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I’m not going to write you a love song…

Posted on October 17, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I’m not going to write you a love song because you asked for one. I’m going to write one, because I want to; because I need to and you deserve one.

Because for close to 25 years, you’ve been with me, supporting me, holding my hand, while allowing me to be me.

Because you’re honest and loyal and still full of the values that first attracted me to you when we were just teenagers; but probably back then it was more about your smile, swagger and the sweetness in your chestnut eyes.

We traveled the ups and downs of college, having a commuter relationship, unable to let go, at a time when we probably were supposed to.  But being with you was the best part of my life. How can you let go of the part that makes your heart leap?

In our wayward 20’s, I dragged you around from country to  country. You didn’t need it like I did, but you jumped on board and off we flew on one adventure after another. I loved those times, just you and me, with backpacks and without a plan.

Back at home, with the city laid out before us and youth on our side, we chose to hibernate together, playing rummy 500 and snuggling on the couch. There was no one we needed to see. Nothing we needed to prove.

And then came the children we tried so hard for; first in a fun way and then in a not so fun way.  And finally, we were blessed, three times, with sons lucky enough to have you as a dad; someone so involved and proud; someone whose greatest day would be spending every moment playing with them.

How lucky we are. How lucky I am. Because I’ve had someone I’ve been happy to see every day for more than half my life. Someone good on the inside and sexy on the outside.  Someone who still makes my heart leap, and all it takes is a private little smile and a warm hug.

We started so young, with our whole life before us, and now we’ve spent years living that life, building it up, appreciating it and enjoying it.

You’ve been a part of all stages of me, woven into my heart, so no matter where we go, as long as I’m with you, I’m home.

Us. Circa 1989


Circa 1989 to infinity and beyond…

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Want Smiles?

Posted on October 15, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

After much debate, my husband and I decided that it was time to give up Smiles, our beloved, pet bearded dragon.

We brought Smiles into our family about a year and a half ago, after some exhausting pleading from our then, 10 year-old son.  When we took him home in his little plastic container, like the kind you get from takeout Chinese with air holes popped in the top, he was just a baby, no bigger than a green bean.

As we settled him into his new tank, finding a nice stick for him to perch on and a rock for him to laze, we fell in love. Or at least my husband and I did; unfortunately my son quickly tired of the huge responsibility of acknowledging him.  What? How did that happen? Weren’t you going to “die” without him?

Parents are such fools.

So day in and day out, I made his little salads and picked up crickets for some crunchy protein. My husband cleaned his tank when necessary, and took him out to wander our living room. But soon it became more of a job, neither of us wanted. Making sure the children stayed alive was responsibility enough.

So we decided to find a family to adopt him and I put a notice on the parent board for our community.

“Friendly bearded dragon looking for a good home. Free with tank and accessories for a family who will love him.”

Come on, you know you want me.

Come on, you know you want me.

I quickly received about five responses. I mean, really, who could resist that face?

One I discarded almost immediately. I didn’t like the presumptuous tone of the responder “We will take him. When can we pick him up?”

Apparently they didn’t realize this was an adoption. There was an interview process and papers to go over with the attorney, uh, my husband, the attorney.

Two other families also didn’t make the cut. I rejected one for crimes against the English language; for using the word ‘there’ instead of ‘they’re’. As in, “We think there so cute.”

We didn’t raise no illiterate lizard, so clearly they were out.

The other family asserted with strange pride that they already housed a turtle, dog, cat, hamster, fish and snake. Uh, if I wanted to give him to a pet store, I would have.

That left us with a nice sounding teacher with kids, and a family who  wanted to give Smiles to their 10 year-old son who had been pining for one, as a birthday present. Hmm did they say a 10 year-old?

We went with the teacher family because they responded first, and his email trail back and forth with his wife begging her, was extremely cute.  Oh yeah, I went in for the background check.

We set up a time, and as we waited for him to arrive, my husband and I skittered down memory lane with Smiles.

Remember when we lost him outside in the bushes?

Remember when he fell asleep next to the couch, his body flattened to the floor and we thought he was dead?

Remember when we bought that little leash and tried walking him?

Stop. No you stop. No you.

Stop it. No you stop. No, you.

Oh good times. So many smiles, Smiles.

