Waste Not, Want Not

I am not the Grinch. I do not relate to Scrooge. Yet if my children ask me for another informercial "Slushy Magic" or "Fazoodle" I will fissure like a fault line running through California. 

Let the holidays be gone. Poof. More specifically, let the gift giving, present swapping, over buying, trinket trading cease. My children need nothing and want everything. I know they have everything they need: health, food, clothing, a roof over their heads, school and a loving family. Everything else that can be bought at Toys R Us or any other den of toys is superfluous. 

Giving gifts is a feel-good activity, especially when you know you've found the perfect gift, but something is unleashed during holiday time that sends regular, penny-wise parents into shopping drones willing to kill for a Zhu Zhu pet. Include me. I go into fairness mode, making sure the the piles for each child look even despite my manifesto of "less is more." I love seeing the joy on each little face when something wanted is received, but I am promoting the wrong message and equally anticipating the wrong response. 

Having Fun with the Basics - No Barbies needed

As I survey my house this morning, seeing dissected packing and metal twists, I see presents and presents that have yet to be opened. I was sure that when I was buying Chad a parking garage worth of Lego cars to build, he would zealously assemble them. Wrong. The only assembling taking place is my stacking the boxes in the corner of his room for what or how long, I don't know. I stupidly bought the girls enough dolls to recreate the Rockettes kick line at the Radio City Christmas Spectacular and since the third night of Chanukah the dolls have seen more action from my dogs eating their faces and chewing off their limbs than from the girls. Easily the most expensive dog chews I ever bought.

You'd think I would learn. When I was nine I picked up a hot iron and seared, I think, every finger. I also haven't picked up an iron since then. Clearly the burn from over buying is less painful, but does wear a shroud of waste and shame. Additionally, the annual night before Chanukah dispute Todd and I have over the enormity of wastefulness sitting in our dining room wears off before the next buying season begins. He is right.  

I hate waste of any kind but I am often guilty of creating it and overlooking it. My mother-in-law Marcia does too but unlike me, she consciously does a pretty good job of practicing what she preaches. She buys my kids what they need, not always what they want, and they are thrilled with what they unwrap regardless. She buys on sale or clearance, keeps receipts for returns and doesn't buy in over abundance - ever. We should all take a page from her book of lessons.

The uptick is that 2012 is around the corner and it's my time for new resolutions. Next year needs to be different. Truthfully, if no one bought my children another gift for the next two years, five years, they would still have everything they need. My job is to help myself and my kids know this and live it. I have to live what I say out loud, so I lay myself bare for 2012:

• Teach joy in giving not receiving.
• Teach my children the meaning of a dollar through earning it not spending it.
• Give to those who need necessities to live, not to those who just want it because...
• Remind myself that a book is a terrific gift.
• Eliminate excess and embrace enjoying what you have.
• Want not, waste not

And always remind the Berlent trio that joy comes from a good hearty laugh, a warm hug, a full belly, great friends and of course, completing a terrific book.

See you next year!

Faulty Concepts

Do as I say, not as I do is a faulty concept. Todd and I stand firmly behind the messages we impart to our children. We also do our very best to live them, not just preach them.  This is totally easier said than done and once we leave the protective lining of our suburban home, it all seems like hogwash to our kids. 

Most kids are told not to pick their noses, to use a tissue. They are also reminded that boogers are not part of a desirable food group. I don't pick my nose, nor am I tempted to eat my boogers, but I know that any child under the age of nine and most male adults like to pick their noses. Children also like the taste of their boogers, love the smell of their farts and think hand washing is optional.  We enforce the No Nose Picking rule handily. Except it crumbles to ashes when we are stopped at a red light and my children watch an adult sitting at the wheel of his car, digging for gold in a nostril and then happily eating his reward. "See, people eat their boogers... it's not gross mom if he's doing it and he's a grown-up." 

Washing hands is a must. Everything readable, learnable, knowable - indicates it reduces infection and prevents contagion. We remind the kids that washing hands includes wetting their hands, using soap and then drying them. I use the "Everyone does it" defense (which I do not let them use as offense when they want something) hoping to harness the power of massive peer pressure and to scare them about the biological hazards of urine and poo gone miscreant. Except when Chad comes out of a public Men's Room and shares with me that while he was washing his hands (score for mommy) a grown up used a urinal, did the shake and then left without washing his hands ergo hand washing must be optional. Ugh. Swoosh for the kid. 

Try living by, "if you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all." This one is not for the faint of heart. I have found myself guilty of preaching this and then flaming out brutally. I am not proud. Reader, take a minute here and fill in your own proud moments, we all have them in surplus.

I stress always, do not take that which does not belong to you - EVER. It would be an unhappy moment to see my children leaving a restaurant with a salt shaker stuffed in a jacket. Going for a check-up is not permission to leave with 50 tongue depressors and 35 stickers. Eating at the Dolphin Dinner does not mean stuffing 12 cookies into your mouth as we exit by the cash register. Using a pen at the local bowling alley doesn't make it yours forever. It makes it yours while you are bowling. Except when the adult your with tells you she / he collects pens from hotels and other fine establishments and it's okay to secretly take it. Seriously? Two foul shots for the kids. 

In our house, we abolished the old aphorism Finders, Keepers, Losers, Weepers. We have the Romans to thank for this beauty. The expression alludes to an ancient Roman law and has been stated in numerous different ways over the centuries. It entered our vernacular in the mid 1800s and despite NO longer being a legal precept it really is still very much alive despite what we've told them. Except my kids lose stuff all the time and when we return to the scene of the crime, we never come home with the lost treasure. Slam dunk for the Berlent kids.

