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Just Say No!

It’s the word most often used by children, an easy, mono-syllable that’s fun and expressive. We’re brainwashed to it at a young age from parents and teachers. There’s a whole campaign telling us to just say it. Whatever the reason, one thing is for certain; my kids certainly know how to say, “No.”

“Michael, it’s time to get up.”

“No.”

“Julius, did you brush your teeth?”

“No.”

“Tyler, do you know where your homework is?”

“No.”

This morning, I’m finally leaving the nursery school after some harrowing negotiations with Julius.

“I don’t want to go to school today!” Floppy-curled, chubby-cheeked four year-old stands tough.

“I’m picking you up in just a few hours.”

“No.”

“You have to go.”

“No.”

Heavy sigh.

I had a 9:15 spin class and didn’t want a battle this morning. He was going. I was late. There was only one thing left for me to do… bribery. Yup. Plain and simple. I got low and whispered in his ear. “Go now and I’ll take you to the candy store at pick-up.” I threw some sugar on the sugar, “You can pick out TWO things!”

Julius easily took the bait. We were both solid candy addicts. With a big hug, I was out.  Genius parenting, right there.

I maneuvered my way through children and moms like an all-star obstacle course racer, waving here and there, trying to quickly get to my car without stopping. I was outside, almost there, when the Rabbi spotted me and beckoned me to him. I had a momentary fight or flight reaction; I wanted to run to the car. First, because I was going to miss my gym class and second, because nothing good can come from our conversing. I have a long history of inappropriate commentary, but when the Rabbi beckons, one can only submit. So I take one last longing look at my escape vehicle just feet away and walk over. So close.

As it turns out, it was worse than me embarrassing myself.

Rabbi – “I was wondering if I could count on you to get a little more involved in the Hebrew School.”

Me (Smiling painfully, nodding in the negative and backing slowly away) – “I have a lot on my plate right now.”

Rabbi – “Yes, yes, I know you do a lot for the nursery school but it’s time you transitioned your efforts.”

Oh no, he was using Rabbi mind games on me, it was like the Force, only stronger! I felt myself nodding up and down in agreement.

By the time I got into my car, I had no idea what I had agreed to.

On the elliptical machine at the gym (yes, I missed my class) a friend from the elementary school approached and asked if I would help out on a volunteer project for the kids.

“I don’t know.” I demurred. “I’m already over-extended.”

She assured me it was nothing. Cake. Just need a name to put down.

Again I found myself nodding. I was going to have to consider wiring my head to my neck.

Finished with exercise, I stopped at the supermarket and the dry cleaners for Howard, then home for a shower before nursery pick-up. My phone rings. It’s my father. He needs me to call a doctor for him and maybe figure out this problem he’s been having with his home health aide. He’s in a decent mood, which is a plus, but I sigh and add the chore to my list.

I go to pick-up Julius, checking my emails while I wait. There’s already one from the head of the volunteer committee, the “name only” gig. Uh oh. I’m distracted when Julius runs out with a hug intended to knock me over and almost succeeds.

“Hey! Did you have a good day?” I ask.

“No.”

Of course not.

“So, do you want to go to the candy store?”

“YES!!” came his exuberant reply, accompanied by another knock down hug.

Finally, a yes from my boy! Now here’s a kid who knows his mind. I think about it. He’s a genius. He simply says “yes” to what he wants, and “no” to what he doesn’t. What a concept!

Hmmm… I wonder if I’m going to learn anything from this?

NO!

Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho… It’s Off to Camp we Go.

 

“Who’s ready to go to camp?!” Howard bellows, carrying bag after bag from our house and jamming them into the trunk of our mini-van. You would think we were leaving for a month instead of two nights, two hours from our home.

 “Camp! Camp! Camp!” My three boys march in their underwear chanting with glee. It’s kind of ironic since the boys just finished up day-camp, where they tried more often than not to have days off, as if I were sending them to work the fields instead of to play and swim all day.

 Typically, my boys are all too happy to stay and play at our toy-infested, warm cookie-smelling, friend-filled house. On a regular basis, they snub both Howard’s and my overtures for activity. Entreats for playing ball in the park are met with rolled eyes and cranky fits. We never go to movies, because my kids would rather sit in the den, watch a DVD and have me serve them popcorn. When we went to Disney World and rode the mono-rail, four year-old Julius kept asking if it would take us back to Long Island.

