Airports Any Where

Flying is personality changing. For the worse.

We left for the airport three hours before our departure time. I think we could have driven to Michigan before our La Guardia flight left the ground.

Being early puts Todd at ease, so it is not a rarity that we arrive while an earlier flight hasn’t yet boarded. He likes to relax, eat, to plug in his iPhone, be at the gate. To know that no matter what, he's at the gate.

Everything worked. We found a great parking spot. We breezed through security despite Todd's wearing a belt; lace-up shoes, a jacket, and pants with coins in the pockets. We hustled to the gate in Olympic form with hours to spare. No panicky Todd, no raging Liza in sight. Fine. Phew.

Our plane arrived late from its previous destination, Florida. Uptick in anxiety for Todd. We boarded late, there was a shortage of overhead space and the headwinds to Michigan weren't going to make the flight any shorter and smoother. Uptick two for Todd's panic. Fine. All things considered, Todd was coping nicely, sort of. I actually allowed myself to sneak a thought, that maybe, just maybe, we'd get to Michigan and our ultimate destination hassle free and on time.  If so, my traveling companion wouldn't delve irretrievably into his ultra panic mode, hands trembling and all. 

Despite a late take-off, we were pretty much hassle-free. We even hit the flying Jackpot and on our overfilled flight, had no one sitting in our middle seat. 

Arrival was not so stellar. We were late. Very late and needed to be Temple-ready and present in two hours. We had to rent a car, drive forty-five minutes to our hotel and then another twenty-five minutes to services. The math didn't work, and for Todd's organized brain this meant a system breakdown.

We walked miles through the Detroit airport to the Enterprise shuttle pick-up. Avis, Hertz, Budget, Thrifty, Dollar - no Enterprise. Finally, the shuttle arrived. We were so behind schedule, I could already hear Jack singing his Haftorah portion.

Checked in at the Enterprise homeland, Todd, luggage in-tow went to pick out our car and inspect it for damages. In minutes he was back. Ashen. Our brand new rental car with 434 miles on it, running for warmth, luggage tucked in its trunk, locked itself with both keys in the ignition. I looked at Todd and all I could muster was an, "Are you f##$%G kidding me?" Only in Detroit, the former and now rising automotive Mecca...

The Enterprise folk thought this was funny, as in, "Wow! This is so crazy or Holy Moly, this never happens Dude!" Too long later Enterprise broke into our car "old school" and we were on our way. 

But we really weren't because getting into and out of airports is like finding an exit from Wonka Land - nearly impossible unless you fall into it. We drove left. We sped right. We missed signs and pulled into vacant lots in scary dark places. We passed the same McDonald's twelve times. We ended up back at Enterprise three times. Todd looked liked a squeezable stress doll, all bulgy eyes and swollen lips. I was just silent seething rage at the stupidity of the entire situation. Our last ditch effort got us traveling on Interstate 94. Our GPS sat on our dining room table at home. Ultimately we arrived at the Marriott anxious and pissed off. 

Todd barely slowed down the car at the entrance, booting me to the check-in desk where I did my best to get our room and check-in our airport alter egos. 

We were on time to greet friends before the service, and when the rabbi asked for a minute of silent prayer, I had no trouble: Please make it better for our return trip. It can only get better right?

Stopped in My Tracks

Just home from a celebration in Michigan, I was flying around the kitchen like a hummingbird feeding on nectar. Eden, five, sitting at the counter coloring me her umpteenth butterfly, trilled "Mama?" Still making lunches, stacking plates, filling water bottles, I mumbled, "Uh huh, what's up?”

Breaststroke Queen

"Mama, do you think I have a fat ass?"



What?!?! I swung around and asked, "What could you possibly mean Eden?" My instant parent-panic bell went off searching my brain for moments when barely audibly I may have made reference to the size of my own caboose. I came up blank. We minimize comments about appearance and maximize words on inner beauty, kindness, and compassion. Could it be possible that at five years old, Eden was worrying about the size of her rear - what's next Botox at six?



Turns out, Eden was merely repeating a line from the movie “Hairspray,” most likely asked by Tracy Turnblad. I breathed a sigh of relief while Remi, close enough to hear this exchange, laughed loud and hysterically for a good five minutes.