Like most parents, we are the David to a Goliath of humanity that can easily undue all our personal operational progress on this front. All it really takes is one adult nose picker at a red light. Like our friends, we too recognize the uphill battle and take comfort knowing there are other parents out in the vast wilderness tirelessly doing what we are each day. Parenting is certainly very hard and nose picking really does seem simple and easy. Being the best version of yourself all the time is impossible. Giving it your all is a great start. We owe this legacy to our children. Our fortitude and integrity, our triumph over adversity, courage over cowardice, loyalty and respect as well as right over wrong is our gift to them - a message they will hopefully take and keep with them forever. 

Perspective

The best chocolate chip cookies my son Chad eats are delivered to him each week by his Grandpa Joe, who arrive on the 4:30 train to visit his grand kids, telltale white bag in his right hand. Each week, my son spots his silver-haired grandfather and the white bag like an enthusiastic bird watcher spots the American Caracaras bird... excitedly through the jungle of people. My role in this scenario is controlling my father from feeding Chad twenty of these plate-size cookies and road-blocking Chad from eating all the contraband after the first one is consumed. I take my cookie consuming enforcement job quite seriously, especially because the cookie drugs arrive right before dinner time.

Pickup yesterday followed plan until Chad decided to go rogue on me. I was alone in the parked car with Chad and the cookies. My dad was inside Southdown Wine buying a nice pinot noir for our dinner. Chad was safely buckled in the back and the cookies were jail-birded on the floor in the white bag of the front passenger seat - well beyond the reach of the cookie monster. 

Cookie Monster in "cute little boy" disguise

After several verbal ping pong rounds of "no more cookies Chad," and the return volley of, "Oh please just one more, please, please, please I'll love you forever and be your best son and I'll brush my teeth every day and not complain about homework...blah blah blah" I shut all dialogue down. I know better than to argue with an addict.

I turned my attention to the festive display of grapes and holiday lights shimmering in the wine store in front of me and, bam, without any forewarning it happened.

As silently and as effectively as a spider spins its web. As purposefully as a child begs for another toy. As discreetly as a glance of communication between Prince William and Princess Katherine, Chad had the entire container of saucer size chocolate chip cookies in his hand. I must have shut down my peripheral vision for a nano second because there he was with the cookies in hand, smiling a Cheshire cat grin, warming up to inhale God knows how many cookies. Except I am not to be underestimated. What I lack in physical speed (my Inspector Gadget Go Go Gadget arm was stuck in my winter jacket), I make up for in verbal gymnastics.

"Don't even think about it buddy, don't make a move." I said to Chad.

"I'm going to do it mom, just one more, just one more. I have to mom," said Chad, like eating one more cookie was a life saving blood transfusion.

"Drop the cookies Chad, and give me the container right now or else."

"Yes and now, I won't say it again," and then I freed my gadget arm and made a reach for the cookies.

Chad started bobbing and weaving and the cookies fire-worked through the air and shattered all over the second row of the car. To say I was flipped out is an understatement. To say Chad knew he totally bombed and made a Titanic error in judgment was my mistake.

"Really Chad? Really? Are you serious Chad? Really?," was the most articulate I could be through my ire. "Not only did you disobey me. Not only did you purposefully try to deceive me, you made a huge mess of my car. Unacceptable." What I wanted to shout in his face while beating him with a cookie is not fit for print. Instead I settled for, "That was really stupid." Followed by a string of, "moronic and idiotic and stupid again." I lectured about respect and consequences and following rules. I ranted about look what happens when you don't follow rules.  I repeated myself over and over again and kept referring to his act of defiance as the trifecta of stupid, moronic and  idiotic. I was done. The cookies were done. And I was sure my verbal memo having been delivered, was received. That was my perspective.

Apparently, perspective is unique. just like a story has three sides. After a muted silence in which I day dreamed about a nice glass of red wine or just chugging a bottle of pinot noir, I was sure Chad was ruminating on how sorry he was for his foolish act of disobedience, when Chad broke the silence.

"I can't believe you thought what I did was stupid," he said to me. "What?" I thought to myself and then responded. "Chad, it was stupid and don't let it happen again." To which he replied, "I guess we see it differently, I thought it was courageous."

Work on This

I admire anyone who has the drive to wake up each day and work out. I applaud the lady-clutch in my neighborhood, dogs in tow, that walk miles around our manicured neighborhood each day. Well done. I am in awe of my husband and his buddy Howie, who train daily, sometimes twice daily for ultra runs that exceed 50 miles. Nice work baby. My daughter Remi trains 5 times a week on the tennis court and her Californian best friend Summer laps hundreds of butterfly and backstroke miles six days a week for her swim team. God bless youth. My Aunt Leslie recently started trail hiking, gyming and power walking every day and my mother-in-law Marcia just bought herself a bike to ride around her gated community. Brava ladies.

Summer's Fly

Do me a favor, don't call me and tell me about it. I cannot pretend to share in your post workout adrenaline high. Your ecstasy is yours alone. I will do my best to be happy that you just bench pressed your own weight. Good for you that you just ran farther than you ever have before. Mazel tov on your new racing bike you Lance Armstrong wannabe. Thumbs up to you on Facebook after you've posted your fist pump picture crossing a marathon finish line. Really, good for you.

Here are my excuses. I'm not interested in working out. I have horrible arthritic knees (true). I just can't seem to achieve the endorphin-high exercise junkies describe (never). I came close once when I took a horrible spill on my blacktopped driveway and split my knee open brutally. My brain released an enormous surge of adrenaline and instead of losing my breath and then wailing, I couldn't stop laughing a wickedly high-pitched moaning laughter that freaked my kids. The adrenaline felt great. The knee which ended up in surgery, not so much. 

Another hard earned medal

Another excuse, I simply can't find the time. Todd can train for ultra runs because I am home with the kids. It's because of my sacrifice he keeps bringing home medals. We both can't do it. Really, I swear. No matter that we have a treadmill in our basement. I use it to hang wet laundry to dry. Best excuse ever, I did some brisk shopping at the mall and walked its length twice. I'm plum-tuckered out from the intensity.