 I still recall with horror our recent trip to Great Adventure. Hundreds of dollars, a spectacle everywhere you turn and the first thing seven year-old Michael asked was, “Does it have Wifi?”  Then, “Can we just get cotton candy and go home?”

“I hate it here.” Tyler, my oldest, agreed. Well, at least they were getting along.

What have I done to these children?

 “Do we have a lot more stuff?” Howard calls up, and in answer I throw down a giant garbage bag filled with sheets and blankets. “Do we need all this?” he asks, a little annoyed.

 “Nah, you can sleep on all the baseball bats and balls you took.”

 Howard grumbles and drags the bag to the car.

 It’s Labor Day weekend, and for the fifth year in a row, we’re heading to sleep-away camp.

There, with 25 other families, 23 of which we barely know, we will sleep in bunks that feel like styrofoam covered in vinyl. We will share bathrooms with families we are close with but not THAT close. We will wear ratty sweats and flip flops, eat food in the mess hall I would never eat in the outside world, and drink at inappropriate times while our children, who are not allowed to play alone on our front lawn, run wild.

 There is a lake and nightly bonfires. The children are dirty and out at all hours. They carry walkie-talkies and flashlights. They play basketball, baseball, Gaga, and volleyball. They just hang out, and the parents do the same.

 The first couple of years, I had a hard time getting with the program. Of course, my kids were younger, so Howard and I trailed their every move and were exhausted by night fall, falling into a miserable, uncomfortable sleep with our boys. But as they grew, they wanted more independence like the other kids, so I painstakingly doled out bits of freedom like M&M’s. I admit it. I worry. I like them with me. I want to hug them all the time. And then I want them to go away, but just to the other room.

 “Let’s go!” Howard, true to form, is at the door shouting at us to hurry.

 The boys, usually excruciatingly slow to respond, jump to attention.

 “Uh boys? Your clothes?”

 They fall over in a fit of giggles and put on the shorts and tee-shirts I’ve left out for them. One 10 year-old, who shall remain nameless, put his shirt on backwards.

 Julius tugs at me. “I’m hungry.”

 “Didn’t you just have a bowl of cereal?” Howard asks.

 “I’ve got snacks for the car.” I whisper and Howard looks up to the sky for help.

“Okay, ready.” I confirm, lugging a duffle filled with clothes, my 40 pound ‘let’s make a deal’ bag, all while balancing a bottle of Chardonnay under my arm.

 Julius jumps up around my waist. “Snack! Snack!”

 “Out!” I command, and they all race willy-nilly, tumble-bumble and cram themselves into the car.

 We’re not on the road five minutes before the appeal for snacks start up again. I pass out some granola bars (Howard is the first to take one.)

 “So, you guys excited?” I ask.

 “Yes!” Tyler enthusiastically nods.

 “Are we almost there?” Michael asks.

 I ignore that. We left five minutes ago.

 “So do you think you guys would ever want to go to real sleep-away camp?”

I hold my breath. Say no. Say no.

 “No way.” Tyler answers conclusively.

 “I like us all going together.” Michael pipes in.

 “I’d go if you could come.” Julius adds, not quite getting it.

 “Whew.” I think and settle back for the long ride.

 For us, sleep-away camp is something we do as a family. I hope we never outgrow it.

The lake

The night

The bunk

The End

Go Cougars!

Go Cougars!


I was going out for my sister-in-law’s 40th birthday in two hours, and was curled in the fetal position on the living-room floor with barely enough energy to lift my head. One minute I was battling dragons with Julius; the next, my eyes were drooping. When Julius’ dragon swooped in for the kill, I fell over onto the carpet. It was one of those exhausted mommy moments, where even trying to stay awake was torture. I needed to sleep. I would cry if I couldn’t.

I closed my eyes. Semi-conscious, random thoughts ran thru my brain. What will I wear tonight…? How much did I eat today…? I must have dozed, (probably because of my boring thoughts) because I was startled awake by someone sitting on me. It was Michael. “I want milk, mommy.”

“Go way.” I mumbled, but he may not have heard me, as my face was mushed into the carpet, slightly dampened with my drool.

“Mommy I want milk,” He repeated and started bobbing up and down.

“Get off.” I complained in an unflattering, whiny voice. Michael just continued rocking back and forth. “Okay. Okay.” I shifted my body, causing Michael to slide off and sat up. Adjusting my eyes, I looked at the clock. 5:48pm. Crap! That woke me. I was supposed to leave in less than half an hour. I picked myself up and went to dress. (Yes, I got Michael milk, don’t worry.)

