I'll be right back, I promise

I saw this picture on Facebook and laughed.  These days if a mother did that, well, can you say Division of Child and Family Services?


What parent hasn't had that thought run through their brain at least once (or 3,000 times)?  Even as a mother of an only child I can say with absolute certainty, I have and at least once a day.  That is usually when I have just carved out 10 whole minutes to myself, or so I thought.


You know the drill.  The image staring back at you in the mirror is a reminder to make that waxing appointment soon or you will have an official uni-brow.  The doctor said after your last physical 6 months ago to come back in a month for a follow-up.  Your best friend has started to think you lost her phone number as you haven't called her back the last 4 times she called.


You just need 5 minutes to yourself.


So, why is this not okay to do?  Yeah yeah, I know, they could wiggle the clothes-pins loose and they would fall to the ground.  And?  It only hurts for a moment, right?  


I have it, Mommy-Multitasking!  Fully clothed baths then hang them on the clothes line!  The clothes get dry and the kids stay clean for 5 whole minutes!  

<doorbell chime>  
<knocking sounds>
Me: Who is it?
Voice from other side of the door:  Ma'am it is the police.  Did you know there is a child hanging from your clothesline while singing the new Lady Gaga song?  Your neighbors would like to know if he knows any Madonna, they prefer the original?

I make jokes, heck, my son doesn't even like Lady Gaga!  


Okay, so really, who would it hurt to get a few minutes of sanity in an otherwise hectic day?  As long as I teach him how to carry a tune, even the neighbors won't mind.

Everything is a teaching moment when it comes to our kids

Last week when the story broke of the bullied school bus monitor, I was working from home.  While I made a post on Google+, I never posted here.  I have to be more diligent about cross posting.  


From June 21, 2012:

Image courtesy of Today.com

Everything is a teaching moment when it comes to our kids

I was lucky enough to be working from home this morning, so I was able to grab the kiddo so we could watch together.  An interesting discussion followed about the kinds of bullying they don't teach in school.  To say he was angry about how those kids treated a lady who could have been his grandmother, is putting it mildly.  

Once that point was made, we turned it toward teachers and how he and his classmates speak to their teachers.  Well, what do you know, suddenly we were hanging our head, saying we had to do a better job in being respectful ALL the time when dealing with teachers and teacher's aides.

Lesson learned.

Stuff My Son Says

Out of the mouths of babes.  How can the young be so much smarter than their years?  I know that I do know the answer to that, and it is usually the result of having to endure what they should not have to at an early age.


We were out, doing our usual errands and chatting away in the car.  He asks, "Mom, do you want to hear a saying I made up?"  How do I not want to hear this?  "Of course I do", I answer.  With that, he utters the phrase above, "Those who insult, are weak themselves." 


We talk about what he means by this, and he tells me had figured out that bullies and mean people are just mean to make people stop looking at them.  He goes on and gives me examples of bullying statements and how to counter act them with one liners to end it right then and there.  


It is my fervent hope he doesn't have to put this in to practice any time soon.  I fear for him, that entering Junior High School next year, will have more than its fair share of pitfalls.   

Adventures in Parenting - The Shots

How many adults does it take to give an immunization?

I love my son, unconditionally.   He has irrational fears that are part of his condition and as a mother it is heartbreaking.  Spiders, clowns, insects with wings, and getting shots.  When it is time to get shots, we have to plan, for weeks.

Today was our yearly physicals and we knew that there were going to be shots today.  So we have been planning.  They say plan your work and work your plan.  That works when dealing rationally.

For a month we have been talking about how we needed to get shots to be prepared for 7^th grade.  Breakfast table talk this morning was about manning-up.  I picked him up from school today and the talk in the car on the way over was in preparation and repeating our manning-up mantra.

Preparation is for fools.

My appointment is over, I go in to his exam room, and he is already shaking in his paper shorts.  As the exam wears on he is vibrating.  I leave the room for the personal part of the exam.  I barge back in when he starts screaming.   The doctor mentioned the shots.