When the teacher arrived to take him away, I saw by the alpha stance of my husband, chest out, dragon hanging, that he was ready to give him the third degree.

smiles bruce“So you’re leaving him in your classroom, and not your home?”

“He’s social, will he have opportunity to be taken out?”

“You’re going to leave him all weekend alone?”

The man stuttered and backpedaled and in the end, my husband deemed him unfit for adoption, and he cowered off empty handed.

Alone, my husband patted Smiles on the head and cooed, “I’m not going to let just anyone take you.”

You don’t mess with a man and his lizard.

No surprise, we’re still looking for the ‘right’ family.

Did I mention, he rocks at hide and seek?

Did I mention he rocks at hide and seek?

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I’m sexy and no one knows it

Posted on October 8, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I might be having a mid-life crisis.

I’m not sure because crisis is exactly the opposite of how I’m feeling, which is sexy.

Hard to believe, since I can no longer just bend down and get up in a single motion, and have a wrinkle in between the brow that is now a crevice you could lose things in. Still, I’m sashaying around wearing all my fancy clothes that are actually years old, but I would never wear before because apparently, I was saving them for my mid-life crisis. Also, I have clean hair. Never underestimate the power of clean hair.

I had no idea that this feeling was one of the mid-life symptoms. So I started researching, and sexy wasn’t anywhere on the list of what to expect.

It did say that mid-life is the time more people step out with a young lova. But this makes no sense to me. Someone young cannot see someone middle aged without causing one to die of shock and the other of embarrassment. If anything, I’d have to get me a very old, blind lova. That is, if my husband says it’s okay.

They also say there’s a lot of reassessment, and I have been contemplating my life lately and wondering if I actually have one.

Many people quit their jobs. I don’t have a job. Maybe I’ll get a job! Yeah!  That’s it.

But then how could I go to the gym to lose the five pounds I need to rock my minivan right and attract my old, blind lova? All of sudden, I understand why men buy Porsches. They’re feeling it and want to show off their badass selves, while they’re still badass.

I read that mid-life crisis’ spurs drinking, so I bought a couple of cases of wine because I like to be prepared. I don’t know if that would go over well on my new job, but I’m thertainly giving it the ole college try. urp.

Not that I’m qualified for anything anymore.

I can just see me at a business lunch, cutting up a client’s food and then, if he gets distracted by our fascinating conversation about what’s on sale at the supermarket, forking some fish into his mouth. At least since he ordered it, it wouldn’t come back out in a disgusted dribble like I just fed him clumped dirt. So there’s that.

Okay, forget the job. I’ve got too much to do anyway. Let’s see… well, the kids are all finally at school, leaving me with the bulk of the day to my own devices. It’s the first time in over ten years that I’ve had the house to myself for the hours of 8:30am-3pm.

It’s amazing. I can actually think when they’re gone.

Silence.

Think.

They are gone. My babies! Oh my babies are gone!! Oh my GOD!!!

Pause for slug of wine.

Okay, deep breaths. Much better.

I do wonder what is going on in my body that’s making feel so full of… No. Not myself. I was going to say, life. Whatever it is, I’m feeling good. Maybe I’ll take up tennis. Or start running races. Or schedule a little fix in the face? Or dye my hair a ravishing red.

Wait?! What if it’s like when a person is near death, and they all of a sudden get that last surge of energy before the end??!! Oh no!! Is this my last bit of sexy?? Then it’s gone?! FOREVER?!

Well now I’m depressed. They say that’s a sign too.

Pause for another slug.

Whatever. For the moment, I got my sexy back.

Maybe hot flashes will be better than I think.

How you doin?!

How you doin?!

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I’m in trouble

Posted on October 3, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

They are fighting at the breakfast table.

“I have the most loom bracelets.” My little one brags, even though he doesn’t.

“You do not.” My eight year-old is quick to correct; soggy, Honey Nut Cheerios falling from his mouth.

“Yes I do!” My five year-old insists, holding on tightly to his dignity.  It’s a loom eat loom world.

“You don’t!” My eight year old yells, totally agitated. He is the enforcer of justice in the world, except when he’s wrong, then he’ll just scream till you forget what the original argument even was.

“Stop teasing each other,” I reprimand mildly, wiping up the cereal. “And eat.”

“No! I won’t” My boy with the offended morals exclaims. “He’s wrong. Admit it.Tell him, he doesn’t!”