It took 15 minutes to get myself to the door and the next 15 minutes to actually step outside it. At 7 and 10 years-old, Michael and Tyler, are better about me going out than little Julius. With him, there’s a drawn out routine of mounting anxiety, 20-50 massive hugs and kisses, until he finally puts on his brave face and backs slowly away waving “Bye-Bye.” He looks like a water fountain with someone holding their thumb over the nozzle, one second away from bursting.

Finally, I closed the door on Howard and the boys, and walked to the car swinging my overnight bag. My former fatigue had abated and was replaced with the caffeine-crack called FREEDOM. I was liberated! No making dinner, cleaning up, getting milk, playing dragons, mediating arguments or bed-time duty tonight! I picked up my sister-in-law and friends and drove to the Gansevoort Hotel on Park Avenue, singing the whole way.

We are checked in by a pretty girl with an accent (Scandinavian?) and go to the room to drop our bags. The room is modern art deco, but all the pictures on the walls have a similar theme – sex. A little weird, but the mattress is cushy and plush. I could be happy just staying here and going to bed. Now that turns me on. I am old. I am tired. I am a loser. Now just hand me my book and bowl of ice cream and get out.

I don’t say this of course. We’re here to celebrate. Howard’s baby sister is no longer the teenager with dark lipstick, bad bangs,  oversized clothes – and the messiest room. Now she’s a natural mom, with the most gorgeous hair, genuine style – and the messiest room. Some things don’t change.

After visiting the roof bar and going to dinner, we are finally ready to go out. It’s 10:45pm, my usual bedtime. The night is gorgeous. There’s a huge line to get into the club at our hotel. Pause. Should we even leave the hotel? It seems pretty popular. Why waste time and money to do the same thing we’d do right here? I look to my cohorts. They are already stepping into a cab. Apparently, I think like a suburban mom.  We head downtown.

I remember a time when getting proofed was nerve-wracking because I was using a fake ID, then there were a few years of smug pride after I turned 21 (take that bouncers!). By the time I was 30, I was pleased to be proofed, and that warm, appreciative feeling lasted for years (Yes, I’m over 21. Giggle giggle.)

Tonight, when I handed my license to an oversized, young man who shined an interrogation light in my face, I was a cougar in a bar filled with drunken cubs. He knew it. I knew it. It took a few nasty tasting shots before I was ultimately able to erase my shame. We popped in to a few more places, then hailed a cab back uptown to our hotel. Practical, suburban mom secretly tsks.

The line at our hotel’s club is still out the door, but we are guests and get right in. It is loud, dark and crowded. Everyone is young, drunk and dancing. We get drinks and dance a little too, but I am very aware that my knees ache and the high sandals I am wearing are no longer comfortable. The 25 year-olds around us don’t seem affected by the same casual complaints. I appreciate watching them. They are at once, insecure and over-confident, trying too hard or too little. Who are they? Who will they be? Their world is still a frightening and fascinating open highway.

We dance some more and then there’s the collective nod all around. It’s time to go. It’s almost 2am. Respectable. I give an inner cheer.  I made it and had fun. I look to my sister-in-law and friends. I remember back when we were the ages of the people in these bars; throwing up in the bathroom and making out with the bartender (Uh, them, not me. 😉 ). It is a long time ago and a minute. Very much changed and all the same. Time is a funny thing.

At 40, some might say it’s all down-hill, but I say, the view is better and it’s a lot easier than climbing to the top, especially with these knees.

Stop the Presses! I’ve made the Top 13 for Blogger Idol!

Stop the Presses! I’ve made the Top 13 for Blogger Idol!

I really didn’t give it much thought, but I noticed bloggers, here and there, commenting on auditioning for the 2012 Blogger Idol contest. So I checked it out, and with a casual shrug, sent in my blogger audition. I almost retracted and rewrote. It seemed a little down and I have a relatively up blog, but done is done and off I sent it, fully expecting that to be the end of it. Well, lo and behold, what have we here… you are reading one of the top 13!

Here’s what I wrote for my audition piece…

“8…9….10!” The counter shouts. “Ready or not… Here I come!!”

The boy turns around and spies her immediately. She stands quiet as a mouse in the center of the room.  At two years-old, she is still young enough to believe that if she just closes her eyes, she is invisible, but everyone is smiling at her.

