so different than with my son. I am happy I made the choice to have siblings as that is one of the most valuable and enjoyable relationships in my own life. And I glimpse that with my two every so often between the fighting when my son takes my daughter's hand and helps her climb something at the park or puts his underwear on his head in the hopes of making her giggle.

When I am one on one with either child, I feel like I'm doing okay. I can see the vision I once had of myself as a mother and I'm pretty close to the image. But when it's two on one, I feel like I am short-changing both of them. I can't fully help my son with his reading. I can't play dollhouse with believable interest and energy. So, I end up feeling torn, frustrated and ultimately, not at all like the mother I thought I would be.

I know the supportive mothers out there will say that I have to drop the great expectations of the mother I imagined and re-imagine myself in the reality that is my life. I tell myself that some days. But I also know I can do better. I can raise my voice less, not care about the legos all over the floor and feed the damn guinea pig without reminding my children that it's supposed to be their job. Basically, I can loosen up. But I'm still not sure that would be enough to bring me back to the joyful mother of one-child past.

I often wonder about the moms who seem to do just fine with being outnumbered. I've seen you at the grocery store, the park and in the carpool line. What goes on in the witching hours of your homes? Of course, I like to think there are meltdowns and tantrums. But maybe not. At the risk of being vulnerable and checking my ego at the keyboard, I'll admit I'd love advice. How do you do it with two? (I know a lot of you do it with more than two but I know my limits...)

I want to bring the laughter back into my house especially before the invasion of homework next week.

ONE DIVIDED BY TWO

March 07, 2010




My first born is the typical first born. He's needy, used to getting a lot of attention and admittedly a bit catered to by the family. He's also not typical in that in addition to all the regular trappings of being the first child around for everyone to dote on, he also actually has some extra challenges that create a need for mom and dad's attention and focus. Early on, it was his delayed speech and eye contact which took us to the speech therapist. Then, there was the search for the perfect school which took us out of our public school system and into an amazing, yet pricey, private school. Now, educational therapy and vision therapy are regular weekly appointments with at-home homework. It's a long journey but I have become a pretty good traveler--that is until now.

My second born is no longer a small baby or toddler with only basic needs. She's a burgeoning person with her own wants and desires. I want to be there for her but some days, it feels like there are literally not enough hours in the day. We wake up at 6, are out of the house by 7:15 for our 40 minute drive to school. My daughter, bless her heart, schleps with us despite the fact that her pre-school (ten minutes from our house) doesn't start until 9 am. I pick up my little girl at 1 and usually squeeze in one quick activity for her like a trip to Starbucks for chocolate milk and then we are off to pick up her big brother at school. She naps in the car for an hour and wakes to find her alone time done and gone for the day. We are either off to therapy for her brother or back home for homework which is a long and often draining process in our home. Sometimes, my daughter will sit and do artwork while I help my son with his work. Sometimes she gets to go play with her cousins. And, sometimes, grandma takes her for the afternoon. Then, it's dinner, bath and therapy exercises for her brother. Of course, she gets some bedtime stories of her own but then I have to go practice reading with her brother. She waits for me, often falling asleep before I get back to snuggle. That's her day full of his needs. (And let's not even discuss the days I have my own work to add to this mix).

I feel completely torn. I love my son with every being in my body and never feel like I'm doing enough for him. I also adore my daughter and and feel like she never gets enough Mommy time, not to mention extra-curricular activities of her own. I wonder if someday she is going to sit in her own therapist's office, complaining that she was always on the short end of things in her family. It's not her fault that she's so damn competent and independent.

I realize I only have two children and am so very fortunate that my son's challenges are completely surmountable. I know there are families out there with three, four and five kids (not to mention the Jon and Kate's of the world) who deal with much more severe health and well-being issues and undoubtedly more chaos. But I think the feeling is similar for all moms. How can I be everything I want to be for each child?

My daughter is almost ready for Kindergarten and I want more than anything to send her to the same wonderful school her brother attends but realistically, it may not be financially possible. Everyone around me says, "He needs to be there. She'll do fine anywhere." This is true but not fair. I know, I know, life is not fair. But isn't my little girl too young to have to learn that lesson?