Once when dropping Remi off at the tennis center, we parked at the back of the lot. We were being silly and in a rare moment of momentum, I took off racing to the door. Remi had no interest in racing me. Instead she preferred the view from behind and landed in hysterics over the a) sight of me running at all and b) the way my ass jiggled from side to side. She begs me daily to, "Do it again mom, run and make your butt jiggle..."

I really need a trainer to motivate me and it's just too expensive. Plus, and I couldn’t make this up, I have bad ankles from my bad knees. I also have a bad hip due to my bad ankles and my bum knees. See, it's all cascading into place now. I also have a flat arch in my left foot that really slows me down and I recently injured my right calf muscle which doesn't want to heal.  It also might rain, be a full moon, my dad grew up on shtetl in Europe, I ate a muffin today, my mom is leaving for Boston, Grandma Marcia has to play Mahjong and I have to clean the toilets. How could I possibly exercise?

This brings me full circle and back to my admiration of all exercise lovers in my life. Keep it up. I hear running clears your mind and decreases the appetite. I'll never know. It's supposed to be super refreshing to cycle and feel the fresh air envelop and encourage you. Hmmm. Zumba is supposed to make you feel sexy and enthused and enhance your curves. So does eating strawberries dipped in chocolate in a black negligee (trust me it’s easier).

And I am full of shit and super jealous. Nike's "just do it" is easier said than done. At my best so far, I can, "just think about it." I am a constant let down to Nike.

My mom had it right years ago. She joined a circuit gym with the following workout proposition: Just show up, we'll do the rest. The circuit's expectation was simple. Position yourself on each machine and it moved your muscles for you - literally. Nice work mom. And to think I ever mocked her blind ambition. She was a pioneer for people like me. Shame on me. It's because of doubters like me that company went out of business forever. In the meantime, enjoy your sweat and burn.  If you need me, I'll be at the mall getting in my daily dose of cardiovascular activity.

Text Schmext

In the late eighties, my dad was buying and selling watches in Manhattan. This constant buying and selling kept him moving on the city streets. If there was a watch to buy, he pounded the pavement, north to south to add it to his inventory. To reach my dad during his daily hustle, my sister Jessica and I had to beep him. Once he received the page, he located a pay phone, several quarters and spoke with us until either he ran out of quarters or we said goodbye. Often, we had to wait a half hour to hear from him - locating quarters and an available pay phone took time. This was normal to me and everyone else.

NYC pre-cell phone invasion

Fast forward twenty years. The response time to a digital inquiry must be faster than the speed of light. This is not normal to me, but is apparently normal to most. With the elimination of pay phones (my youngest has never laid eyes on one) and the incorporation of emailing, texting, home phones, cell phones, blackberries, GPS devices, pinging, ponging, instant messaging, facebooking, skyping, ichatting, facetiming, tweeting, twonking, bleeping and eventually blonking, I am supposed to be available every minute of every day. An unanswered electronic inquiry is considered an egregious wireless crime, punishable by brutal barbs and digital hostility from the ones you love. Hallmarkish - I think not.

This transparent and instant availability extends to showering, shitting, sleeping and sexing. Many people I know sleep with their cell phones figuratively tucked into bed with them. Last I checked, sex or a snuggle with a wireless device is overrated. My all-time favorite is sitting next to a couple at dinner, both, whom are staring at their cell phones and texting into the airy universe instead of talking with one another. Todd particularly loves the "loud" talker who screams his cellular conversation over the din of the LIRR, instead of dropping a call into his voicemail. It's so irritating to him that he'd rather sit next to the LIRR "nail clipper."

The younger generation will be addicted to all this electronica and held to immediate response time regulations. We start them early on their daily vitamins and smart phone user sessions. Want to calm down a screaming toddler? Give him your iPhone. A puzzle or stuffed animal is no longer an effective diversion. Smart phones are now ceremoniously gifted with pride to most fifth graders. Host your tweens' get together and these days you'll find 15 kids sitting together, listening to music with headphones and texting. Watch any kid over the age of 11 out to dinner with his / her family, phone on table, spend half the meal typing away.

I am admittedly a horrible and purposefully poor texter and emailer. I carry my phone with me as a means of necessary communication, period. Yes I return my  texts, but usually in the fashion of the late 80s beeper mentality. Often this works against me and that's okay with me. The initial text reads something like:

Texter: Hey, how was your day? 6:09 pm.
Texter: All ok? Haven't heard back from u 6:11 pm.
Texter: Getting worried, where r u. 6:17 pm.
Texter: R u ignoring me? not cool 6:25 pm.

Me: Hey, I'm fine. I was at a Bris 7:30 pm.

Where God forbid my cell phone rang or marimba'd or buzzed. Poor baby boy would have been castrated instead of circumcised.

I do not sit in judgment of anyone who embraces open and immediate availability  - you say tomato, I say tomaaato. Inversely, please do not hate me because I don't. In 1775, Paul Revere had to ride his horse through Medford, Lexington and Concord to warn the patriots that the British were coming by sea. Paul had a critical mission for our almost Nation. He had to spread the alarm through all of Middlesex County. Do you think he needed a smart phone -- neither did the government. They gave him a horse...

Go Cheap or Go Sleep

A year ago it seemed like a great idea to save money when booking our December vacation. Unfortunately, my savings were limited only to the airfare portion of this trip. Land cost was non-negotiable. In the wee hours of a December 2010 morning, Clara from Club Med ethered me into believing that a 5:57 a.m. flight from LaGuardia with a connection and lay over in Miami and then another 1 hour and 29 minutes air time to Cancun was brilliant planning and genius cost cutting. A Mensa moment pour moi ... except not really.  My planning turned out to be as grand as a bottle of chugged Mad Dog the morning after ... brutal with a sickening after taste.