At seven years-old she is a stealth spy on an important mission. No one can see her in her black shirt, pants and hat. “Boo!” she yells from behind her mother as she washes the dishes. “Oh, you really got me that time!” her mom says, looking around. But she is gone. She is invisible. Her mom stifles a laugh.

At 14, she stands awkwardly on the outside of the world looking in. Her sweatshirt hood covers her head and she stuffs a chocolate bar in her pocket, thinking, hoping no one will notice her. With a wicked smile and body curving too much for its age, all they do is notice.

At 20, she hides in the back of the class, her long locks covering her eyes, her face always hidden away in a book.  It all draws more attention to her than less.

At 42, with three kids and a mini-van, she schlepps up and down Main Street, lugging groceries and back packs. Her hair is pulled off her face in a ponytail. She wears yoga clothes and sneakers. For almost 20 years, she had it. She walked in, people looked. She smiled, the world smiled back.

Now she looks like she wants to be invisible, but mourns the fact that she actually is.

I don’t want to be invisible anymore. I’m ready to be the next American Blogger Idol.

 

Bedtime Story = Nightmare for Mommy

Bedtime Story = Nightmare for Mommy

Once upon a time, there was a mommy of three boys, Tyler, Michael and Julius. Every day the mommy happily wrote all sorts of stories on her computer, and every night the same thing happened.

“Mommy! Tell us a story!” The three little boys would plead.

The mommy never knew what to do. She would fake a coughing fit or excuse herself to go potty. She distracted (anyone want chocolate?) and demurred. She pleaded exhaustion or a headache. She simply couldn’t tell anyone the truth. She was a terrible storyteller. “Howard!” She would call to her husband. “The boys want a story.” So Howard would trudge into the room with a contrived, heavy sigh, “Another story?”

Tyler, Michael and Julius would nod feverishly, and Howard would pluck a tale from the trees or out of the sky or from a lifetime ago. A man completely incapable of reading a book or communicating a feeling could somehow spin a yarn with a cast of characters, intriguing and funny, getting themselves into all sorts of mischief. He even managed to end with some kind of moral.

Night after night, his stories entranced the boys, their mouths hanging open, glee in their eyes. The mommy listened, equally impressed. How did he do it? She wondered. It made her all the more insecure.

Generally, by the time Howard was finished, all that was required of her was some back tickling and kisses. Easy stuff she loved. But some nights, not often, but some nights, the children would persist in hearing one of her tales. They pitied her and gave her prompts to work with, “Tell us about when you were little?” Tyler would ask. But the mommy had blocked out most of her childhood and could not recall or imagine any of the funny antics that Howard could. “Tell us about a cat, a lizard and a fly?” Julius suggested.

“A cat, lizard and fly…” She pondered a moment. She had it! “There was an old lady who swallowed a cat.” She looked around at their eager faces. “She swallowed the cat to catch the lizard…” Their faces dropped.

“Mom!” They interrupted her, mid brainstorm. “That’s a nursery rhyme,” Michael scolded. “Not a story.”

Defeated.

“I don’t know boys. I have a headache.”

They shook their heads, not accepting it for a minute.

“I’m tired.”

They were enjoying the game and shook their heads again smiling.

“Who wants a drink?”

“No!”

“A snack?”

“NO!”

“Can I read you a story?”

“NO!” They happily shouted.

Wait! What’s that?” The mommy put a hand to her ear. “It’s the phone. Sorry, boys.”

“The phone isn’t ringing!” Tyler said.

“Come on.” Michael demanded. “Just do it!”

“Okay fine.” She finally conceded. “But it’s going to stink.”

“We don’t care.” Tyler encouraged.

“Okay. Here goes…” But nothing would come. “Uh…”

Eye squinting. Deep thinking. Nothing.

“Mom!” They stared at her. Her brain hurt. The pressure was too much.

“Okay, okay.” She began. There once was a mommy of three boys… uh, let’s call them Myler, Jichael and Zulius.”

At that, the boys giggled and the mommy perked a bit. “And this mommy just couldn’t think of a bed time story.”

“Oh no!” The boys said simultaneously.

“Wait. It’s good. So, she pretended to have a headache. The mommy held her head. Ow. Ow. Owwwwwwww.”

They giggled some more.

“And then she pretended to be so tired. YAWN!”

She fell over on the bed. “Zzzzzzzzz!”

