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.

@#$% This...

I'm guilty. Bad words have tumbled out of my mouth in front of the kids. Enduring Chad's spilling a gallon of milk at dinner, our two girls trying to kick Chad under the table and an ill-timed game of duck duck goose, Todd let a few expletives slip too. My visiting Los Angeles sister used the word shit as often as a teenager misuses the word like with our kids in the audience. It happens. 

Recently, so furious with Todd, Chad turned to him in the kitchen and said, "Dad, I am so bleepin' mad at you." The bleepin needed no further explanation. We got it. It would be so much easier for us too, to just let a curse-filled tirade loose.

To this day I have no concrete memories of my mother cursing when we were kids. In fact, even now, she rarely curses. She prefers jibberish cursing like super-plum-fanny-foop or fongalottie.  Harmless completely. Once though, and it was recent, she misplaced her glasses (big shock), and in exasperation growled “Fuck Shit Piss.”  My sister Jess and I got hysterical.

Polish $%^& that!

Our reality is that even if we never rumble bad words at our kids, the rest of the world is out to foil our children's Eden. There may be no poison apples in our house, but there is an orchard of them just outside our front door. 

The school bus is a horror-show. Anything you are afraid your kids will learn will be taught to them enthusiastically on the bus by an excited peer. Novelties include new and fantastic names for penis (apparently a crowd pleaser), 101 ways to use the word *uck, gesturing included and how to talk, expletives strung together like a pimp. 

Older siblings can also wipe out years of clean living and edited communications. My mother-in-law Marcia tells a great story. Uncle Matt, the youngest Berlent brother was talking with his Nana Ann. "Nana" he said to her, "I know a really good curse word, want to hear it?" Always game, Nana nodded and asked to know what the word was. Proud to share, Matt told her, “Diarrhea!” Relieved, Nana laughed and told Matt that diarrhea was not a curse word and it was okay to use. Not to be outdone, Matt followed it with, "How about fuckin-asshole?" to which Nana replied, "Now that's a couple of curse words." No doubt, with three older brothers, Matt was initiated into the curse club quite early.

Even films deemed kid-appropriate cannot be counted on for completely clean concepts and cleaner language. Dylan, a good friend of Chad’s came into his kitchen one afternoon where his mom was preparing snack after school. Greeting her son with a "Hey Dyl how was your day?" got her an innocent response. "Oh hey Moron, it was good." She recalls standing by her sink, balancing on the edge of dismay and laughter temporarily immobilized. Her son just addressed her as moron and didn’t cringe or apologize.  After careful investigation, she figured out that Dylan learned the moron moniker from the “Toy Story Movie” Immediately told that using the word Moron is unacceptable, not nice and NEVER to be used again, Dylan responded, "can I just call you Mo then?"

As parents, we try to divert the train coming around the tracks. Sometimes, it works. Other times it fails miserably with the kids as wide-eyed witnesses. Chad recently pointed out to me that an impatient driver trying to make an impossible left turn in heavy afternoon traffic gave me the finger because my oncoming left turn happened before his. Chad thought he was witnessing one of the best moments of his life, seeing real-live cursing action. I took the high road and gave the guy of good verbal lashing in my head. Having taken the high road was smart. Having taken the high road for my kids even smarter. Having taken the high road, ugh, totally unrewarding for me. 

I suppose I can do what my dad always did. When Jess and I were younger, he was quite a verbal driver.  He used to curse in Polish, his birth language. One purchased Rosetta Stone, on its way...

Cotton is King

Too many years ago to count Todd came home from a trip to Paris with an obscenely expensive lingerie set for me. Picture it. Black lace corset top, tight in all the right places and black lace thong that looked more like architected dental floss than panties. I opened the present wrapped in a delicate deep purple tissue paper longing for a bracelet, maybe a necklace. Todd's face was all eyes and anticipation. The gift revealed, my instant thought: He must have mixed up my gift with the one he bought for his happily slutty mistress.