What I saved in dollars I lost in sleep from a 3:00 a.m. wake up. Fine. I'm a grown-up and I can function on little sleep. It's what I do regularly and effectively every day (I need to keep telling myself that). Children cannot function effectively or function at all, on little to no sleep. My sleepless children are as bad as any one's sleep deprived kids and about as much fun as a shard of glass in the bottom of a foot. Hindsight is also cruel. Had I known at booking what I lived through now, I would have bought into Net Jet and forwent their college 529s.

Being trapped in an airplane with three sleepless children and a husband who was literally sleep walking through the airport is like a slow arterial bleed. Eventually, your life will slow leak out of you while you suffer every beat of your heart. One child melted into a puddle when she couldn't find a piece of gum in her cavernous plane carry-on. This same child poked me on my face 75 five times and played feet bongos with the seat of the poor man in front of her -- incessantly. All three children refused to sleep. The layover was torture. Chad couldn't walk a straight line and kept tripping everyone in his path with his carry-on bag / tripping device. They were hungry. They weren't hungry. They were thirsty. They weren't thirsty. Their feet were hot. This one was chewing too loud. That one wouldn't share markers... and my blood kept draining from my body.

My friend Jess, a frequent traveler to the UK along with her British husband and their children, knows the pain of air travel with exhausted children. Add juvenile jet lag to the equation and temporary foster care doesn't seem like such poor option.

Once while flying to London, her younger son was so whacked out of his mind tired he wouldn't sit in his seat, wouldn't wear the buckle and only wanted to be in the aisle or on a lap. He got so wound up that he proceeded to use his pacifiers as a projectiles across the aircraft cabin. No one was spared and many passengers received a binky smack-to-the-head, forehead, eye. His pacifier javelin throws were also accompanied by an operatic level of screaming for seven hours straight. No one slept. Add to the insult, some injury. Her older son decided to eat a cashew for the first time and nose dive right into an anaphylactic allergic reaction partnered with two vocal retching bouts.  One massive reaction and a twin vomit explosion, two doses of medicine (sleepy version) later, and the kid still didn't sleep a wink.

It's not worth it. Pay the damn airline and recoup the flight costs in happy, adorable, excited-to-be-going-on-vacation children. Lost sleep isn't added back into the kitty so easily. The predawn airline flight is the intro to the next three days of your vacation. Behavior mid-flight is the rule for sleepless tots, not the exception and it extends to the start of any vacation. Older kids fair better once back on land. Sleep deprived children under the age of six are like gremlins when exposed to light ... little devils.

Sleeping Beauty... Finally

Reader, there is a lesson in all of this if you don't pull the emergency release hatch of your plane 38,000 feet over the Atlantic and jump sans parachute or seat cushion. It doesn't get that much better on land. I did not enjoy my first three days with my youngest child in Mexico. Neither did anyone else near us on the beach. I did, however, enjoy my first three days with our beloved friends and my BFF, Mr. Mojito on the rocks.

My Best Friend 

Reader, you will not enjoy your first three days in tropical paradise either until your gremlins recharge their batteries and catch-up on sleep. Cancun, Mexico can very quickly become Dante's Inferno when your kids are walking zombies. So when in Rome do as the Romans do and when in Mexico drink Tequila and when in Hell, do as the devil would do and drink heavily...

And when in Long Island booking next year's vacation, don't ever, never, ever do what Carla from Club Med tells you to do...

Southwestern Charm

Heading to the southwest... back in a week or so. Until we meet again...

Babies

Little Remi

There are no babies living in the house anymore. I turned my back and they were gone.

Once upon a time, I had three children under the age of four. My days in the Land of Baby and Toddler were passed by changing diapers, cutting grapes into quarters and listening to Elmo and the Wiggles battle it out for time share on our television. My closest ally was my blue diaper bag and before I could pull out of the garage, 6 buckles on three car seats required clicking. My sleep was perforated by hollers for dropped pacifiers, midnight ear infections and 4 a.m. wake ups. It was monotonous and thankless. I spent a good deal of time wishing for the kids to grow-up. And then it abruptly ceased and I was caught off guard and unprepared.

That's when I realized I had it all wrong. I believed having three children under the age of four granted me access to a very elite and privileged club - the club of misery, drudgery and complaints. I had inadvertently joined the "poor me" club when the whole time, there was an alternative in front of my eyes. It's called, "appreciate what you have."

Yes I was living a bit like Cinderella. Yes there was a gargantuan amount of thankless grunt work. Yes, there were diapers to be changed and hot dog skin that required peeling. Yes, I always had to have a bag of snack in my back pocket and a quiver full of tantrum-diffuser arrows. So what - I asked for this. I was adored by three beating hearts that were bursting with love for me day and night. Alas, in this fairy tale hindsight is crystal clear and I can now see that membership had its benefits and they were plentiful.

Little children give love and want love in an endless supply and demand fashion. There is always a surplus. They think when you sing them songs, your voice is lovely and ready for an RCA record deal.

Little children take what you tell them as gospel, restore wonder into your life, say it like it is. Amen.

Little Chad

They hold your hand in public, think your lap is a throne and that your company is the best game in town.

Little kids delight in life's simple pleasures - bubbles, back tickles, learning to whistle. They are okay with bumpy ponytails and mismatched clothing because how they look matters very little compared to how they feel.

Little children like your company no matter what. They say the funniest things without a hint of self-consciousness.

Little children miss you when they are not with you, and they stay little for a very little bit of time.

My children don't qualify as little anymore. Remi cares about her hair, cares about who she plays with in recess and won't hold my hand in the mall. Chad recently told me his bedtime doesn't need songs anymore. A simple kiss and goodnight are more than enough.  Eden doesn't need me to bang on the 57 of a bottle of Heinz ketchup to dress her fries. She dresses them herself. Sometimes they tie their own shoes or leave them unlaced - regardless, I'm not asked for an assist. I buckle no one into their car seats or boosters because there is only one left and its occupant is buckle-capable. No longer are their tantrums easily diverted with lollipops. Change is our constant and change is hard.