“Mommy” Julius said, “Wake up!”

“Oh sorry. Okay, then she decided they needed snacks so she left to go get them apple slices.” She zoomed from the room. “Huffing and puffing, she put the apples on the bed. Then she decided they needed drinks. She ran down to get water.”

Giggles followed her out.

“Huffing and puffing, balancing three cups of water, she tried to be funny. But she was so tired coming back up that she walked right into the wall. The water spilled all over her. She was now wet. Oh man!”

The boys cracked up.

“So of course she had to run back down to get more water. Out the mommy ran, down the stairs and up with three new cups, but when she got back up the floor was still slippery and she fell, water cups flying in the air. She lay on the floor.”

Hysterical laughter filled the room.

Howard walked past, and offered a hand to help her up. “Show off.” He smirked.

She was soaked and may have broken a hip, but the boys were still laughing.

“Okay boys. Time for bed.”

“You didn’t finish!” They protested.

“Oh sorry.” She said as she tucked them in. “Then the mommy had to be taken to the doctor and the boys had to clean up the floor. They got so tired from working, they fell asleep.”

“That was a good story mommy.”

She smiled and kissed their happy, sleepy faces. “Good night, babies. I love you.”

The End.

Done.

Done.

 

The Sounds of Silence*

The Sounds of Silence*

My house screams with quiet. There are no feet stomping down the stairs. No yelling for the bathroom, or at each other for stealing a toy, or a friend. There are no iPods singing or ICarly chatting on the television. The Wii dance party has shut down and someone else will have to help Mario save the princess. The whirl of the electric Sponge Bob toothbrush has ceased. The crack of my son’s bat hitting a home-run, just an echo. No hamburgers sizzling or Kung foo battles. No sing-offs, or screaming fits over homework. No honk of the bus or for the friend being picked up. No more reading The Three Little Pigs over and over. No more tantrums for treats, or crying while washing hair. No more slammed doors, loud farts or chanting for “Ice cream!”  No more calming their cries. No more, “Mama, come.”

I can almost hear the cock of the Nerf gun, right before one of my little boys shoot me in the back; and my own voice as I sing my babies to sleep. Almost. The giggling and tickling, laughing and whining is gone. My feet scrape loudly in empty silence. It’s just so quiet now. It’s almost as if it all never happened.

*This is a response to the weekly WordPress writing challenge on the role of sound in writing.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/02/17/the-sound-of-silence/

The Cat Whisperer

Michael and Julius have a new friend. She’s about 75 years-old and lives on our block in a semi-rundown house. I have heard random gossip from the morning dog walkers that her recyclable garbage contains only wine bottles. Another neighbor labeled her a nasty, old lady.

Until recently, I had never met her. I knew her house, but like so many people who are close enough to touch, our paths never crossed. Then one day, while playing on our lawn, Michael and Julius spotted a black cat across the street. It became our activity for the next ten minutes to follow it. No matter how it scampered from us, we pursued. At least they did. I pursued them.  Finally, the cat stopped at her driveway, walked up toward the porch and laid out on the concrete, stretching like he owned the place, which he obviously did.

Photo of Marina by Michael

“Her name is Marina,” said a quiet voice off to the side.

I turn my head and notice a woman in a blue, flowered housedress sitting on an old kitchen chair on her porch. It’s not even a porch really, just a small, guard-railed area to stand and get your key out for the door.

“She’s a little skittish, but mostly playful. Come around to this side of her and pet her head.”

My boys listen and beam proudly when Marina rolls over for them and sticks her head under Michael’s hand for continued pleasure.

The woman goes on like she’s talking with a friend over tea. “I took her in. She was a street cat and it took a while to get her to trust me, but now she’s very comfortable. Not like that one.” She points, and we all turn to see another cat strut out of her open door, rub up against the leg of her chair and saunter down the steps. “That’s Valentine. He’s not nice.”

Valentine had Garfield’s body and Cujo’s expression. “I think he was abused.” The woman said and Michael and Julius automatically take a step back. Marina did as well. “You never know the story with rescue cats. Where they come from, what’s happened to them.”

Valentine photo by Michael

Two more cats emerged from the house, and Michael and Julius stared in awe. “Are they good?” Julius asked.

“That one’s Cocoa. She’s very friendly. And this here is Pumpkin, she’s sweet but very shy. I don’t think she’ll let you touch her.”