Before I could wallop Eden with my usual, “No potty words, words can be hurtful and beauty comes from the inside,” she hit me up again. "Mama?" On point now, I returned her serve promptly and attentively, "Yes Eden?"



"What does extraordinary mean?"



Phew. I explained that extraordinary means amazing, over-the-top, better than great, wonderful, something truly special. On and on I gushed about the word extraordinary so happy not to be defining ass. "You get it Eden? Do you get what extraordinary means?"

"I get it mom."

"Good." I said.



"It means you, Mom. It means you. You are extraordinary."



In one sixty-second arc, Eden propelled me from shocked parent whose kid is worrying about the size of her trunk to an elated over-the-moon mom.  Kids will bring you to your knees over homework assignments or what to wear and lift you back up again with a hug or an unexpected kind word.



Stressed out before our Michigan trip with the kids’ schedules, updating our babysitter on who has to be where when, food shopping, book reports and sports, I was tapped out. When Remi was diagnosed with strep throat, as we were plane bound, I thought I would explode into ash. Finally back home from the doctor's office, first dose of antibiotics coursing through her veins, calm was settling back in.



Concerned about her sister and how she was feeling, Eden turned to Remi and asked her, "How does having Breaststroke make you feel?" I didn't hear Remi's answer over her giggle fit, but I instantly knew mine. Having strep throat or breaststroke, at that moment, felt pretty damn good! Kids will do that to you.


Background Music

If there were a theme song played in the background of my daily life it would be titled "Bring on the Bicker." In our house, our title track has gone platinum and hasn't left its reigning perch at the top of the Household Billboard ranking.



The beauty about bickering is that no subject is off limits. Last week at the bus stop, Remi found a demolished remnant of a rubber Jets figure. Instantly, Chad decided it was his and demanded she return it to him. I could hear their verbal punch and counter punch and see the backpack body checking from across the street, and continue into our house. It concluded with my throwing both of them in their rooms and metaphorically hollering "for the rest of your lives". 



If there is a totally bicker-free home, I haven’t been in it. In ours sibling bickering has become a sport all three excel in. Heck, they're champions. If only they invested such intensity, focus and determination into their homework, respective sport or room cleaning!  Instead, Todd and I are subject to a litany about whose turn it is to go first. Which kid gets the middle seat in the car and who had it last? Why the sky is blue and the grass is green.

Post bicker face caught on film

Our older two, when they aren't giggling hysterically together, are at one another. This one chews too loudly, bicker, bicker, and bicker. That one didn't retell a story the right way - more bickering. Todd and I just want to make it stop. I would be lying if I told you we didn't consider running far away, joining a parental witness protection program and changing our names. Arizona is supposed to be lovely…

But how to live with the inevitable? 

I haven’t figured it out. Considering there are usually three sides to any story and no two people experience a moment the same way, judgment calls are difficult. And who wants to be the judge, the jury, and the mediator. Once, I over heard Remi and Chad arguing about a childhood memory that both were too young to recall. What's next, bickering about moments from when they were gestating in my uterus? Bet on it.  

My mom told me her mother used to tell her and her brother to kill each other but not in her earshot. I get it. 

It’s not that I am noise averse (okay maybe a wee bit) but still. I don’t care what the kids’ volume is when they are playing happily.  The summer drone of lawnmowers to our left and right, front and back all day long, manageable white noise. Three competing televisions, amped up too loud screeching iCarly or Zoe 101 or Power Rangers, barely an auricular tickle. Three children incessantly bickering, chipping away at the veneer of my soul, torture.

And then there is the car, where you cannot send kids to their rooms to cool off and the trunk of the car is not an option. Driving with sniping children is akin sitting next to a chronic sniffer on a plane, a heavy breather, an armrest hogger at the movies or someone on the LIRR or nail salon or wherever who thinks everyone wants to share his call. Eventually, it cannot be ignored any longer. Eventually I want to stand up and scream at the top of my lungs "ENOUGH ALREADY, ENOUGH!"

But I’m smarter than that.  I am the Queen of this household, a power player on our chessboard acre. And when the bickering seems like it will never end, I do the only thing a good Queen reigning over a revolting Queendom can do... I drive and drop off my unruly subjects at the Queen Mum's house...