Little Eden

I have changed too. It isn't always easy or graceful. I try to stop everything when I am invited to play Power Rangers and My Little Pony. I do my best to take calls when the kids are not home. I hold a hand, hold a hug as long as possible whenever the offer is available. I ask questions like How? What? and Why? instead of Yes? or No? to keep them chatting with me. I'll risk wrenching my back out when I'm asked to, "Carry me mommy," even if the asker is almost 80 pounds. Most of all, I try to appreciate all the pleasure and the pain. 

Last year, after I off-loaded the details of a particularly horrible day with the kids, my mom said, "Honey, parenting is insanely hard work, punctuated by moments of joy. It's your job to appreciate all of it." I think I'll remind her of that the next time she fails to see the joy in my "fresh mouth" or appreciate my temporary moments of lost temper... Change is hard for all of us!

Let it Go

Life would be so much easier if I cared a little bit less.  If I took just a pinch from the proverbial, "who really gives a shit," philosophy I could sail through my days. Except I am unable to practice what I emphatically preach.

It's not easy being the warden of responsibility to a crew of unruly inmates.  No one in the under ten cell block here cares about the daily rules I take ownership of and enforce. It's a lonely, thankless job in prison ward B.

I want teeth brushed before school and before bed. My son thinks brushing his teeth needs to only happen on the odd days of each week. Not if I can help it. I'll chase him around the house with his toothbrush at all costs. My older daughter sees nothing wrong with wearing her "lucky purple" socks for three weeks straight in 90 degree weather, despite their smelling like a rotting carcass. I can't have it, can't let it go and move on until I force her into her next pair. None of my children see anything wrong with sloppy, half finished homework. Really? It nearly moves me to tears.

Should I really care that Chad is wearing shorts today in the middle of December? No, but I do and clearly, reader, you see I am unable to let this go. I want beds made and rooms cleaned. The kids would prefer daily dental appointments to bed making and will do anything to make sure their beds remain unmade. Why do I care? I should simply shut their bedroom doors and walk away - coax it out of my mind through hypnotic suggestion - not. Can't do it. But what if I could?

What if teeth brushing happened when they remembered or finally when a best friend tells them, "you're breath stinks?" Lesson learned. What if an impromptu play date arrived at the house and a bedroom was uninhabitable? Hopefully embarrassment would set in and maybe next time a cleaned up room would replace the current stye? And maybe, I would have just a little bit more fun being "mom" after molting my Warden skin. It is a fine line that I am walking.

My Crew 

I believe our children have intrinsic responsibilities to themselves and our household. Todd, far more rigid and organized than I, supports this notion. Together, we are the Batman and Robin fighting for the good, the clean and the responsible in our children.  But when to nag, hunt and persist and when to "let it go?" Not an easy scale to balance and we don't always get it right. We measure our weights based on Health and Safety, Responsibility and Requirements.

Strong homework performance is their responsibility and is required. Making every experience our children have, a learning tool, not necessary. Brushing teeth, washing hair - required for moderately healthy living. Changing out of your purple socks, potentially qualifies as outside of what is critical - wear them if you must. Make your bed each morning - an absolute responsibility. Picking up every toy on your floor the instant you're finished with it, not a mandate.

My goal is to stress that which matters and to set free that which doesn't. It will make for a more enjoyable mommy Liza. Figuring that out is my conundrum and also my cure. Learning to give my kids credit and the leeway to figure out what's important and what isn't might be harder than resetting Rubic's Cube. But it can be done. In the interim, I'll have to settle for achieving just the blue side of the cube. Sometimes teeth won't get brushed and sometimes it will be okay. Sometimes...

Toot Toot goes the Clarinet

Remi left her clarinet on the dining room table yesterday, her lesson day.  Crystal clear is that it should have remained right there where she left it. But I couldn’t and it didn’t, and now I share this: I had no shoes on. My hair was unwashed and wild. I left my friend making latkes, the dogs uncrated, and for what? A Chanukah miracle?

Last bus I'll ever chase...

Like a cheetah hunting its prey, I raced down the route I assumed the bus drove each morning. There she was, Bus #27. Miracles do happen. I was driving shoeless, stuck behind an oil tanker in slo-mo, and the bus wasn't stopping. Neither was I. I was el fuego baby and a little loco at the same time.

First opportunity to hand off the clarinet was on a double-yellow-lined street. I ground on my breaks, slammed the car into park and ran barefoot like a Kenyan in the hills to catch the bus. Except I'm not Kenyan, the street wasn't hilly and I don't run anywhere - ever. I wasn't fast enough or coherent enough to realize only one kid was boarding, and I was too out of shape to make it to the bus door fast enough. I'm a bit removed from my Olympic sprinting days.

Second stop for the bus, second barefoot chance. Missed the bus door by the length of the oil truck and pulled my calf muscle so badly that I crumpled to the ground in agony, clarinet crashing towards the double yellow line. It was a great comfort to me that with each failed attempt, I was gaining a loyal Bus 27 audience. The bus kept chugging along towards its academic destination sans clarinet.

Side bar: I want to thank the dads at the double-yellow-line-street-bus-stop for smiling at me while I was on my back staring at the cloud formations above me. I wouldn't dream of asking you for any assistance. Heck this is obviously a job for a mom...

Third and final bus stop before the turn to school. A major intersection and my only remaining barefoot chance for a baton hand-off. Running the clarinet into school barefoot was where I drew the line.

This time, I pulled up in the lane next to the bus with two cars ahead of me. Again, I slammed the car into park, grabbed the clarinet, the music book and the red binder and threw myself towards the bus door. The light skipped to green. Cars in front of me starting moving. Cars behind me created a cacaphony of horn tumult, and I was standing in the middle of traffic with no shoes on and a woodwind when the bus doors opened. I actually heard cheering. I threw the clarinet at the bus driver, hit him with the book (bam) and the binder (bam) and screamed "Remi Beeeeerrrrrlllleeeeennnnnt!"