I sigh, heavily, and tell my five year-old that he indeed does not have the most bracelets.

“It would just be nice if you guys wouldn’t make the biggest deals over the smallest things.”

“Now you’re making a big deal over a small thing.” My eight year-old yells.

“Okay, you need to stop yelling.” I’m getting annoyed.

“NO!”

Eight year-old has transferred his frustration onto me and I’m close to transferring mine right back.

“If you don’t, you can go right up to your room.”  I am calm. I am in control.

“Ha ha!” My five year-old provokes, with the stinky, little brother face to match.

“You’re so annoying!” Eight year-old shouts, again spitting wet Cheerios on to the table.

I need to put an end to this nonsense. “Okay, stop it right now, or you’ll both go to your rooms!”

At that, my 11 year-old, who had miraculously been minding his own business, snickers.

“What’s so funny?” I huff.

“You. You’re not sending anyone to their room.”

“What do you mean?” His twinkly, smug smile is pissing me off.

“I mean, you let everyone get away with everything.”

“I do not!” I am not so calm. I am not so in control.

“Yeah, you don’t really ever do anything.” My eight year-old pipes in merrily. Nothing like fresh meat to turn the tide.

“Yeah Momma! Yeah momma!” My five year old chants, standing on his chair doing the ‘my momma has no balls’ dance.

They’re all laughing.

Apparently, everyone is getting along just fine now.

Whatever.

I’m going to my room.

He's going to be way better at it than I am.

He’s going to be so much better at it.

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Don’t feel like you have to read my essay on guilt. I worked really hard on it, but no big deal.

Posted on October 1, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

When my grandmother disapproved of something I was doing she’d off-handedly tsk and say, “Oh, I thought you were smarter than that.”

Ow. Give me a second while I recover from that backhanded compliment.

Whether genuinely unaware of her manipulation or just believing I was too stupid to see through her psycho-babble, my grandmother had no qualms about letting me know exactly what she wanted.

“I don’t want to tell you what to do, honey, but it if were me…”

Translation – Do what I would do. Now.

And unlike my strong-willed cousin and her two “rotten” children, I could always be counted on to listen, to do the right thing even if it wasn’t necessarily the right thing for me. I hit the trifecta with my gender, my first born status and my Jewish heritage.

Oy, she wasn’t a boy, the least she can do is be a good girl.

And I was.

A natural people pleaser and child of divorce, I didn’t like to disappoint people, because honestly, I didn’t want people disappointed in me. I made the phone calls, brought the presents, volunteered for things I didn’t want. I said yes, when I wanted to say no. Guilt was my middle name. Along with Schmuckevoo.  And Kim. You know, only one of those is real, right? Schmuckevoo. It’s French.

Now after years of experience, and my grandmother only a voice in my head, I know that no one can guilt me. I’m the only one with that power, and it seems I’m a bit of a sadist.

Here’s some of the guilt I had yesterday….

I didn’t call my father, even though I knew I should.

I gave my kids cocoa puffs for breakfast.

I helped my son too much with his homework.

I picked up my kids toys after they neglected to.

I ate ice cream for lunch.

Here’s some of the guilt I had today…

I called my father, and wished I hadn’t.

I didn’t give my kids cocoa puffs for breakfast.

I didn’t help my son with his homework.

I put my affronted kid in his room for not picking up his toys

I ate ice cream for lunch.

It’s like I can’t win. I’m either doing too much or too little. With everything. For everyone. Was I short with my mother? Did I only let my father vent in monologue for a half hour before becoming impatient? Did I put my kids on the bus in the morning when they wanted me to drive? Did I jump to attention when they asked me to something for them, then yell in frustration when they didn’t return the favor? Did I not give them another snack? Did I give them too many snacks?

Was I good enough? Was I nice enough? Do people like me?

Bleh!! You can go crazy with these kinds of unproductive thoughts.

I’m over it.

I’m going to try to feel less guilty and do more things for me.

Unless of course you need anything.

Oy. This world is heavy.

Oy. This world is heavy.

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When do I get to have my tantrum?

Posted on September 26, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

He was 16 months when he stood with me in the kitchen, asking for an “Ookie.”

“No cookies now. After dinner. Okay?”  I said and away he toddled.