Spoiler alert: I'm the granny underwear type. My horizons have broadened over the years, but for this gal, it will always be comfort over class, coverage instead of crotchless and pima cotton above Parisian lace. Occasionally a Hanky Panky pair makes a show of herself, but not often enough according to my true love. 

The abuse from my inner circle is endless. To successfully sport the Granny style, one has to be strong willed, convicted and thick-skinned. They are a female chorus of thong advocates, lace lovers and an occasional g-string. My closest cavalry even has a few brave commando females who balk at my investment in cotton. 

Basic cotton undies simply don't get the respect they deserve. Anyway, despite Todd's desire to have me dressed in lace and corsets, the end game is still the same - love me or leave me but the grannies stay.

While the less is more philosophy isn't lost on me or my rear, paying too much money for too little fabric doesn't stimulate me either (who am I kidding? Is this really about cost saving?). But cotton is cool as in Saturday Night Fever dance floor cool.

I have tried the alternative and the result made me feel like a self-impostor, like a brunette dyed metallic blond with telltale dark eyebrows. The whole thing just didn't work on me. Plus, sexy panties that can double as band aids for paper cuts are impractical.  

I do try because what makes my husband happy makes me happy too, but probably not often enough. It strikes me as odd to have to "get used to wearing" a certain type of panties. Some things just should not require perseverance and fortitude. Jogging, of course. Learning to love Japanese Sea Urchin, for sure. Underwear that are so lacy and tiny they could thread through the eye of a needle, you've got to be kidding me.

Remi palate expanding

I'm reminded of when Remi got her palate expander to correct her cross bite. The orthodontist, giving me the marching orders, told me Remi would drool for the first day, lisp initially and feel discomfort from the newly installed bridge across the roof of her mouth. After that she continued, Remi and the expander would settle into a partnership of mild irritation. Mild irritation for a perfect smile, yes. Mild irritation because my undies are burrowing into my colon - ah, no!

Stay as You are a Little Longer, Please

Remi, Chad and Eden were a sweet chorale in the background as Todd, my friends Jen and Jess and I sat down to an incredible truffle-buttery feast prepared by Todd. Always, there is something palpably feel-good about sitting around the table with close friends, and rare is the evening that there is an adult dinner uninterrupted by tangled rubber bands that have to be cut out of hair, chicken nugget craves that have to be satisfied, ringing phones, dogs that need to go out, homework requiring explanation, someone needs a healing hug, a fight that needs breaking up. A missing stuffed animal that has to be found.

Remi Lauren

. . . and along came Remi. Done with her Lego project, she arrived at the table where she remained, anchored to her chair, not missing a single bite of food or morsel of gossip, for the entire meal. She ate salad with us as an appetizer. Told a very funny joke. 

She successfully passed me my glass of wine while Jen kept knocking over her own. She asked relevant and smart questions. Knew when to listen and when to listen even harder. Politely asked me to speak in kid-friendly language, like changing the word timid to shy. She cleared the table for us unprompted. She sat by my side the entire meal, curious, smart, attentive and respectful.

She was sad when told her it was bedtime, but put up no fight. No melee. The chorus of sound from the playroom was from Eden and Chad. Remi was here in the kitchen, at the table, intricately woven into the fabric of my friendships. She quietly arrived, it seemed, at the entry to tween and the exit of little girldom without any fanfare. It didn't arrive with a marching band, loudly announcing its entry early in its approach.

Sitting at the table, connected to that moment, those friends, my daughter, my husband by an invisible thread of love and loyalty, words left me and I was taken over by “Sunrise, Sunset” emotion. Where did the curious toddler who asked “wazzit?” about each item she couldn’t identify go? When did she stop crawling and start winning tennis competitions? Wasn't she just throwing her pacifier across the room? When did she stop playing with her food, using spaghetti for eyebrows and a mustache?