Mission accomplished. Triumphant mommy fist pump and a painful limp back to the car. I was the Clarinet Carl Lewis for a brief second. I also cannot put any weight on my right calf 12 hours later – testimony that no good deed goes unpunished. Embarrassing but true: The thought never enetered my mind that I could have taken my time, made myself presentable, and driven to school.

When I picked Remi up at the bus stop today, she thanked me for my heroic effort. Validation. And then she said, "If only you remembered to sign my practice book, I could have had a 100."

Bathing Suits Bite

Here's a great self-esteem booster: Try on bathing suits for vacation. Better yet, do it after eating your way through the summer and fall and ushering in winter by eating your own weight in gummy bears. In the mood for a solid dose of crushing reality? Bring your nine-year old with you. Then add overhead florescent lighting, legs that need a sharper razor and skin that looks like a warning for vitamin D deficiency. Voila, instant cocktail of misery served with a twist of temporary depression.

Hard-learned advice from a veteran: Do not let your nine-year old pick out suits for you, but do brace yourself for a running commentary that is worse than listening to this year’s political debates.

I tried on suit after humiliating suit. I wriggled into the "shaper" shimmer suit that shaped me into a pear. I jumped and jumped into a one shoulder number that pulled south so hard it left moats in my shoulder skin. I sucked myself into a two piece that left too much hanging out. Very sexy.

"Oh man," I groaned. "Another suit not making the cover of Sports Illustrated." To which Remi replied, straight as an arrow, "I think it's your hair that's making the suit look so bad." What? I had to check my winter bikini line to make sure I knew which hair she was referring to. Thankfully or not, it was the hair on my head. How my head hair so negatively affected the look of the bathing suit was left unquestioned. At least she wasn't telling me it was the dimples in my thighs or the saddle bags hanging from each knee. Although I was not spared, “How come your butt hangs out like that? and "Will my stomach look like yours when I'm old?" It's a good thing she likes my personality.

I'd rather have sex under xenon klieg lights on a bed of thorns than try on bathing suits. I shop for bathing suits that defy gravity and give me the most coverage and suction.

Honest Shopping Partner

Todd tells me I look great. He also told me I looked terrific and skinny after gaining 70+ pounds with my second pregnancy. Todd lies to me for the sake of saving his life - I can't blame him for his survival instincts. He's lucky I'm not a female praying mantis, because when I'm through being complimented, I'd have to eat him for dinner. Todd also tells me the truth and means it, because he genuinely loves me the way I am. He tells me I should do the same, and he is right.

I have two beautiful daughters whom I hope grow up to love the women they become and the shapes their bodies take. If I can help by confidently parading myself up and down the beach a la a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, I’m in, one sexy-mom Target swim suit at a time.

Saying Goodbye

It was 10 a.m. on Saturday, my sister Jessica and her family were packing to fly home to LA on JetBlue’s 4:50 p.m. out of JFK. Around the house piles for transport to California were emerging like ant hills on sidewalk seams. Suitcases were being scuffled across our tiled kitchen floor, and snacks were being ziplocked for the flight. Dirty linen was spilling out of the laundry room like a cup run-eth over. Jessica was already crying. The girls and I were already sad. I was physically hugging my sister who was still in my kitchen and feeling the void of her departure at the same very same time.  Saying goodbye is one of the hardest things we do. I'm still learning how.

My mom told me "It's always easier to be leaving than it is to be left behind." Well, maybe. In our family it seems to be “harder” either way. Saying adios to Remi and leaving her with our babysitter Ella at ten weeks old sent me on weepy journey up Manhattan's 6th Avenue to an Old Navy. I spent my two free hours on the phone from the dressing room, crying to my mother about how worried I was and how much I missed her.

One of many goodbyes

When Remi started nursery school and was having a pretty hard separation time herself (standing at her cubby looking in at a photo of me), I was the mom slumping down the hallway with rounded shoulders and a red nose. I was also the mom that stood outside the classroom door trying to peak in at Remi through the cracks in the rainbow collage of construction paper. I was not much better when she took her first solo bus ride to day camp. At least I had the presence of mind to turn around when I swallowed the vomit that rushed into my mouth.

Our first (and only) sleep-a-way camp goodbye was on par with a best friend moving across the country - heartbreaking. Visiting day was anxiety redux. Our goodbye weaknesses aren't only limited to people; we have a thing about places, too. Remi cried when she said goodbye to her day camp. And our apartment. And Chuckie Cheese! When I leave for an occasional girls’ weekend, my goodbye is laced with departure guilt and tear-swollen eyes. Not so the men.

Todd leaves for work trips, ultra running races, camping weekends with the guys and University of Michigan reunions without so much as a sniffle. He'll deny it, but he's rejoicing inside. Chad heads out for sleepovers, camp late nights and first bus rides with barely a thought as to goodbye. I've asked Chad, "What's the secret little man?” wondering why there are no tears, drama or clawing hugs" before we separate? "I tell myself, I know I'm going to have a good time. Why,” he continued, "would I get sad when I know I'm going to have fun?" Hmmmm...

At just about eight, Chad has perspective and wisdom that exceeds his tender age. He squeezes every last drop out of his lemons and makes awesome lemonade while I'm still sucking the sour rind. If it were only that easy for me, my sister and Remi, my mini-me. We have the weepy gene, the-get-sad-before-goodbye gene. We dread separations and farewells and start obsessing about them immediately after we say our "hellos."

At car-loading time last Saturday, we cried and hugged as if Jess was leaving for the Land Of No Return where they wipe out your personality and sell your soul. Apparently, based on our goodbye sadness, she was also headed to a place where there are no phones, Skype, Facetime, email, texting or cell phones. We shed excessive amounts of salt through endless tears. Chad, on the other hand, watched all this drama with the same disconnect he reserves for infomericals.