TRASH TALK

February 11, 2010



I thought I was being sneaky. I was certain I hadn't left any clues behind--no trace of my motherly wrongdoings. But last night, I was totally and completely busted by my 6 1/2 year-old son. He went over to the trash can in an attempt to clean up after himself and throw away his dirty napkin (an unusual happenstance in and of itself) and then I heard a shriek. "Mom," he screamed as if he had uncovered a dead body. But no...it was perhaps, worse. He pulled out his latest art project brought home from school earlier in the day. "My person is in the trash. How did they happen," he questioned. Um...well...I paused, panicked and then lied through my clenched teeth. "I have no idea." I pulled out his construction paper person, fortunately unscathed, albeit a tiny bit damp. "It's okay," I told my tearful son. "It will dry and be perfect." After a series of hugs and a bag of cookies, he had calmed down but still wanted answers. "I just don't understand how my person could have fallen in the trash," he whined, "I worked so hard on him." I took my lying to a new low and blamed it POSSIBLY on the housekeeper who, by the way, hadn't been to my house the whole week. I didn't know what else to do. I had been caught in my constant struggle of what to do with all the stuff that my wonderful, talented (of course) children bring home daily.
In the early days, I saved EVERYTHING including the projects that were definitely done 100% by the teachers. I labeled each piece of art and put it in a box for safekeeping but then one box turned to two which turned to three and then, oh yeah, we had another child. The house was overflowing with finger painted pictures and popsicle stick figures. I tried to do that thing all the parenting magazines suggest--cutting out parts of projects and then making a collage at the end of the year. I wish I had a better excuse for why this didn't work but basically, it just didn't. Maybe I was lazy? Maybe I didn't like the idea of cutting up the work? I don't know but I definitely failed on that assignment.

So, I decided to be a bit more selective in my art collection. I went through my older son's boxes and got rid of the projects that just didn't hold up the test of time. I started boxes for my daughter with milestone projects. And, well, I began throwing away a lot of the stuff that made it's way home. I am careful. I do it when they are not home. I always cover up the trash with other pieces of garbage (well, except last night but otherwise always). I even recycle in my own way. The art-of-the-moment almost always has a showing on the playroom walls. But then it takes a trip to either the trash or memory box so I can cycle in the more current projects. I really thought I had the whole thing down pat. I thought I had outsmarted the little people of my home.

But now, my kids are on edge. They watch their projects with hawk eyes, following them through the life cycle of our house. Which ones make it to the playroom? Which ones are in their boxes? And now, they want to know what happened to the unaccounted for Hannukah project from Kindergarten and that abstract sculpture from camp. It's startling what these kids remember.

So much for my New Year's resolution to follow Oprah guru, Peter Walsh, in his quest to declutter the world.

Stop Celebrity Marriage (and Mockery)

January 25, 2010



Okay so I know ABC's The Bachelor is 14 seasons old and it's no surprise to anyone that it's often scripted, manipulated and (Trista and Ryan withstanding), always ends unhappily ever after. I hadn't watched in, like, six years but my friends were way amped for this season with recent castoff, Jake Pavelka, in the starring role. So, I turned it on ready to witness the usual fairytale fiction masquarading as reality. But let me say, this is a whole other bag of crazy. I mean...this show,this guy and these girls (and I do mean girls) are so much more pathetic and immature than I ever remembered. Not to mention perkier and way hotter.

In the first week, Jake is one hundred percent certain that his soulmate is in the fresh batch of babes cooked up for him by the casting agents who no doubt have Jake's best interest in mind. And every girl there is positive that she is the ONE for Jake. Without meeting him, each one can already tell that he would be the perfect husband and father. Bunjee jumping off a bridge in tandem, watching a private concert together and helicoptering over the Pacific Ocean only confirms their genuine feelings (Imagine that!). The girls want Jake to REALLY know them so they all seem to feel obliged to unload all of their relationship baggage complete with tears in the first five minute meet, greet and tongue-wrestle session. Oh, well, there was that one girl who wouldn't kiss but had no problem going in for the lip lock, asking Jake how bad he wanted it and then pulling away because being a tease is apparently a lot more dignified than a slut. But apparently not a winning strategy. She's already gone.