I tried to quietly tell Remi how much I love her, but my words seemed inadequate and wobbly and too emotional for the almost tween at the table. Hugs handed out, Remi was on her way to brush and wash for bed. "Night, love ya," I called out. She stopped, turned around and smiled and then let out an unrivaled burp, "night mom, love you too." Phew. And just like that, for a little while longer, she was my little girl again.

Great Hair Expectations

I'm a big pusher of the pony tail. Its benefits are endless, and it enables me to compensate for my lack of hair-styling skills despite decades of trying to tame my own out-of-control mane.  

Pre-puberty I had long, silky, thick, shiny, pretty-straight hair that could easily be styled by my mom and occasionally by my dad (not recommended.) One day during the lovely time of life called puberty, I woke up with uncontrollably curly, frizzy hair, when just what I wanted was layers like Farrah Fawcett.

Product under protest

Now, I’m in trouble. The kids have great hair and a really crappy in-house stylist. 

With Chad, luckily, I am hands off by his decree.  He has thick beautiful hair that he does absolutely nothing with - ever. The only hint of styling is his chronic smoothing down of his “bangs” over his forehead in a poor rendition of the even poorer Caesar hairstyle. If bed head were in vogue, Chad would have the most enviable coif in the neighborhood. He winces at the mention of product, a category that apparently includes even the use of water. Brushing or combing is completely out of the question. This works for both of us.

A temporarily satisfied customer

Eden, like her brother, has marvelous hair. Hers is partly curly, partly straight, great color and texture. I do my best to give it a style. She abhors having her hair brushed because it's thick and brushing hurts so any detangling is done with fingers or not at all. Never a critic though, Eden is quite happy with the lumpy pony tails she wears to school. She recognizes my braiding limitations and opts instead for my poor attempt at twists. Her complaints about uneven pig tails are mild and relegated to her head feeling lopsided. She's fairly easy-going which makes my hair styling job so much easier. In September, she and a friend took safety scissors to their heads, Eden in an attempt to create “side bangs and layers.” She was delighted with the result even though she looked as if she did the tango with a shredder. It's this laissez faire disposition that keeps Eden happy and me off the chopping block - for now.

Best case scenario

Where my hair inadequacies shine most brightly is with Miss Remi Lauren, who sees straight through my ponytail campaign. What she expects my hand to do is a constant reminder of my limitations. Let's lead with my strengths: great at combing out all tangles moderately painlessly, solid on product application, better than a Twisty-Turbie at removing excess water and much better than Todd on my worst day. That's it. The weaknesses dominate, and no matter the effort extended, the outcome for Remi is about as great as getting bok choy when you thought you were getting a fudge brownie. My Magnum Opus is the pony tail. Beyond that it all gets very murky. 

This morning's pre-school request was, I think, based on a complicated Origami design. It had more tucks, twists, under pulls and right angles than anything I.M. Pei could design. SHIT. I don't know what's worse, trying, failing and fighting or not trying, failing and fighting. Figuring out who the loser is in either scenario is fairly simple. Failure is usually the option, but not trying is out of the question. 

Remi’s requests are endless, like a chain of ants marching towards a picnic basket. Each morning, it seems, she ratchets up the degree of difficulty. “Mom, can you make a French braid with beads that wraps around my head? “ Anything from the American Girl Doll catalogue would please. Or how about double pony tails, bump-free, tucked through each rubber band, pulled downward, split and then quartered, wrapped into buns with no barrettes or bobby-pins allowed? Is she really serious when she envisions microscopic braids that start at her hairline, merge together, separate again for twisting, come back together, get curled with a a curling iron and then sprayed into the same shape as her Birthday Barbie's hair? I'm afraid she is. Last week she wanted her hair parted in a zig-zagged line with temporary color jags off off each zig.

These requests never end well. Remi goes to school with only a pony tail, and I am thinking its time for a buzz cut.  And so it goes. Yet despite being totally vitamin deficient in the hair capability department, I am mineral rich in effort and determination and that will have to be enough; the alternative isn't any better and Remi knows it. It could be Todd styling her hair each morning... 