Bladder Business

The most dangerous thing that can happen to any woman who has had children is a sudden, powerful, unexpected sneeze. If you've had two or more children a good hearty sneeze can send you running straight to the underwear department of the nearest store. If you're me, a sneeze, even a small ahhh-choo is a guaranteed bladder dribble.

Back in the day, some time yonder, I wanted to have buns of steel, worked on having abs of steel and I literally had a bladder made of steel. I could camel through an entire day at the office that included several morning coffees, many midday sodas, several water chasers and wine with dinner without visiting a Ladies Room more than twice. Nocturnal trips to the bathroom were unheard of and long car rides up the Taconic never included a McDonald's pit stop. My bladder was the one to bet on. She could nearly carry me through eleven-hour flights to Israel and full days of skiing wearing a one-piece snowsuit with a fashion belt. 



My bladder strength was epic. 



Three beautiful kids later, my bladder is slightly more effective at holding in liquid than a strainer. Which is probably why I recently found myself in a Marshall's, shopping for household nonsense when I was sneak-attacked by a shuddering sneeze. This sneeze was so fast and so intense, its purpose could be none other than to test the atrophying strength of my bladder walls and surrounding muscles. Or, maybe its purpose was just shear humiliation? Either way the outcome was the same. 


This sneeze was no match for my pathetic bladder nor was it a match for my Lulu Lemon black athletic, yoga pants. As it reared its nasty arc of fury, my right hand instantly reached out for the toddler clearance rack for stability. My right leg, practiced in this drill, should have automatically, Pavlovian-like in reflex moved to cross over my left, creating a double helix of security.  It didn't. My left hand would normally and immediately lunge to the about-to-be-affected body part, cementing the final seal of sneeze security in place. It didn't. This was a case of complete system malfunction.

This sneeze was rogue and fast and my normal Navy Seal like maneuvering was no match in the end. Another sneeze had its way with me and my yoga pants, which weren't proving to be as solid in the absorption department as they were in the flexibility one. I definitely lost pee due to do a system failure. This was not the first time, or the last, and this particular misery does like company.

My friends and I laugh, happy to be able to share this type of intimacy. My friends have dribbled during tennis matches. A good solid giggle is a guarantee. An urgent cough does not arrive unaccompanied, and jumping for joy means taking the consequence.  I pee about 50 times before sex because if I don't...



Thank goodness for tinted windows

So there I was in Marshalls, slowly recovering from a sneeze assault with my partially wet yoga pants, no long jacket for coverage and obscurity and a long walk to either the bathroom or my car. Standing still for a few minutes ended up being my only option. Mercy can be slow and torturous like Manhattan's Sixth Avenue during rush hour. My yoga pants reabsorption rate was snail-like and uncomfortable. I wanted out. Out of the store. Out of the wet pants. Into the car where, I quickly kicked off my sneakers, yanked down my uncomfortable pants and threw them into the back seat. Half naked, I buckled up, checked my rearview mirror and started my drive back home. 


Pimples

Last week, after giving me a good once-over, Remi shocked me with, "Have you considered using Proactiv?" She went on to tell me that someone my age shouldn't have to walk around with so many pimples, quite a wallop before even sip one of my coffee. 



Remi Roo, you are right. At my age, 38 years youngish, I should no longer be battling any form of acne, pimple, red bump, purplish hump or whitehead. This is my earned right having actually survived my hormonal angst-ridden teens - acne and all. Yet there I was looking in my bathroom mirror wondering what shade of cover-up would adequately mask the connect-the-dot pimple parade on my forehead.

Looking back . . . Bat Mitzvah, check, three ripe pimples between my eyebrows, captured famously in every shot. Playing high school volleyball, check, a smattering of pink puffy delights on my jaw line. Prom, check. Marriage proposal on top of a volcano in Costa Rica, check. Delivery room, Remi's birth, check, check, check. Right now as I write, check. Pimples. God bless their loyalty. Now go away.