Lighten up! I know. I hear ya that I'm supposed to be watching the cute boy from Texas and his harem as escapism TV. My friends keep encouraging me to kick back and enjoy Jake's rock-hard abs and cheesey one-liners as the guilty pleasure they are meant to be. But I can't. In this particular time when there is so much discussion about marriage and so much judgement about upholding the sanctity of the institution, I find the mockery on this particular show unbelievably offensive. I think people should be a lot less worried about gay marriage between two committed people who have known each other for years and worry a lot more about the message sent by idiotic women vying for a diamond ring on a game show where marriage is the grand prize gained by flirting, canoodling and fawning.

I've always thought we should ban celebrity marriage for the careless way the paparazzi set enters and exits the altar. Kate Hudson seems to introduce her child to a new man on like the first date. Khloe Kardashian and Lamar Odom got married exactly one month after they met before KK even got to meet Odom's children from a previously failed relationship. Then there's Charlie Sheen, Tiger, Britney and the list goes on and on and on.

It's no wonder that these reality wanna-be celebs have such a warped view of what to look for in a potential marriage partner. They are looking up to the one group that single-handedly doesn't get what it takes to make a marriage successful. The Hollywood celebrity culture has somehow convinced the Bachelor beauties that being on a television show with one guy and a bunch of women auditioning for the role of wife is a legitimate way to find long-lasting love and commitment. As a woman, wife, mother and avid TV watcher (albeit just off the coveted 18-34 demo), I can't stand by quietly and watch the farce unfold.

But, alas, the show will go on. The giddy girls will keep applauding every time Jake enters the room (don't all wives do that?) Jake will continue his multiple make-out sessions because you gotta try on the merchandise before you buy it. The would-be couples will find themselves constantly in awe of the things they have in common like wanting a best friend as a spouse and hoping to procreate one day (talk about compatible!) And the ratings will climb higher than Jake's wings of love.

I, for one, will not be watching. If I want to see real love, I'll turn to Friday Night Lights and watch the scripted, fictitious couple, Coach Eric and Tami Taylor (Kyle Chandler, with guilty pleasure abs, and Connie Britton). They are more realistic than any couple I've ever seen portrayed on "reality TV" and they are fun and entertaining to watch.

And while I'll be out fighting for gay marriage, I just also might try to gain support for an initiative to ban the unholiest of marriages--celebrity unions.

My Husband Does Not Look Like the Man I Married

January 08, 2010


I've known my husband since we were both 19-years-old. He was a cute guy with beautiful eyes, a sweet face and a just-needed-a-woman's-touch sense of style. But now, everything has changed. My cute guy is getting older. His hair is peppered with gray. He wears little rimless glasses. And his body just isn't what it used to be. I'm almost embarrassed when we go out because...he's never looked better.

Forty pounds lighter with a new and way improved body, my once chunky-around-the-middle hubby is no more. Now, he's a sexy, thirtysomething with the wisdom of age and the body of youth. I thought he was supposed to be getting bald and fat by now. I used to be the healthy one in the relationship who always worked out and kind of liked that I was in better shape than my guy. But now, he's Mr. Tight Abs and I'm still the same 'ol (okay, older) me.

Oh, sure, it was exciting at first to see my other half slimmed down to a college-guy size. It was delightful watching him buy clothes with ease and wonderful to witness him feeling good about himself. But then, he sorta stopped being fun. No more late night Ben & Jerry's pints to share. No more fries to steal off his plate (I haven't ordered fries in 19 years). And no more iced blended coffee drinks EVER! Even he was feeling a little deprived so he started running.

My husband doesn't do anything half-assed. His morning jogs turned into half-day runs. Before I knew it, ten miles was a quickie. He ran a half-marathon. Then a marathon. Then another. And there I was cheering him on from the sidelines with my double C-section belly as my own personal pom-pom, not to mention the other pom poms up top which could use their own cheering section.

