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Monthly Archives: March 2015

Stomach Virus – You’re bugging me

There’s no one at our bus stop.

The yellow beast chugs toward the corner, heaving to a stop. Its loud industrial honk blares through the neighborhood three times before the sliding doors pull closed on no one and the machine ambles forward, on to the next street where a pile of children push each other and laugh and fight with delightful pre-school energy, straining their necks for that glimpse of yellow but also hoping never to see it.

The day is brisk and vibrant with shards of sun lighting the way. At the door, I have to shield my eyes from its brightness. I can’t believe how fresh the air feels, how invigorating, how healthy. I suck a deep breath in, letting it center me with its crisp cleanness, hoping it will help prepare me for my day. Greedily, I take another moment and another sublime breath.

My house reeks of stale and sick, sapped of energy and hope, piles of soiled laundry, children crying, husband lying in bed moaning. An alternate world exists outside this house, one full of life, with everyday problems and everyday troubles – Did you finish your homework, Will you stop torturing your brother, Should we have tacos for dinner or chicken cutlets. It all seems so bright and entertaining in the throes of misery.

I am one of the infected and so I must shut myself away from the outside world. I must lay on couches and beds, wrapped in blankets shivering, close to the cool, lovely bathroom tile, the swirl of infection billowing in the air.

“Mama?” I hear, but I can barely lift my head to address him.

“Coming,” I muster and lift my body, heavy with the effort of sickness, but weak with emptiness over to where he huddles.

“What can I do for you baby?” I ask, wanting to die, wanting not to catch any more of what he has or to give any bit of what I have.

“Water,” he croaks, “And hugs,”

The water is easy and he takes a halting sip before lying down again spent. In place of hugs, I curl up in his bed around his feet.

Now 36 hours later, my husband is off to work armed with a bottle of Pepto, Tylenol and a Ginger Ale and two out of three of my boys are in school. I am slowly recuperating. I know because I am actually thinking about lunch although not sure if I can actually stomach anything. Also, a shower. When before the idea seemed a fantasy I didn’t even have the energy to want, I am now craving it with every inch of my crawling skin.

My middle son relaxes on the couch complaining of a headache but asking to play a board game, and my cleaning ladies are just finishing up removing all toxicity from our house; the smell of organic chemicals a sonnet to my sniffer.

They leave and I toss the last load of laundry into the machine. Over the last few days, I have successfully washed every fabric in my house. I crack the windows to let the fresh air in, look over to my boy and breathe a little easier. We’ve made it to the other side. “Can I get you something?” I ask, feeling his head which seems slightly warm.

He gives me a wan, funny smile like he’s not sure how he wants to answer and then throws up all over me.


He's feeling much better now.

Feeling much better now.











Getting to the party is not half the fun

We’re going to a party! We’re going to a party!

We need to be in temple by 10:30am but I have an appointment at the hair place to blow out my curly curls and get trims for my boys at 9am. It’s 8:15am. We have a half an hour to get out of the house.

“These pants are too tight!” My son yells, and tosses them out of his room into the hall. I hop over, pulling up my tights as I go and get smacked in the face with the offending black pants.

“Didn’t you wear these last week?” I ask, untangling the inside out legs and searching for the tag. Not that it matters. At almost 13, things that fit one week, no longer fit the next.

“I’m ready!” My middle son announces; walking past in a shirt clearly buttoned by a drunk.

“Um, let me help you,” I say, starting to undo and redo. Another pair of pants flies out of my oldest son’s room and I hear him stomping around angrily.

My 7 year-old dances by in his pajamas. “Mommy! Watch my cartwheel!”

“Get dressed,” I order. “No cartwheels now. We’re late.”

I run back into my room to fix myself. My husband emerges from our closet. “This good?” he asks, holding a blue tie against his grey shirt.

I nod that it’s fine and run into the bathroom to play around with some make up my mother brought over.

“I know you like to be ‘natural’, but just something to brighten your eyes? And skin. And maybe a little lipstick?” She suggested so coyly, you barely knew you were being strong armed until you were pinned. Later, I would use a very similar tone trying to convince my son that slightly shorter hair looks better than never combed hair.

“I know what I’m doing,” I had snapped, and am happy she’s not here now to watch me put lip liner under my eyes.

We’re going to a party! We’re going to a party!

“I’m hungry!” My middle son barges in and announces as I’m struggling to close the clasp on my necklace.

“Get yourself some cereal. I need to get dressed.”

“I don’t want cereal,” he says. “I want pancakes.”

I look at him dumbfounded. Seriously?  “I’m not making pancakes right now.”

“Forget it! I’m not eating!” He huffs and storms out as my 12 year old storms in. He is frustrated to the point of tears.

I feel his pain.

“I’ll find you something. I promise. Just give me five minutes?” I ask, looking hopefully and reassuringly into his stressed face.

He calms down, gives me a hug and a blessed five minute reprieve to get myself together so we can get to the hair place and then to the temple for the b’nai (double) bar mitvah and then to the other one across town and the ensuing parties that follow.

“It’s raining out!” I hear my husband yell and a glance out the window confirms it. Freaking great. Did I mention the blow out for the curly hair?