I’ve been big into acceptance as I've aged and settled nicely into my body. I accept that a size 8 is my skinniest, that the scale is correct, that my hair is unruly. I accept that my knees have no reflexes left, that I'll never be a tennis champ, that I need to dye my hair every four weeks to cover the gray. Yes, I get that I am not still in college and can no longer drink that way and that staying up until midnight is an epic fight with my eyelids. Lacking an alternative, I accept wrinkles and love handles. I accept that my kids may beat me in a race and that skinny jeans were not invented for my ass. I accept that most of my socializing happens in the dairy aisle of Waldbaums, that owning a crock-pot excites me.

And I accept that as I approach 40, my kids think I’m old because it’s a step up from my mom’s generation when anyone over 30 was considered way over the hill and, worse, not to be trusted.  

I do. I accept. I really really accept. But not the pimples. Not the dreams of a giant blue tub of Noxzema.



Realistically speaking, my pimples do sometimes take a luxury vacation on someone else's face. There are remarkable moments when the planes of my face are smooth and almost radiant. It just doesn't last too long and that calls for drastic action. And here is where my guilt is laid out bare for all my readers. I also love love love to excavate my face despite not having an MD in Dermatology or a degree in Archeology.   FYI for another day, I also fancy myself a waxer... but I digress. 



I do not think I am alone. Have a magnifying mirror on your vanity? Flip your car visor down and use the bright white sun to find and deal with pimples – even while you are driving? Ever excise a pore of its baggage despite leaving deep nail marks and red blotches in its place? I mean, it simply has to be done to fight off the effects of hormones, lack of sleep, genetics and maybe the food I eat, not to mention the full moon, storms on the surface of the sun and Long Island traffic.

I don't want pimples any more than my daughter wants to see me with pimples. I don't want to bump into my old high school crush with a red bulbous mound on my cheek. I especially love chatting with someone while they stare agog at my forehead and talk to my pimple instead of me. Yet, as I write, I am hearing my mother’s words, the same words I tell my children all the time about beauty coming from the inside, that it is what’s on the inside that counts.  Those words are true, and vanity be damned, I am going to try to accept them myself! In the interim I know I can always count of Remi for sympathy and support. Apparently the desire to excavate is genetic and my skin is the gift that keeps on giving...

Slow Cooker Romance

My less than stellar cooking career covers lame penne bolognese, not-so-great scrambled eggs that make the kids frown and meatballs that do double duty as hockey pucks. Most of my repertoire is mediocre except for my magnificent salads (but really, anyone can make a salad). That all changed when I was at my girlfriend Joanna's house two weeks ago, and I was set up on a blind date with a crock-pot.

It was instant love. I mean fairies dancing, bubble hearts bursting, gumdrops sparkling kind of love. It also happens that an unopened slow cooker had been quietly laying-in-wait in my pantry for at least a year and a half. Originally bought for Todd, who scorned it as a cooking short cut, it lay silently idle in its box. And then we met.

All it took was Joanna's gorgeous aromatic Apricot glazed pork tenderloin over onions served with Cuban black beans and rice to inspire a romance between my Cuisinart Crock-o-Love and me.

With my slow cooker, it’s move over, Martha. Meats and sauces that initially caused every panic button to screech in my brain became liquid poured from my soul. Beef stew, easy. Mexican pulled pork tenderloin, natch. Sticky peanut chicken, sweet and spicy chicken, sesame chicken - done, done and done. Chile, a slow cooker gift that keeps on giving.

My kitchen hunk, Crock-o-Love

Better yet, leftovers. Crock-pot cooking feeds family and friends and neighbors and family again. My kitchen finally smelled gourmet and it was because of my boyfriend Mr. Crock-Pot and me. Cooking became so easy, chopping a cinch, putting a flawless meal on the table a picinic. Joanna was so shocked by my ambition and determination that she was sure I was touched by a mania. I have never shown much interest in cooking.

Hardly the first suburban housewife to discover the joy of slow cooking, I am sure, this reformed kitchen-hater has a rising kitchen confidence quotient. Todd has dinner waiting for him each night when he arrives back from the city. We eat as a family and we eat what is served from the crock-pot, or in Chad's case, barely taste it (refer to Cheerio blog for further explanation). I feel proud to produce quality food that isn't in the form of a Perdue Chicken nugget. 