Michael and Julius slowly approached, with cartoon-quality, quiet faces and matching exaggerated, quiet steps. I almost expected them to turn around with a finger to their lips and go “Shhhh. I’m hunting wittle cats.”

Cocoa loved up their loving and, Pumpkin, as expected, stayed a safe distance away, jumping backwards anytime one of the boys invaded her space.

Photo of Cocoa by Michael

We stayed too long, the boys obsessed with the felines running round, and watching Valentine (“the meanie”) mess with the other cats, stalking and then pouncing on them. I said a few words to the woman, and she acknowledged me, but spoke mostly to the boys in a soft, adult-voice, schooling them on each cats temperament and history. The boys were fascinated, asking questions, listening, not just politely, but with interest. Wow.

There was no condescending baby talk. No, “Oh those are cute kids.” She spoke with my four and seven year-olds as equals. I wondered about her. Alone, in her house with her rescued cats and a reputation. I remembered she gave out inappropriate candy on Halloween the first year we lived here – sticky, wrapped hard candy, probably from a bowl sitting on her table for 5 or 50 years.  We never knocked again.

It was getting late. I was getting bored. “Guys, come on. We’ve got to go home.”

“That was so cool.” Michael exclaimed as they skipped back towards our house.

“Yeah!” Julius chimed in.

“Can we go back later?” Michael asked.

“Yeah!” Julius again concurred, nodding expectantly.

“No, not today guys. We were there long enough.”

“Can we get a cat?” Julius asked hopefully.

“Uh, we have a cat. Remember? Fuzz.”

“Yeah, but he’s boring.” Michael said glumly.

“He is not.” I defended poor Fuzzy. “Come on. Let’s go play with him”

We walked in our house and neither kid showed the slightest interest in Fuzz. “It’s okay, boy. I’ll play with you.” I cooed and stroked his fur.

We’ve been back to the cat lady at least half a dozen times now. She always steps out onto the porch in her house dress, like she’s been waiting for us. I know as little about her as I did the first day. The boys love going. They enjoy her conversation. They love her cats. They’ve won Marina and Cocoa over completely. Pumpkin is still a spectator but a less jumpy one, and “Meanie” Valentine is still not showing the love. I’m the real outsider. Watching. Waiting. Wondering. Do I really know any of my neighbors? Not really. So close. So distant. Who was she? Who is she?

Every so often I run in my neighborhood and sometimes notice her door left wide open. The gaping hole looks dark and empty and full of quiet, and I wonder, is she the one who needs to be rescued…?

They Say “Nay” to the Pony

They Say “Nay” to the Pony

Unofficial scientific research alert – boys don’t like pony tails.

At least mine don’t. And I’ve got three of the younger set, uninhibited by societal constraints. Unlike my trained husband who might just shrug and say, “It’s fine” to avoid confrontation, the boys tell it as they see it – the truth, in all its naked, cellulite reality.

Like when Michael was five and met an older neighbor walking in the street.

“Wow, you’re 90!” He exclaimed and the lady’s face lit up.

“You’re almost dead!” He continued and she seemed to die right there.

Or, like last night while snuggling with little Julius at bedtime, he’s happily squeezing my stomach, plumping it into a nice pillow. “Mommy,” he says adoringly, “your belly is so squishy like your boobies. I just love them.”

Thank you Julius.

For creatures who don’t notice the clothes I place before them, or that I’ve been asking them to do the same thing for five minutes, they seem to see things others don’t.

“Mommy, why does your stomach fall down like that?”

“I can’t go in the kitchen, what you’re cooking stinks soooooo bad!”

“What’s that big red bump on your face?”

And my ponytail? Michael, my most articulate child, says it best, “Mommy, you don’t look as pretty like that.” Well, thanks for sugar coating it, honey.

I’ve supported the pony look back in many incarnations; the banana clip, the scunci and scrunchies, the hair clips and clappers -anything to pull back my hair. I have even resorted to using those ridiculous ‘silly bands’ when desperate. (At least they’re good for something.)

I think of it as the hairstyle for the aesthetically lazy and/or overwhelmed, both me. I mean who knows what would happen if I just let my hair run wild at the supermarket? I might just pick up regular milk instead of low fat, organic or fricken Oreos instead of Annie’s Bunny Crackers.

Although the boys don’t like the style, I still wear it daily. Generally no one notices, but that’s only because I’ve realized that no one really notices me at all, but when they do, they don’t like it. 100% of the time.