Of course, I'm half-joking about being upset by the new man in my life. I love the fact that my husband takes care of himself and looks and feels great (Did I mention he can also eat almost anything nowadays?). But it's a bruise to the ego too. In addition to looking so fit, my husband has found a new passion with his running. We've traveled together to New York, London and all over California for his marathons. He has reached and then surpassed his goals and is hoping to make it into the Boston marathon soon. I feel envious of his personal achievements. No one slaps a medal around my neck when I complete a ten series of Bar Method classes. My kids don't get to see their mommy in any moments of glory. And like most moms I know, I haven't had the feeling of true accomplishment in a very long while.

So, as you might have guessed, I have decided to try a running challenge of my own despite the fact that I have never been a runner and used to get tired after five minutes of a jog. Thus, I won't be going for a marathon. I know better than to compete with my Type A-plus husband. I learned long ago to compete with myself. I'm going for a half-marathon next September. I started running three weeks ago and am up to 29 minutes. I'm slow as a turtle but I'm doing it. It's hard. It's uncomfortable. It's definitely out of my box. But that's exactly why I'm doing it.

Well that and maybe my pom poms will shake a little less!

When Baseball and Hebrew School Collide

December 26, 2009



This post has absolutely nothing to do with baseball but like many of my past blogs, its origins can be traced to a day at the baseball field. I was stuck in a never-ending line waiting to register my son for spring baseball. This is the same Little League that last year introduced themselves to me with the warm and friendly line, "Welcome to the cult." Truth be told, we had a wonderful experience last season with kind, caring and "let's just have fun out there" coaches. But I'm in the littlest part of the little league. As my son grows bigger, the baseball world expands too. Parents seem to change the deeper they get into the world of sports. I hear them around me at the snack shack, a bleacher or two over and definitely while waiting in line for sign-ups. As the odd-mom-out in this baseball world (my son probably has a season or two left in him), I listen and observe, knowing full well there will likely be fantastic blog fodder. And this cold, winter morning did not disappoint. Actually, it did--disappointed me as a parent but inspired me as a writer.

Amidst the usual competitive talk of travel teams, feeder schools and questionable umpire calls, the subject of Hebrew school made it's way into the conversation. It seems one of the dads behind me was fed up with his temple. Now that his son was approaching Bar Mitzvah age (13), the Hebrew program was becoming more intensive. The temple, it seems, had the "audacity" to schedule his son for two evenings a week. "Can you even believe it?" he questioned his partner-in-conversation. "What the hell is he supposed to do, not play football and baseball?" I sat there letting the question hang in mid-air, wondering if this was how he presented the situation to his young, impressionable son. It's not that I cared one way or another if his son went to Hebrew school. That is a family's personal choice. It was the way the question and priorities were framed in discussion that struck me. And so I was truly glad when one of the other parents he was talking to asked what I was thinking. "Are you religious? Do you practice at home?" He answered, "This may sound bad but we don't have time. My wife and I both work." Interesting how these same parents found time to travel all over the state for baseball games and somehow got the kids to nighttime practices. Again, it's a personal choice. It wasn't the choice I was reacting to as much as the attitude. Kids can sense what is important in a family. They know what parents value, what they make time for and what ultimately is most important in the pecking order.

It was no surprise then when the father continued, "I want my son to see what religion has to offer and then after his Bar-Mitzvah, he can decide if wants to continue with it." As a side, the father offered up the information that his parents had done the same thing and after his own Bar-Mitzvah, he was done--until he had kids that is.

I find it interesting that this father felt that phoning religion in was, in fact, exposing his son to the Jewish religion and culture and giving him a foundation from which to build (or not) upon. Wouldn't that be like letting his son play a few games of baseball a year and attending a football game or two as a complete exposure to sports? I understand that many people choose not to bring religion into their homes. But I don't understand why I keep running into parents who offer up religion to their children as an extracurricular activity--and one that is not very high on the priority list.

This conversation stuck with me for a few days. On one of those days, I happened to run into my own Rabbi and shared some of my thoughts with him. He told me of an interesting study which had showed that one-day-a-week Hebrew school had been found to sometimes turn children away from identifying with their religion. According to an article from the Baltimore Jewish Times, a 1975 study by Harold Himmelfarb observed that fewer than 1,000 hours of Jewish education can actually decrease a child's Jewish involvement because Hebrew school becomes a burden. The child does not spend enough time to enjoy the rewards of mastery, knowledge and belonging. And this study did not include the effects of one's parents role modeling the resistance to Hebrew school.