As Jessie, Brian and Phoebe were on their way to the airport, the void their absence left was palpable and heavy. My shoulders were beginning  to round and I thought about drawing the curtains closed. Then Chad asked me to build a Lego all-terrain vehicle with him and help him organize his football cards. I gladly accepted his invitation. Maybe he's on to something...

Recooperation

See you on Monday

Where the Money Goes

Add three children to your household, or one child for that matter and the money is gone.  Luxury guilt-free dining gone.  The extra pair of brown riding boots, gone.  The romantic weekend get-a-away, gone. $6.99 on an iTunes Store application, gone.  $75.00 bottle of Cakebread Cab replaced with a cheap bottle of whatever is on sale.  Weekly manicure / pedicure, gone. Carefree Internet shopping, poof.  Gone, gone, gone.  Replacing exotic orchids for the kitchen table, done, done, done. Current economic conditions, money gone.

Nursery school and kindergarten enrichment for three, required vaccines. A good multi vitamin. School supplies, back to school clothing, after school activities, organic produce. Money, money and more money, out the door. Health insurance, doctor's appointments, referrals to specialists, spend, spend, spend. Braces and retainers, dental visits and orthotics, cash, cash, cash. Hair cuts, sneakers for constantly growing feet, backpacks and bedspreads, coin, coin and more coin. Winter jackets, winter boots, scarves and gloves, hats and snow pants, cost, cost, cost.

Flu shots are not free. School lunch is not free, neither is school snack. Teacher's gifts, holiday gifts for the crew that keeps my house moving, stamps, clarinet rentals and gas for my guzzler, not free. Dry cleaning, not free. I put the money in the bank and I take it out of the bank. Dog food, human food, shampoo, the mortgage, the cable, our phones, our insurance, our cars, our water, our natural gas, our electricity, not free, not cheap but totally necessary. College 529s, IRAs, kid's savings accounts, allowance, babysitters, life insurance, blood bank storage fee, more money, more money, more money.

Todd is the cash-flow vigilante of the family. I am charged with violating Spending Law 101.A: Buy it because we need it, not because we want it.  Todd will run in the same running shorts for five years.  He only throws out underwear when all that's left to wear is the waist band - sexy right?  He'll buy generic over brand any day. He researches and researches for the best product at the cheapest price and then haggles. He wears a suit so many times it could commute by itself to Manhattan. He keeps a cell phone longer than its life expectancy and he's quite happy to wear his white undershirts even after the arm pits are permanently yellow.  He uses toothpaste tubes until they are flatter than a single sheet of paper and unlike me, he'll buy one of something instead of 40. His shoes look like new but were bought in a previous decade. He skis on skis from his youth instead of the newer skis with the fancy technology and he never walks into a mall.

Kanani stealing my money

The first step in recovery is admitting you have a problem.  I'm not quite there. I struggle with need over want and browse over buy. I am rendered limp when I see cute stuffed animals that I know will bring my kids joy. What little girl wouldn't want to open Kanani, the "it" American Girl Doll for her birthday? I am a total sucker for relaunched toys from my childhood: Cabbage Patch Kids, vintage Lego, Strawberry Shortcake redux, Operation, Stratego, stickers, Mon Chi-Chis and Garbage Pail Kids. Lacrosse shorts and Jets paraphernalia are musts for Chad.  Outfits and knick knacks and candy and sparkly pencils are delights for the girls.  Kooky pens and Moshi Monsters and Go-Gos and My Little Ponies are bursting out of the bins, while our wallets are cash-a-rexic and leaner than a Gucci runway model. It has to stop.

It has to stop because if it doesn't cease immediately my kids aren't going to college and we will all be eating generic for the rest of our lives. No longer spending recklessly or excessively will also make Todd love me just a teeny bit more. He embraces frugal living. The truth is, I have to practice what I preach to my children; be happy with who you are, how loved you are and how healthy you are - not with what you have. No Kooky pen or Power Ranger makes an ounce of difference in those core values. Ultimate happiness is not bought at Saks or sold at Toys R Us. Maybe if I keep saying it, it will get more palatable. It's not easy or fun but then again neither is going through childbirth  - the rewards, however, are remarkable.

As New Year's eve approaches and the world ante's its resolution chips, my bet's in and the odds are in my favor.  Everything I need I have.  My family has its health. My kids wake up smiling each morning and fall asleep with their internal banks full of love and laughter.  My husband kisses me goodbye each morning despite my morning breath and and tells me he loves me many times throughout the day. My new niece Phoebe recently started smiling when she hears my voice and my dogs are almost house trained. My circle of friends is like a warm fire on a cold winter's day and as nice and friendly as the tellers are at our local HSBC or the cashiers are at Target, they will have to get used to seeing me a lot less often...

Menses

For seven days every month, I am a really horrible version of myself.  I am not alone.  I have horrible company in my horrible female friends during their horrible days of each month.  Sometimes, a group of us are gnarly at once.  Other times we seamlessly pass the baton of horribleness in relay fashion, until each of our personal treks of evil are finished.  During my horrible week I am so horrible that I contemplate eating my young. I mentally and emotionally abuse my mate and my behavior even disgusts my own horrible self.  I manage all this from under a shearling of exhaustion combined with glucose poisoning triggered by out of control chocolate binging.  I'm getting my period.

Super mom has left the building.

With this gift, came my alter-ego's nickname, coined by Todd. Her name is Hormona. Dads and children are defenseless against my menstrual persona.  She is curt, prone to wicked outbursts, intolerant, judgmental, flippant, unpredictable and a jerk.  I never asked for this gift.

Last smile captured for a week

When I was in high school, having my period changed nothing about me and PMS was still years away.  Thankfully so was parenthood. High school menstruation was relatively easy compared with mommy-menses.  I was energetic enough to saw wood, run a mile. Cogent enough to follow multi-step directions while being as pleasant as your average teenager. At 14, I never imagined my uterus and its future propagating cycle was a breeding ground for a future non compos mentis 38-year old mother.