A moment later I found him on the floor in the hall, writhing and screaming. Immediately, I was alarmed. What was happening? Should I call a doctor? What was he doing?

I bent down. “Baby? What’s the matter? Are you okay? Baby?”

Still squirming like Linda Blair from the Exorcist, he wailed, “Wan ookie!!”

Huh? Was this a tantrum? It was my first. My older son had never had one. I watched with fascination.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. This was the same child who when I tried sleep training, absolutely trained me. I didn’t think a seven month old could cry that long and continuously. Ultimately, I spent the next two years sitting at the base of his crib every night until he fell asleep. Well trained, but not exactly what I was going for.

When we potty trained, it was the same business. Forget the stickers or M&M’s. No bribery, reason or compromise could make him go. Finally, I threw my hands in the air and gave up. The next day, he decided he was ready and went on his own.

Now eight years-old, he is my most charming, social and independent child. Yet he is still a spit fire, who has spent the last seven years mastering his button pushing technique. He no longer writhes on the floor, now his tantrums are much more manipulative and exhausting.

Yesterday, when we were about to leave, he decided that he didn’t want to go to his brother’s baseball game. While I understood, frankly, he had no choice.

I took a deep breath. “We are going. Please don’t make this difficult.”

Hands over the ears. “Lalalalala! I can’t hear you!”

I hate when he does that.

“Your friends will be there.” I said nicely, through gritted teeth.

“I’M NOT GOING!”

“I’m going to have to take away your iTouch.”

“Good! Take it! I don’t want it anyway!”

“Come on!” I practically begged.

He went to hide behind a chair. “NO! You can’t make me!”

That was it. I could make him and sadly, I showed him how, by dragging him by the arm into the car.

His little body felt even lighter than the fifty pounds it was. He screamed the whole time and embarrassingly, I screamed back.

Once in the car, I took deep breaths. I was so angry, I couldn’t speak. I was mad at him and at myself. He was making me a bad parent, I thought spitefully.

Why not blame the eight year-old?

“Baby,” I said calmly. “None of that was okay. I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

He just shrugged. “Okay, me too.” Now that he was in the car, the drama was over. “When do you think I can get my iTouch back?” he asked sweetly.

He can turn off as quick as he turns it on. I’ll give him that.

He has always been unbreakable, but every so often it would nice if he could just give me a break.

I know it's hard to believe.

I know it’s hard to believe.

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I lost my edge, but kept my fingers.

Posted on September 24, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

When I got the email from a friend telling me she had given my name to this college girl who got credit for coming to my house to give a presentation, I thought I was doing someone a favor for school. So, even though it was annoying and it took up a bunch of time I didn’t have, I met with her.

As soon as she started her presentation, I realized I had been suckered. Or, I don’t read my emails carefully enough. Yes, she was a college student, but this was a job, selling high end cutlery door to door through recommendation. Think Avon lady with a knife.

I didn’t want to buy anything, but I could tell I was in trouble. First off, I’m a people pleaser. Second, I’m an idiot and third, I actually needed knives.

She started her schpeel and demo, cutting through a thick rope easily. Before she pulled out the aluminum can, I cut her off. “Listen, I know they’re good knives. Just tell me how much.”

Very smoothly, she rattled off numbers higher than my couch and dining room table combined. I maintained poker face. Oh yeah, I’d consider buying a set knives for a couple of grand. No problem. Was it the leftover cereal bowls and frozen pancakes on the table that gave you the impression I was a top chef?

Instead of showing her the door, I bought four knives for about $250. I know. What was wrong with me? Still, I justified that I needed knives, these were good ones and I’d never buy another knife as long as I lived.

Quickly, I realized how short that would be if I wasn’t careful.

The first time, I pulled a knife from its sheath to inspect it, I thought it looked pretty… dangerous. I turned it over in my hand, and when I looked down again my finger was oozing blood. What? I didn’t even feel anything. Crap.knives

The second time, I pulled out a knife, I just wanted to make a small tear in a plastic bag I was having trouble opening. This time, I felt it touch my finger, and knew without looking that the bag wasn’t the only thing with a tear. Yup. Gaping, gushing wound.

Bandaged on two fingers, I now assessed the knives skeptically. When my oldest asked for a sliced apple, I stared them down and walked on by. When my middle wanted his sandwich cut, again, I eyed my expensive cutlery but passed it up.