Why force your children to study a religion that is not practiced in the home and is clearly not an important part of your own life? When baseball and football come way before religious school, the writing is on the wall, certainly for the child who can sense hypocrisy as easily as we taste and smell. I hear parents complaining all the time about how hard it is to fit religious/Hebrew school into their lives. Let's be honest, baseball and Hebrew school or football and Sunday school can coexist if we, the parents, want them to. Baseball great Sandy Koufax illustrated that back in 1965 when he refused to pitch the first game of the World Series because it fell on the Jewish holy day of Yom Kippur. And, still, the Dodgers won the series!

NOT In The Twilight of My Life

December 01, 2009



Twilight-new-moon-teaser-movie-poster My name is Amanda and I have a confession. I am so completely not a Twilighter. I have tried and failed to be a Twihard. I simply don't get it.

This is particularly strange coming from me as it is well known by my friends, families and acquaintances that I am a forever fifteen-year-old soul trapped in a thirtysomething's body. I can recite the pilot of Dawson's Creek verbatim, I have a season pass to anything and everything Zac Efron on my Tivo at all time. I am instantly sucked into any Freddie Prinze, Jr. movie that happens to be on cable and I am counting down the minutes until Diablo Cody's Sweet Valley High hits the big screen. I heart romantic comedies. I regularly read young adult literature (props to you Harry and Hermione) and I can't stop the waterworks when it comes to anything involving first love especially if Nicholas Sparks has anything to do with it (the cheesier, the better). I am a natural to fall for Twilight--it would seem.
When I first heard about the books, I immediately wanted in on the obsession. But a few chapters in and I felt like the girl in that song from the musical A Chorus Line--I felt nothing, simply nothing. The writing was so boring and uninspired. I figured I must just be jealous of the 35-year-old mom who had become a superstar writer. I didn't want envy to deprive me of a guilty pleasure so I forged ahead, forcing myself to finish. It took me about a week (which is six more days than it usually takes me to get through a solid read) but I finally reached the last page. It started okay for me. I mean, I got the beginning--the ultimate forbidden love. The fish-out-of-water story of the new girl in school with the drop-dead gorgeous, souless-but-oh-so-soulful misfit. I love all that crap but I can find that crap in much better stories written with much more passion and energy. I was not falling for these characters or this story. I absolutely could put the book down.

Despite the unbelievable casting of ethereal-looking Robert Pattinson as Edward, I decided against seeing the first movie. I didn't read the other books and I moved on with my life just fine. But, alas, the hoopla is again upon us and as a pop-culture junkie, I have truly been feeling left out. So I decided to give the saga a second look. Last night, I saw New Moon. Let me rephrase that. Last night, I suffered through New Moon. It was terrible, completely campy in an unintended, not funny kind of way. The acting sucked (please stop fretting, Bella). The writing was awful. The music was painful (toss up between Lifetime movie and vintage soap opera) and even the directing (by Chris Weitz who is usually fantastic) was totall off. I felt like I was watching a very long, one note Saturday Night Live sketch. The only redeeming part was when Edward literally glistened on screen. But unfortunately, due to the nature of the plot, Edward is a no-show for most of the film. I sat in the theater dumbfounded. This movie made how much money? This Kristen Steward girl fancies herself a thespian? What is going on?

It's unnerving that my pop culture radar could be this far off? Even when I don't get the craze (ie Miley Cyrus), I get why it works. Maybe I have to face the fact that my age is catching up with me. Maybe it's the mom in me that doesn't really want a movie about a girl who goes into a deep depression when she's not with her boyfriend to be so resonating with teens. Or maybe it's the writer in me that just can't accept mediocrity in her girl meets vampire/girl falls in love with vampire stories. I mean, Joss Whedon did it so much better, so much smarter and so much cooler with his Buffy, the Vampire Slayer long before Edward and Bella came forest frolicking along. Whedon's Buffy wasn't waiting to be rescued. She wasn't pouting. She was spewing one-liners and shoving stakes through the entire Hellmouth population. Buffy was fierce, dangerous and witty. Her vamp in shining armor was brooding, misunderstood, dangerous but also clever and even funny. Most notably, Angel was just as afraid of Buffy as she was of him. Oh and the chemistry between the two was tangible. You could literally feel the longing through the TV.