As an hour woefully passed, I tried the soft touch, the mean mommy, the reasoning parent, the I’m going to call your father threats, all to no avail.  At points he was so loud and wailed so badly, other doctors and nurses came in, worried I was abusing a child in their building.

In the end, it took me and a very large, strong nurse to hold him down in my lap, while our nurse gave him three shots in his arm.  Once done, he was calm, stopped crying, and picked up his things to leave as if nothing happened.

I’m sorry Mrs. Friedrich, we really don’t know why you have severe G.E.R.D. issues.   No, we can’t up your medication any higher.  

Another Adventure on the Short Bus

A while back I wrote about the adventures we experienced when the regular morning driver had to take a leave of absence and they couldn't seem to back fill the spot without making the kids miss the first hour of school.

Today's adventure was with the new morning driver.  I don't think we will be seeing him much longer.  It takes a special kind of patience to work with kids with extra-ordinary needs.  He doesn't have it, or at least, enough of it.

At 12:10 today I get a phone call from kiddo's school therapist.  During today's scheduled session he related a story to her about this morning's bus ride in to school and he has told her the story.  He wants to speak to me directly, because he has been upset all morning, has had trouble concentrating, and no one has listened to the story. 

Seems that an altercation erupted between his seat-mate and the younger girl sitting behind them.  She was hitting the other boy with a Barbie, a piece fell in to his lap, he retaliated by throwing the broken piece to the back of the bus and she whacked him with her hand.  It was at this point the bus driver finally noticed.

This may have been the bus driver's first time handling something like this, who knows.  In any case, he took sides instead of diffusing and allowing teachers to settle when they arrived at school.  

My son, not one to see an injustice be done, chimes in with his observations on what the girl did.  At this point the bus driver made a critical error in judgement.  

He turned to my son and said, "shut up, I'm not talking to you!"  I'll take "Can I have my pink slip now?" for 200, Alex.

The driver proceeds to keep arguing with the other boy.  My son chimes in again.  Driver tells him to butt out and why was he still talking?  The other boy answers, "well, you told him to shut up and that was wrong!"

Did I mention this is all going on while he is still driving down the street, not pulled over to the side of the road?  

Driver turns to the other kid and says, "I'm the bus driver, I can do anything I want!" Game, set, match.

Therapist gets back on the phone, says she is on it, will question the driver when he returns for afternoon pick-up, but that a classroom aide has offered to drive both boys home today until we can get all the facts.  We agree to have the aide drive him home and we will speak again once she gets more information.

She calls me back to relate his side of the story, which to his credit, matches the boys' story.  

I wish I could call the bus company just one time for a good reason.  Today wasn't it.  

I get a call back from the supervisor after he gets all the facts and has a meeting with the driver.  We agree everyone is human and makes mistakes.  Driver will be giving the whole bus an apology, has reprimand in file, and there are no third strikes in their system.

Everyone is human, everyone makes mistakes, but no one talks to my son that way.   A lesson we teach in our house, and reinforce all the time is that we all have a right to be mad, but we don't have a right to be angry.  We all have a right to respect, and that we all have a responsibility for our actions and our words.  If he has to abide by them, so does the driver.

I don't think the driver realizes he has to face me tomorrow morning.  I promise not to say one word.  There is no need for words when you possess the look.

Life As A Silly Parent

I love being silly, cutting up, and just letting loose.  This is especially true when the kiddo is in the same kind of mood.  A most endearing quality is that he has inherited my quirky sense of what is funny.  We enjoy watching old Marx Brothers movies together and Three Stooges episodes.  Anything that will make us have the kinds of giggles that turn in to belly laughs.

Tonight, little man and I had errands to run and while in the car, from the backseat I hear "excuzzzze meeeee, who ahrrre you please?", in the worst French accent imaginable.

One glance in the rear view mirror and I can see the silly has started and I better catch-up quickly.

I try my best Russian accent, aka Boris and Natasha mashed up in to one person.  "Vy, hello dere.  I deed not zee you zitting dere."