At almost 40, kindly say "hello" to me the day before my period and I might run you over with my car.  Ask me the same question twice and I may implode in front of your eyes.  Remind me I promised to play Barbie with you and I may chew her perfect head off while you scream and run for cover.  I become a miserable, horrible version of me.  I don't like the PMS version of me, so how can anyone in my family like me?  Turns out they don't.

If the period arrived stag without the PMS, I'd manage and my family would live to exceed the average life expectancy in our country. Just a period, I'm tired but pleasant, slow moving but capable and generally in sweatpants.  Batch in PMS (Psychosis, Madness, Sarcasm,) and we have a different dialogue altogether. There is literally a hemi v.12 engine of diabolical cruelty in my body that goes from 0 to 60 in three seconds flat.  Parenting through PMS is almost impossible.  It's on par with parenting while battling a ferocious case of the Norwalk virus overlayed with the flu.

I expect everyone in my universe to recognize the warning signs and follow the necessary rules for survival.  We do it as a matter of course when on an airplane.  My expectations for my family are simple; don't ask me if you can do it yourself. If you know the answer, don't ask me the question. If you don't like my answer, don't ask the question again, my answer isn't changing. Don't hide the chocolate because each bite will buy you incremental safety from my madness. Put yourself to bed because I can't promise I'll be nice. Get the shoes away, the single sweaty sweat sock out of my dining room and hang your coats up. Eat it because I made it and clean it when you're finished.

Additionally, the banister to the basement is not a coat rack. My tweezer is not for arts and crafts. Don't ask me why my tush looks like that or mention that I have period breath, whatever that is. Please don't stare at the gigantic pimple on my forehead while you're talking to me. Don't wake me in the middle of the night, wake your father - he's not losing iron at a dangerous rate. Think before you speak. Answer me on the first go. Don't speak while I am. Don't make me count to three and don't make me carry through on my threats. Don't complain about homework or Hebrew school - just do it and you're going. Spend as much time as you can in your own room, quiet and under my radar. Eat what I serve you. Tie your own shoes and remember to take your lunch to school. It won't hurt you either, if you mention how great a mother I am, throughout the day.

With all this power comes great responsibility. My body as airplane knows exactly when to drop its oxygen masks and illuminate the buckle your belts icon.  As pilot of Menses Air, it's my job, regardless of turbulence or lightening, to get my family of passengers safely to their destinations.  After landing the figurative aircraft, there is never a shortage of hugs and kisses, love and laughter at the arrivals gate.  Mommy's home!

Romancing the Bulls Eye

My husband is not alone on an island of ignorance in the Bikini Atolls, and there are unsuspecting husbands all across our great country, blissfully unaware of the financial damage a Target store, home to the greatest bargains, can do to their bottom lines. That is a good thing.

When wives tell husbands, "I'm going to Target for toilet paper," the average dad thinks, "great, I'll be able to wipe my kiester for two more weeks." They don’t understand code. In my house, "going to Target for toilet paper," translates into “going for sparkly crystal costume jewelry, new puffy throw pillows and unnecessary toys.” Or, dog accessories, pajamas for niece Phoebe, facial cleanser, many hair barrettes, soccer balls and redundant pairs of shoes. It means candy and snacks and coffee and gum and mini-muffins galore.  It's a quenching fountain diet coke with clinking ice from the soda fountain and Bachman's pretzels to munch on as I skip up and down the aisles like Veruca Salt in Wonka Land.

My average 12-pack of Target toilet paper costs me a minimum of $350.00.  That's like wiping your ass with double-ply sheets of gold.

Arriving at Target is an instant booster shot of joy. We are there often enough that my children think all the red-shirted people working there are actually our relatives once removed. How tender that I walk into our local Target and Raul is so happy to see me and gives me a hug.  Pushing an orange Target shopping cart is like being behind the wheel of a Ferrari.  They never jam, can hold an 80-pound kid, are always available and almost never have a wobbly, squawking wheel.  I challenge a Target shopper to find a cart that only steers to its East like the carts at my Waldbaums.  

Announcement:  Though I gush, this is not a paid testimonial. It just happens that a Target bull’s eye is my True North. Layouts are uniform and inviting.  Iowa, Maine, New Orleans, New York – wherever your travels take you – you can head straight for vacuums and doggy poop bags. Like the blind mouse locating its cheese, I don't even need my sight to get where I’m going, not to mention that the “Target Effect” seems to morph adults into friendly mode like a group of vacationers tucked safely inside the sanctuary of an all-inclusive Club Med hot spot. And there are always children who make you proud of your own!

Need shelter in a bad storm? Head to your nearest Target. It is fortified. Dry. Filled with food and drink, pristine restrooms and tons of activities to keep your kids occupied and out of trouble.  You'll also have plenty of clean clothing, an available change of underwear, bedding and magazines to read until the blizzard passes.

The risks of a local Target are serious and the rewards addicting.  Risky because a mommy left unattended in a Target is like leaving a Gambler in an OTB. Say goodbye to your cash.  Rewarding because everything is so damn cute at Target and the lower prices make moms everywhere feel as if they are saving money not spending it.  Good luck going in for toilet paper and coming out with just toilet paper or any toilet paper at all. Usually, I go in for toilet paper and come out with everything but. Todd ends up having to wipe his ass with newspaper for a few days.

That my mom successfully raised me and Jess without a Target Rehabilitation center nearby is a miracle.  No matter the chaos of a school morning, Target is a good B12 shot that gets me back on my axis.  Target shopping is homeopathy for the soul.  

No matter that I have to drive 40 minutes in red-light traffic each way.  No matter that I should be cleaning the house and dying my over-due grey roots instead of romancing the bulls eye.  No matter that I haven't paid the bills yet or sorted through the mail or sent in my taxes.  It's my analysis. I figure a good shrink in Manhattan is about $275 an hour.  You can come out of a  good hour in Target for the same or less with non-refundable happiness guaranteed. See you in the snack aisle...