I was afraid of them.

My aunt was third to try a knife. Poor woman made the mistake of wanting a bagel. I said, “I have a serrated knife but it’s verrrrry sharp.”

“Don’t worry.” She said, a little too cavalierly.

“Seriously,” I warned. “Be careful.”

One minute later her finger was gushing. “The knife just touched me.” She said in disbelief.

The next day, I ran into a friend at the supermarket. “What happened to you?” She asked looking at my bandaged fingers.

“New knives.” I said sadly.

“Cutco?” She asked, naming the brand.

“OMG Yes! How did you know?”

She held up a hand with a finger bandaged. “Sliced the top right off. It’s just sort of growing back.”

Those knives were going back immediately.

I may have dull knives, but I am a sharp girl… who likes fingers.

Buh bye, instruments of death.

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My children are perfect, and always will be.

Posted on September 17, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

My children are perfect.

Right now, one is stomping up the stairs in a fit of temper. I asked him to go to his room to cool off, but mid-way, he has decided not to give me that satisfaction.

“You want me to go to my room?” He huffs. “Then I think I’ll stay right here!”

So now he’s back, fuming. His big, green eyes bright with insult.

“So, stay right here.” I say agreeably, refusing to be drawn into his tantrum.

“Oh, you want me to stay here? Then I’m going to my room!” He yells and stomps back up the stairs.

I keep my smile on the inside, but little bits of it come out in the upturn of my mouth.

The minute he is gone from the room, my little one, five now, not really so little, jumps in front of me, pulling on my arm, dancing around me annoyingly. “Mama! I want you to play legos with me. Now! Can we play now?”

He’s biting the neckline of his shirt, exactly like I’ve asked him not to do a thousand times. I don’t want to play legos, but his little face is insistent. He is desperate to play, clenching the shirt tightly between his teeth, squinting his eyes real hard, hoping his wish will be answered, that I will not say, “wait” for the third time, that I will just play, which I do, but not without a heavy sigh. Did I mention I really don’t want to play?

My oldest son bounds in like a puppy. “Mommy? Can you get me a snack?” I should tell him to get it himself.

He’s eleven, but I’m all too happy to be released from lego prison. Besides, he may be my oldest but he’s my least responsible; more likely than my five year-old to spill his cup of water or rip open a bag of pretzels to drop right to the floor like pick-up sticks. Right now, I’m trying not to notice that his tee shirt is both inside out and backwards.

I come back to find him happily engaged with my youngest. They are soaring their creations around each other, complete with battle sound effects. I place the pretzels and drink down, and hear my middle son storming down the stairs. He pauses when we make eye contact, just long enough to growl at me.

These three boys, so different, physically, emotionally, developmentally; each with their strengths and weakness, yet, there are moments I am blown away by their absolute perfection; their eyes full of hope, their growing psyches, their innocence and their honesty, their flawless youth.

They are not tainted by the world, have not suffered crushing rejections and disappointment. They have not been stripped of their pride, had to learn real life lessons, had their dreams shattered around them. Their lives are open, their paths, a journey and an adventure. They are beautiful in their possibility and their promise.

They are as children should be. Perfect. Untainted. And I try not to get emotional, when I realize the inevitable; that they will grow, and become people. People with baggage. It breaks my heart a little, but then I remember, they will always be perfect, because they will always be my babies.

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Poo. Poo. Poo.

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.
Poo. Poo. Poo.

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I go for a run. Or so I thought.

Posted on September 12, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

We had so many things going on that day, but I figured I’d squeeze in a couple of miles just to kick the day off right. When my husband gave the official eye roll of agreement, I grabbed my Ziploc bag with a cinnamon mint and my cell and was off and running.

phone in bag

Trot, trot, trot. I was cruising along, minding my own mind, trying to decide whether I should wear my navy and cream maxi dress or capris with this cutesy new top my mom just bought me – yes, deep thoughts, people – when my Runkeeper app announced in that warm, automated bank teller voice, “Five minutes, .5 miles with an average pace of 10 minutes 2 seconds per mile.”*

I wasn’t really paying attention because a 10 minute mile for today’s run was perfect. Until I turned the corner and almost collided with a woman I sort of know from either baseball or elementary school or possibly from the neighborhood. She could be a friend of a friend. I don’t know, but I knew her and she knew me and we said hello as she passed me by.