Yesterday, Julius put a necklace he made at camp around my neck, then stepped back to survey his work. His expression read like an unsatisfied artist scrutinizing a canvass. “Take your hair out,” he ordered and I complied. He mussed with it a bit, and then smiled before finally nodding in approval. “Much Better.”

Whenever Tyler looks up from his haze enough to notice that I’m wearing one, he’ll wrinkle his nose and point. “I don’t like those.” When I go in to snuggle before bed, he’s apt to pull the band from my hair. “Better.” He’ll sigh.

I don’t know why, but I decided to stand in front of the mirror and I really study the look. I mean three boys were out and out saying they didn’t like it, I should it take under consideration.

Look A with hair down – I’m young and carefree, pretty and relaxed. I smile.

Look B with hair back – I’m busy. I’ve got things to do. Hurry up, I’m saying. This is serious. Chop chop! I’m a librarian, a school teacher, an ugly mom. Ew!

I flung the band from my head. They’re right. How could I not have seen this before? I blew the curls away from my eyes. Probably, I just didn’t care. And there again was the truth, I realized, and I tied back my mop, because ugly or not, I ain’t putting this pony out to pasture.

Fabulous

Hmm…

Life’s a beach… And then you die!

I don’t want to go! That’s what my head is screaming as we drive with a car load of crap and crying kids to have a fun, happy day at the beach. First off, for me, the beach is not a relaxing place. It’s the place where Jaws murdered all those people. The place where unknown creatures lurk under ominous rising waves of foamy death. It’s where slimy, green things stick to your feet and make you jump in disgust and fear before shaking them off with aversion.  It’s where a million grains of sand scratch between your toes, up your nose and in your nooks and crannies. And with kids?? OMG. Forget drowning, I’m going to die of a heart attack. Turn for just one second and there are a thousand little boys who look like mine. I’m twitching in panic just thinking about it. A million people on one end, the angry sea on the other, glaring sun overhead. Really, this is fun??

Do I seem abnormally anxious about the beach? It’s possible, but I have it on good authority that I drowned in a former life, so I’m totally within reason here. Also, I was taken to see Jaws at the very impressionable age of five. I’m sure I was ready for it though. I only spent the next three years throwing books across my green carpeted floor, which I imaged to be shark-filled waters, so that I could safely step from bed to door. I’m sure everyone did that. And who, at one time or another, hasn’t had a fear of sitting on the potty because they think a shark might come up and bite them in the ass, right? Totally normal.

Da Dum Da Dum Da Dum

I love when people say, “But you’d cruise, right?” Uh no! Why would I surround myself with the object of my fear? Eating every day for 12 is appealing, but you can’t have everything. Hasn’t anyone heard of the Titanic or read the newspaper? Big ships, little ships, boats, ferries, they all sink, people. And then guess where you are?!

So that’s my mindset for family fun day at the beach. I look at the vast, dark waters and the endless sand filled with people and tell myself, “It’s going to be okay” And it is – for them at least. Howard, the boys, my sister and brothers-in-law and the cousins are laughing, playing and, yeah, frolicking. Obviously I’m the only one keenly aware of the lurking dangers, and I alone will shoulder the anxiety, a solid stick-in-the-sand in a swim dress.

Speaking of swim dresses, that’s another reason I have to stay off the beach. Less important maybe, but it doesn’t help matters. Could you really blame me? It’s right here in black and floral.

Way hot sister-in-law
Uh, yeah.

Come on beach, one way or another, you’re just killing me.

 

 

Buzzy gives me, “Two cones up!”

Today is my blogging anniversary. For one full month, my ass has been rooted to this chair. The boys tolerate it, except when they want something. Howard is happy for me, except when he wants something. My most solid supporter in the house is Buzz.

He sits next to the computer, rubbing his head on the keyboard or against my hand.

He’s here now as I write. He rarely leaves my side. Sometimes, he leaves me gifts.

A gift from Fuzz.

Buzzy – I know I seem annoyed when you accidentally push keys with your nuzzling head, or lay all over my papers, or get hairs up my nose, but I appreciate you standing, uh, laying, by me. We’re in this together, at least for another month.

So thank you Buzz and everyone (special shout out to Juicy Pear Colorado), for reading and supporting me.

Please forward www.icescreammama.com around and ask your friends to “Follow”. Yes, that was shameless. I’m okay with shameless. Do it for Buzz.