We proceed to converse in our horrible broken accents, barely understanding each other for a few blocks, until I am informed that my Russian is starting to sound like French and he is "the onlyeee Freunch per-sonne in za carrre."

So, I break out my Brooklyn.

"Zo, jus who do uze tink you iz, huh?  Who let uze into my cah?  You ain't Americunn, where you from anywayze?"

"Me, oh well my par-ents are from Frannnce and ze brought me heeeere when I was young-er, so I am an Americannnnne."

"Yeah, well I don't know no body who talks like dat from America.  You must be one of dem French Fries!"

We are giggling and mimicking bad accents all over the East Bay.  I am throwing my best Brooklyn/Jersey at him, and he is trying his best to keep up the French accent.  He makes false bravado threats in the French kid voice about how he is "ze best American who speaks ze Freunch he knows."

"Oh yeah!   Up ya nose wit a rubba hose!"

I was lucky to keep the car on the road with the guffaws coming from both the front seat and the back seat.  He had no clue what it meant, but it was enough of a vivid statement, that his mental picture put him into fits of laughter.

At the dinner table we explained where the phrase originated, but by then it had lost its shine.

Ya hadda be dere ta unnnastand

Stuff My Son Says

Him: Mom, why do some women wear so much make-up?

Me: Some women wear it to feel better about themselves, but some really need it.

Him: Hmmm, how do you know the difference?

Me: Whether they use a brush or a spatula.

Him: Huh?

Me: If it looks like them, just better, then it's a brush. If they look, well, scary, then it's a spatula.

Him: Clowns are scary. Do they use spatulas?

Me: Oy vey!

Early Adoption Failure

I am an early adopter, sometimes.  It depends on the product and the platform.

Take for instance new dinner ideas.  Working mom arrives home nightly to husband and kid already home for an hour.  Kid is busy doing homework, husband has walked the dog and is catching up on news, and everyone is hungry and ready for dinner.  Of course the catchy commercial for a product that will help me make dinner in a snap catches my eye, it is supposed to.  They made it to speak to me, and millions of women like me all across America.  Let us help you make your life easier.

So like millions of other women, on my weekly shopping trip in the mega-supermarket, I go in search of this revolutionary new product.  Voila!  I find it, not by careful searching, but by the gaggle of women standing there with the product in their hands, reading the label for secrets to making their lives easier.

I walk over nonchalantly, grab a tub of the miracle cure, and just put it in my basket.  Don’t want to look like I don’t already know of its properties.  This is not my greatest idea.  This one comes to backfire on me when I take it out of the chill chest to put into Saturday night’s dinner.  I finally read which flavor I grabbed and how it is applied in a recipe.  First thought, disaster!

No way is preteen going to eat a dish with this, but we always teach that you have to at least try something before you can say you don’t like it.  We also teach that unless I make something completely inedible (which happens on a fair amount of occasions), you need to eat what is put in front of you.

It is in those dinner conversations that one or both of us wind up channeling our parents.  Things like,”if I didn’t eat what my mom made for dinner I had to eat it anyway, so will you.”  A classic, “don’t you know there are starving children in the world who don’t have a hot meal to eat?”  The ever popular, “whatever you don’t eat now will be waiting for you for breakfast.”

That being said, last night’s dinner conversation was one that could have been had in any typical household in America.  Any typical household that has children.

We all sit down, I put the experiment on the table, and low and behold from the seat to my right I hear, “WHAT is that, I’m not eating that!”  Now, mind you, there are no toxic fumes emanating from the dish in green smoky curls, nothing moving, and certainly nothing with tentacles.  With that said, the other half grabs the serving spoons and starts dishing out the concoction.

Small, almost semi-adult takes a look, a sniff, and proclaims he doesn’t like it.  Ah, time to interject a classic from the repertoire.  “Dude, I had to eat what my mom made for dinner, and so do you, so at least try it before you start to complain.”  Fork spears food on plate, fork enters mouth, mouth starts to curl, and mouth opens to wide view of half-macerated food and the sounds of gagging.