I followed her butt from a car length or so behind and started racing her in my head. I sped up a little, then worried that we’d have this awkward moment where we were running side by side. I’ll just cross the street if that happens, I told myself. I wouldn’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable.

Congratulating myself on this brilliant idea, I realized that in the minutes that had passed I was no closer to catching her than I was before. Hmm. Might have to speed up a bit more. Now I’m panting, still waiting for that moment where – oh, ha ha, here we are together – but I had made zero progress.

WTF?! I did a self-confidence check. I’m in decent shape. I’m pretty competitive. I’m not a speed demon, but I’m no slack. She didn’t even look like she was running hard, while I imagine a photo of me would reveal someone who looked like they needed medical attention.

At that moment, Runkeeper announced, “15 minutes, 1.75 miles, with an average pace of 9 minutes 17 seconds per mile.*” Well, that’s certainly faster. Yet, I’m still at least a car length – if not two – behind her.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, she trips.

I watched her fall to the ground and do a kind of half roll. My mouth dropped open, and I am definitely not thinking that this is the moment I catch up to her. I am going to make sure she is okay. I get a little closer and yell, “Are you okay?” but before I reach her, she is back up and on the move again, brushing herself off as she goes.

She doesn’t even turn around, but gives me a little half wave in acknowledgment. Within two minutes, we are back at our regular spots, her striding ahead, me lagging behind.

I’m pissed – no biggie, just a pelvic wall thing from the babies – and I’m frustrated. All my dormant competitive instincts now come alive. Oh yeah, let’s take it up a notch.

I do gain a little ground, but quickly realize as I huff and puff that I am not going to blow this house down. Besides, I wonder, what would I do if I actually caught her? I could probably only match her pace for about a minute, before giving some ridiculous little wave of triumph and slowly falling back to my rightful place behind her.

No. I was humiliated enough. I slowed and followed her swaying short shorts until I hit my block and turned.  She, of course, continued on, forever in front of me, just out of reach.

When I got home, Runkeeper clocked my fastest mile at 8:27. Not bad. I probably should run with her more often.

photo (1)

*Numbers are approximately accurate, just in case you’re checking my math. 😉

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It’s the first day of school. Wish me luck!

Posted on September 9, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

It’s Monday morning.

The first day of school. My two oldest kids have beaten me downstairs and went straight to the Wii for their last hurrah at Power-Pros. I’m making the lunches, and while I work on auto-pilot from the years of packing lunches and snacks, the task still seems somewhat unfamiliar after a long summer.

Did I give enough snack? Did I give too much?

I err on the side of overboard and pack away. Sitting here at 6:40am, I’m tired. Throughout the summer I’ve generally gotten up at 7:30am or so, sometimes earlier to write, but now I feel weary and anxious, with a strange emptiness in my stomach like we’re catching a 5:30am flight. I worry. Do we have everything? Am I prepared? Are they prepared?

First days are always stressful I guess, so I’m happy to hear the happy shouts coming from the basement of the boys engaged in something other than worry.

It’s the first day of middle school for my oldest; a huge school with 1,200 kids, different ‘houses’ and switching classes. The middle school could eat the elementary school. In fact, it has. Its combines five elementary schools in its belly.

It’s the first day of Kindergarten for my youngest, a transition which terrifies me; the new school, the bus, the long day away, all things not only unfamiliar to my child, but unacceptable. Please, please, let him adjust easily.

And it’s the first day of third grade for my middle one, with a teacher I’m just not so sure about.

Worry. Worry. Worry.

And here’s my oldest, up from the basement, head on my lap, saying, “I don’t wanna go to middle school.”

“But it’s going to be so good, honey.” I coo. “You get to do so many new things, meet so many new people. It’s an adventure. You’re going to love it.”

My youngest just walked down from sleep, naked, but for his underwear, ran right into my lap like a warm muffin and broke down crying.

My middle one is now playing music on his iTouch, oblivious to the nerves around him.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. You can do this. You can do this.

First days are tough, but it’s an adventure. We’re going to do it. It’s going to be okay.

I’m telling them over and over. I’m telling myself.

Yet, I feel like I’m going to throw up. Probably, just like they do.

Except for my middle one, he just asked me to make him macaroni and cheese.

Too cool for school

Too cool for school

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