I guess it is my age. Not that I'm too old to appreciate teen angst. Never! Just that I've lived long enough to see it done better. I realize I am a lone voice in a world of mad Twilighters. Bring on the haters then because, Edward and Bella, I knew the slayer and her blood-sucking boyfriend and you two are no Buffy and Angel.

I AM NOT ADOPTED--JUST NOT A SUPERMODEL!

November 10, 2009




My older sister stands at 5'11 and is a size four. Her stomach is concave and I'm pretty sure the only muffin top she's ever experienced is the blueberry kind behind the bakery counter. She has long wavy (easily straightened) brown locks and perfectly sized perky you-know-whats that have never had to be poured into an unsexy minimizer bra. She has a passion for fashion, exquisite taste and obviously the body to make it work. No sweats for sister. She is always looking fabulous even if she simply throws on jeans and a sweater. Oh...and she is truly one of the kindest, wisest and most beautiful (inside and out) people I know. She is my best friend, my confidante and the greatest blessing in my life.

It wasn't always this way. Growing up in the shadow of my super-model sized sister was tough. I felt less than, ugly and sick and tired of everyone always asking me if we were really related. But maturity, some therapy, a supportive mom and a stint away at a university where no one knew I was Lisa's sister helped me to move out of her shadow and into my own light. Then, I lived in San Francisco for six years where no one knew about my super svelte sibling so I kind of forgot about the daily dealings with people and their stupid, incessant comments.

Now I am back down south and living in the same neighborhood as my sister. My children are old enough to be in the same social circles as my sister's kids which means that we frequent similar moms' circles through schools, sports and other activivities. Thus, the comments have been coming so fast and furious, I am having trouble navigating my way through it all over again.
My sister is completely oblivious (and has always been) to the looks and attention she draws when she walks into a room. She knows she's unusually tall and she believes me when I tell her about the constant barrage of commentary but after our recent trip to the nail salon, she is really starting to get it. We walked in together and the women working there (speaking at high speed Vietnamese) were abuzz. See, last time I was in they disovered that Lisa was my sister and they simply couldn't get over it. There was a lot of laughing and a lot of sarcasm via Vietnamese but I could tell, it was sarcasm.

"She your sister?" they questioned as if it was a literal impossibility. "She really your sister. She your real sister? You have same parent?" I thought about bringing dear old mom in for show and tell but instead decided to come in with my sister. The manicurists stopped what they were doing to gather around us for a side to side look. I felt like an insect being inspected inside a jar. Finally, my sister looked at me and said, "I get it. You need to find a new mani/pedi place."
That is, of course, an extreme example. I don't feel like a science experiment on a daily basis. But, I actually started counting and on average, I get two comments a day about how much I don't look like my sister. Usually, it goes something like this...

"Lisa's your sister?"

"Yep," I reply, ready for what always comes next.

"She's so tall and skinny."

"She is," I answer back, waiting for the next predictable observation.

"You guys don't look anything alike."

"I know," I say as if on automatic pilot.

An awkward pause.

"I mean...(inevitable back-peddling) you are pretty too but she's so tall and skinny."

"Yep, she is."

Another awkward pause. And we move on--awkwardly.
I've pretty much accepted the routine dialogue as part of who I am and I'm okay with it. But once in awhile someone will say the darndest thing and I reach my limit. Like...today for example. A mutual acquaintance realized who my sister was and got that all-too-familiar-to-me look on her face. She stayed on script with her questioning but then added, "Are you from the same mother? Wait, are you adopted?" Really? Do I really have to answer such a question? I thought about it for a second and replied, "Believe it or not, we came out of the very same vagina." The poor girl stared back at me in horror. Maybe she was embarrassed or maybe she was offended. Either way, she was silent.

I guess I have my new response.