Last week, Chad's play date pick-up arrived while my kitchen was at Mach 7. Pots were boiling on the stove. Our red Les Creuset was stewing a savory sauce. The crock-pot was emanating a rich spicy aroma and the rice was fluffing. All the children, play date included were fed from the Pot-o-Heaven. "Are you hungry Olana?" I purred, Queen of the kitchen that I am. "Please, let me send you home with a homemade meal and some of these delightful sprinkle cookies that are fresh out of the oven." And with that I twirled around and proceeded to pack her a gourmet meal to go.

At the door, her charge Sean at her side Olana turned to me and said, "I didn’t know you cooked!" I chuckled and replied, "Oh, you mean all this?" gesturing towards the kitchen, eyelashes batting, "It's nothing, just a little something I whipped up!"

And it's true; the best way to someone's heart is through his or her stomach or in my case - one burning hunk of crock-pot love!

Basketball Throw Down

It finally stopped raining after a long week of grey sky and grey moods around our house. Motivated by the sun's vitamin D boost on Sunday, a little blacktop basketball with my son Chad, served up with a side of bike riding seemed pretty smart. After my driveway holler to shake-a-tail-feather, Chad slothed to the hoop looking about as excited to play hoops with me, as I look when I get a pap smear. In hindsight, I now know that my annual pap smear is actually a much more rewarding experience. 



Undeterred by his lackluster attitude, I checked the ball to him and made good time getting underneath the basket. I was all fast feet, fun attitude, perched with my arthritic knees bent waiting for the ball and the lay-up. Instead, Chad took the ball, kicked it at the hoop, went after it and then fell to the ground hugging the ball singing a Guns and Roses song. This happened over and over again in slight variations. What?

Berlent Point Guard

Okay, okay, up you go buddy boy, this mama is not going to get side tracked too easily by your shenanigans. I tried everything to get the kid to want to play, to embrace this sunny moment with his super cool basketball-playing mom. Nothing worked. The shooting game called Horse could more easily have been called Jackass based on how he purposefully threw the ball to the street, up in the air, into the garage, literally not giving a hoot or a hoop if he played with the basket or me. Rebounding was a resounding failure. Three-point shooting was more like a three strikes and you’re out debacle and plain old passing and shooting never got off the ground. 



So I quit on him. I threw the ball to him and spit out my challenge, "Hmmm, I guess my mad-skill makes you too nervous to take me on huh?" and while strutting into the garage added, "I guess I'll go find a pick-up game in the ‘hood where I can throw down my NBA moves." He was unmoved, literally. 


Holy cow was I a tangled yarn ball of emotions. I was so annoyed that on this beautiful day, my son only wanted to watch TV. Pissed, too, because this body of mine is no temple of fitness and playing ball is a physical sacrifice. The knees now lack reflexes and cartilage. The tennis elbow never healed properly. The left hip is always a sway behind the right and the lungs have no capacity for aerobic activity. Yet there I was ready to shoot some hoop with my boy. 



I wondered if it were his dad on the blacktop, would he be chomping at the bit to play.  Maybe playing with your mom at age 8, in a public arena is just not cool. And then our friend Steve pulled into the driveway and a fireball of youth burst out of his dad's car; Chad's friend Dylan came to play. 



Out of the house came a peppy, amped, athletic-looking Chad. Eden followed suit and so did Dylan's little brother Ethan. In one instant the basketballs were bouncing, three scooters were dragged to the edge of the driveway and the football was corkscrewed to the front lawn.  Vrrrrroom went the Big Wheels. Brrring brrring went the bell on Eden's purple Mystic Trek bike and our driveway was filled with frenetic youthful energy and activity. Chad ripped off half his thumbnail stealing the basketball from Dylan and still took the layup. Dylan took a mean spill on the driveway curving the Razor scooter. No bother for either of them because the sun was starting to set and there were many more balls to be thrown. 



Sitting in my office watching the silhouettes of the two boys playing a game of football in the fading sunlight, my heart swelled and so did my knees. This is what kids are supposed to be and do – suck the life out of every last minute of every day just being kids. Passing the football and tackling each other in an imaginary arena packed with cheering fans is perfect. Racing your best friend on scooters as the wind chaps your cheeks and turns the rim of your ears pink is perfect. Whorl a football longer and faster than you have ever done before - perfect. Doing it with anyone other than your mom - perfect.