At the same time, two adult faces pretty much look like younger third face.  This look is quickly replaced with a smile.  Two sets of eyes glance in each other’s direction.  Non-verbal communication begins.  One set says, "okay, so it’s not the best of experiments but it’s made, it’s hot and it’s got good protein."  The other set of eyes replies, "yeah okay, and besides I am not in the mood to go out and get us a pizza."

"See kiddo, it’s not that bad, let’s eat."  Protestations begin, bargaining and requesting for alternate foods commence.  Accepting defeat once again on a failed experiment, but not being in the mood to be reminded of it, the words come out of my mouth before thinking.

“There is more to life than pizza and chicken nuggets, so eat your dinner kiddo.  I know it’s not great, but it is all there is.  I promise I won’t be making this again, and you are only going to have it eat it this one time, so stop complaining and start eating!”

So much for being an early adopter.

Fence Envy

They say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.  What if, it’s just an optical illusion caused by the sun’s rays?  I would bet if you jumped the fence, once your feet were firmly on the ground, you would realize that you landed in a mud puddle surrounded by the same brown grass you just left.

An interesting discussion was had between three old friends.  One unmarried, one married 7 years, and the last married 18 years.  The conversation was of half-empty, half-full glasses throughout.  One thing became clear, fence envy is alive and well, thriving for all to see.

One side of the fence had a beautifully manicured lawn, immaculate roses, and tulips growing in a row, pristine garden furniture and birds dipping beaks at a feeder.  On the opposite side, there was patchy grass, toppled trellises, half-grown daffodils, and furniture that looked as if Goodwill gladly dropped it at the homeowner’s doorstep.  Sadly, the first yard had no one to play in it and the second yard a vacation was needed from small tramping feet.  One yard longed for the laughter of play dates and lemonade, while the other longed for a cup of herbal tea, a good book, and silence.

In each of the houses there were king sized beds in the master suite.  Each had only one occupant nightly, one begrudgingly, the other gladly.  One had silence enough to make an ear bleed spontaneously; the other had blissful silence for slumber.  While one slept with arms aching to hold and finding only a pillow, another set of arms find comfort in just a pillow.  In one of the rooms, the alarm clocks ring each morning is as routine as brushing your teeth, while in one room, the alarm clock loses the battle daily to pitter-patter.

In one garage sat a brand new sports car, dealership scent still heavy on the leather interior, floor mats with car maker logos spotless and perfectly positioned.  All cup holders still in factory condition and integrated navigation unit set for the latest concert venue and after-hours hot spot.  Another garage held a mini-van, getting a bit long-in-the-tooth, but still giving its all.  The cup holders long since broken, flip down video screens stuck in the down position, and stains from last year’s trip to Hershey Park still smelling of Reece’s Pieces.   In one vehicle, the strains of smooth jazz fill the inner chamber for the daily audience of one.   Sing-song chants, an occasional fit and squeals of laughter fill the other, no radio necessary, except for the one playing in the head of the driver.

The drivers, interestingly enough, though similar, are worlds apart.  On a leather wrapped steering wheel are manicured fingers, sparkly ring purchased with just a bit of mad money, freshly pressed blouse tucked into nicely creased slacks, hair done just last week from the salon, no roots here.  Somewhere in town is a faded steering wheel held by hand with chipped nails, not a hint of polish to be seen for months.  Fly away stands of gray hairs tucked under the brown ones in a quick pony and isn’t that one of the husband’s big shirts over a worn pair of Lee’s?

While the other side of the fence is nice to visit, do we really want to live there?  The general feeling is one of longing, missing out and questioning of decisions, but these are fleeting and thankfully easily forgotten.  While the single may feel a pang when they hear the kids on the other side of the fence outside playing, would they really want handprints on the walls and Popsicle sticks in the garden?  Don’t they like sleeping to whatever time they decide on a weekend morning? Isn’t it nice to not know the words to every Justin Bieber song and be blissfully unaware of anyone named Hannah Montana?