List Maker Extraordinaire

I am by nature and necessity a list maker. Listing keeps me organized and sane. I would speak to my kids in "list-ese" if it were possible. Using lists as a default style in blogging can become tedious, according to my mom, The In-House Writer, who once had to do just that for a client. But sometimes, it is just perfect. So, today, a list. I will leave the coloring and shading up to you, Reader.

Gummy bear Shih Tzu Theo

• Having just groomed the dogs, I spent half a morning pulling multiple, partially chewed gummy bears from the Shih Tzu's long hairy coat. Disgusting on so many levels.
• Attempting to open a stubborn water bottle, Chad jerkily stabbed himself an inch from his eye with a newly sharpened pencil, implanting the graphite tip in his face.
• Remi had a Q-tip dragged across her right eye, a metal device scraped across her eye and the morning before the surgery, in one last attempt at the grain of sand embedded in her cornea, a fire hydrant of water blasted at her propped open eye. Three failures meant surgery.
• Late to a pre-surgical appointment, as punishment (as if doctors never run late and keep patients waiting) Remi was made to sit in the waiting room for over an hour. She was so bored she actually begged to do her homework.
• Chad and his partner in crime Sean, jammed the wrong end of a USB cord into a video game console and it required electrical surgery which somehow they both thought I was capable of doing with my BA in English and double minor in Journalism and Judaic Studies.
• Todd has taken up yoga. Great for Todd. The first intro-to-yoga tape he bought has a running time of two hours. He is conscious in the house for only three hours each day. Do the math.
• My dad got an iPhone. He's called me 72 times with questions about his phone, from his phone. I now understand why tech support folk leave their shifts and go immediately to a shooting range.
• My mom discovered the show Celebrity Wife Swap. I now know more about Carnie Wilson's messy life than I should. I am the contestant to beat in the Jeopardy category "Things you never wanted to know about Carnie Wilson." Thanks mom for that hour-long conversation.

• I am calling Cablevision and having them disable my mother's cable boxes stat.

• A previous blog of mine about sweating now has my mom convinced that I have a thyroid disorder and maybe the beginnings of diabetes - because no longer is it possible to just sweat.
• Why am I still getting pimples? 
• Spent an entire day in the car dealership for a car that needed new brakes and tires for way too much money. Got home, took the car out that evening only to have two tail lights go out.
• Apparently dogs can smell urine on a carpet even after it’s been Nature's Miracle'd to death and will continue to mark that spot if given the chance. Those spots were in the kids' bedrooms. Ever try taking three area rugs out of rooms that look like scenery for the show Hoarders? Competing in a National Cross Fit competition is easier.
• Wasn't able to fit in a shower from God only knows when, until Thursday. Have no specific recall of my previous shower and my hair hurt to move like it does after a baseball cap has been worn for a full day.
• Helping Remi look for a top and bottom in identical shades of navy in her closet, I stepped on her kiddy stool and my foot and leg went right through it, taking the skin off my shin and sending me head first into her dresser drawers. Remi was devastated that her stool was broken, not so much that her mother was.
• I've eaten meatloaf for four dinners in a row. Clearly I'm craving protein and salt. If only our local deli sold horse-size salt licks to hang in my bedroom.
• I made cupcakes from a box to make me feel better and they were delicious, all nine that I ate.

But . . Remi's surgery was a success. She was so brave, and we are thinking about bronzing the piece of sand from her right eye for our mantle. Eden danced on the counter to “Pocketful of Sunshine,”  Chad stayed up late because he couldn’t put down the book he was reading. It’s a good life. Funny though, while the weekly list in its semi-entirety tires me out, it's not a source of stress. Therefore none of this is actual complaining. It’s just a list after all. 

Oh, and Chad's guppies had babies over the weekend...