My 7 year old cartwheels past, wearing only his Skylander undies.

We’d better get to that party soon. I need a drink.

Actual discarded pants

Actual discarded pants












Our Peeping Tom

I started feeding him about six months ago.

He sat outside the sliding doors of my kitchen window peering in as I shuffled half asleep through my early morning routine – turn on Keurig, take vitamins, feed Buzz, my old cat swirling between my legs, make the kids’ lunches.

It was Buzz who alerted me to his presence by howling and hissing at the glass screen loudly. I looked and saw him there, staring back unaffected, his coat scraggly but his stance proud. Immediately I noticed that he resembled a cat I once had many years before who had died.

“Well, hello Jeffy,” I said to the stray, making the mistake of naming him out loud. I may as well have bought him a collar. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I’ve got to feed him,” I apologized to my own feisty feline, stroking her behind the ears and looking her in the face. “But don’t worry, you’re in here and he’s out there.”

I slid open the door and Jeffy instinctually peddled back a few paces. I placed a paper bowl filled with food down, introduced myself, then headed back inside. When the sliding door closed, Jeffy padded back and ate. The next morning, he greeted us again, and the next, and the next. He became a frequent guest at dinner as well.

Our arrangement continued through Fall with my kids now well aware of the new extended member of our family. “Jeffy’s here!” They’d cry excitedly and race to find me. “He looks hungry,” My middle son worried and I’d roll my eyes. We were feeding him twice a day. And not the cheap crap either.

Winter and colder weather arrived. It was freezing and I hunkered down, barely going out except when necessary. I couldn’t imagine Jeffy surviving snow and temperatures that seemed to never stop falling. Inch after inch, foot after foot piled up.

Many days, my kids and I stared through the glass doors peering out in the frosty night wondering if Jeffy would make it. At times, the snow was so high he was almost just a head. Other days he carefully careened the mountains of crunchy ice to reach us. Every time he did we cheered and I peppered his dish with fresh chicken or juice from the tuna can. It seemed so unlikely he’d survive the single digit temps and crippling wind, but storm after storm, we’d spy those little foot (and body) imprints in the snow. Somehow against all odds he’d make it to our door.

This last storm took us all by surprise. It came hard and fast. The two feet of snow already in my yard quickly turned to three. For three days, we didn’t see him and feared the worst, but then the sun came out strong and my town began to melt. People walked the streets in open coats and no coats. Everyone was smiling, stretching out and thawing after the long winter freeze. Within a day, Winter had retreated and Spring had unofficially arrived.

And there in my vision stood Jeff, his fur weathered and matted but his posture still strong and proud.

He had made it through.

And now he would feast.

FullSizeRender (9)



You really can’t dance in glass slippers

I can’t think.

My oldest, middle and youngest sons all have friends over. They are downstairs playing basketball. Boom boom boom. They are up in the living room playing SmashBrother on the WiiU while rummaging through leftover Valentine’s chocolates. Munch munch munch. They are up and down the stairs playing hide and seek. Stomp stomp stomp.

I go around picking up empty crushed water bottles and discarded heart boxes and am happy to find a few chocolates half hidden under the crinkly brown paper shells. On closer inspection, I notice they all have little finger indentures revealing brightly colored cream inside. Orange. Ugh.

The boys are loud, squealing with delight as they find each other hidden behind furniture and under tables, and they are loud, yelling with outrage over a missed turn on the X Box or a controversial point.

But they aren’t the reason for my poor cognitive functions.

I have a headache.

I don’t have a headache.

I have stress.

Jeez, I’m so dramatic. I don’t have so much stress. I live a cushy life, baking brownies for my kids, volunteering at the schools, watching their sport games and writing in between.  Occasionally I meet a friend for sushi lunch and indulge in a massage. I am like a princess. Cinderella? I do have an awful lot of laundry. Snow White? There are all those little people I cater to. Fiona? Well, I’ll just leave that one to your imagination.

No. I am princess Ice Scream Mama and my life is a fairy tale in so many ways but alas every fairy tale must have its wolf.

His name is dad.

More fiery than a dragon. More insecure than an evil queen. More suffering than any beast. He is dangerous and inconsistent. He is desperate for sorcerer’s magic potion or the kiss of true love. Who could blame him? They have the power to heal even the most wounded souls.  If you just click your heels and believe…

I wish I could but I lost my ruby red slippers trying to climb out of the tower I’ve been imprisoned for decades. If only I could let down my hair and just let it go, but this beanstalk isn’t going to climb itself. The sky is falling, the woods grow dark and it’s a long way up to a giant problem and believe me there are no golden harps to steal. Not that I would. Jack is a thieving, greedy pig.

Once upon a time I believed in magic, but now know that happily ever after is about acceptance and compromise, finding the good in the bad, not running away from either the old man and the old woman who want to save you, or the farmers, the bear and the fox who want to eat you. It’s about facing the truths in life and appreciating the reality, not the fantasy, but still leaving room to dream.

But what am I saying?

It’s all the noise.

I make no sense.

I think.

Dang! This thing doesn't work!

Dang! I need a new wand!

*Hey all, give a click here and check out my original essay up on Mamalode, A Mother of Mama’s Boys Grows Up. 🙂