How about the other gals?  I am sure they would love to have a regular manicure that didn’t include pink sparkly princess polish, quiet for more time than it takes to shower, just one day of sleeping in, and a car that didn’t reek of Cheerios and milk.  Reading a book in less than a year is a novel idea along with taking in an occasional play, maybe a ladies lunch day?

Let’s face it, while we all may envy from afar, and one person’s tale of woe is another’s fantasy, we wouldn’t give up what we have for all the tea in china.  So let the sun play its tricks, allow flights of fancy to give us hope that there are flowers and trees and a cold glass of lemonade there, but in the end, climbing over the fence will only get you full of mud and looking for the garden gate.

Saturdays With Latte

Saturday, that special day when the mall becomes a haven for Stride Rites and Steve Maddens.  Everywhere you turn there are strollers and toddlers and teens.  The escalators are filled with mothers chanting “no, no Jimmy, don’t touch the railing, it’s full of nasty germs”.  The food court is a vast wasteland of tables of fathers trying to deliver bad fast food to 4 children from 3 different food stands.  Grandma babysitting the kids at the table, while Mom tries to find one food stand that sells organic French fries.

As a casual observer, there you sit on the bench under the overly tall Ficus tree, thanking god you never had kids.  While sipping your vente fat-free double latte, a feeling starts.  Are you lucky that you aren’t lugging that too-hip stroller out of the SUV on a Saturday for a jaunt around the mega mall?  Your life isn’t easier because you don’t have to find a potty, NOW?

Life for you is easier, you surmise, since you are free to come and go at will.  No multiple schedules to check, no babysitters to hire, no grandparents to beg to watch them for a two-day jaunt to the Bahamas.  Maybe.  Maybe you are missing out on some secret.  Maybe you aren’t experiencing your life to the fullest since you aren’t passing down generations of family wisdom.  No one to teach the family lore of Crazy Uncle John and how he got out of WWI wearing a dress and a wig.

As you rise from your suburban oasis in search of garbage receptacle for your post-consumer-waste recyclable coffee cup, your foot becomes inexplicably entangled in an immovable object.  You look down and to your amazement there is a two-year old boy, grabbing tightly to your ankle and wrinkling your sharply creased “wrinkle-free” chinos.  The face smiling up at you, eyes shining brightly, sudden pangs at your heartstrings, a feeling of what-if.  Children, to bounce on your knee, to teach how to skip a rock, shoot marbles, to build a tree house for.

Okay, so maybe there is something to this after all.  The tale of the biological clock ticking isn’t a myth.  How long is too long to wait though?  Have you missed the window, will you be using a walker to get to their high school graduation?  Those lucky people who found someone early enough to start the family, get it off the ground and give it wings, and enjoy their lives filled with the sound of laughter of children and grandchildren.  Will you ever be one of them?

You look back down at this bundle of joy, miracle of nature, as you feel your eyes start to wet.  The little face looks up at you, smiles, and then you see the edges of the smile move, curl, and open.  The wail, the horrible, blood curdling screams emanating from what was once an awe-inspiring face.  A mother rushes over, red-faced and embarrassed, trying urgently to pry little fingers from a vice-like grasp around your leg.  The begging begins, and when the screams below you get louder, the bribery starts.

Finally, your leg is freed and like a deer whose ear is nicked by the hunter’s errant shot, you scamper away, thankful to be able to lick your wounds.  Later that evening, sitting around the table top with friends sipping pomegranate martinis, you tell your tale of almost capture to anyone that will listen.  Commiseration begins, and you all thank your lucky star that isn’t you on a daily basis, appreciating your fabulous single life a little more than you did at dawn.   Gone are your thoughts of the next generation, your biological clock, and the bouncing on your knee.  Gone is the vision of your earlier encounter, fading with every sip of fruity fabulousness.  What you didn’t see was the mother, who as you walked away, would have traded places with you in a heartbeat, if only for one Saturday of single life in the mall.