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Please Don't Take My Flag, Lady.
My flag arm hurts. It's the referee's fault, because she told me not just to raise the flag when the ball went out of bounds at my son's soccer game yesterday,
but to whip the flag so she could hear it. And whip it I did. I whipped it good. Over and over and over in a game where the ball seemed to go out every two minutes,
mostly on the side of the field where I was the linesman, er, linesmom.
The ref had instructed her linesparents not to say a word. ("You're officials. Act like them.") But I'd worked up such a sweat running up and down the sideline, whipping my flag,
that even
just 10 minutes into the game, I couldn't help but blurt, "Man, I'm busy!"
The parents on the sidelines -- sitting in folding chairs, eating ice pops -- laughed. One offered up her daughter to replace me, but I figured my linesman job would
save me a trip to the gym. At least, that's what I told the parents. Really though, serving as the linesmom is the closest thing I can get to actually being in
the game. The team rushes up the field. So do I. The other team gets a break-away, and I fall back on defense with them.
I really need to find a team of fellow middle-aged women who'll let me play with them. At least then my arm wouldn't hurt so much.
When the ball went out yet again, I turned to my husband, who was standing between two fathers and probably talking about mulch or running or barbecuing,
and said, "If this keeps up, I'm going to need cleats and a sports bra for this job," and then dashed off down the sideline. I heard my husband say, "We don't mind."
"I heard that," I said, and then quickly shut my mouth. I didn't want to get in trouble with the referee, or she might have taken my flag away.
It was a very exciting game, with the second place team (us) taking on the first place team (them), and both teams missing shot after shot so very closely
that I thought some of the parents might need medical attention from all their cheering and subsequent agony (we missed) or elation (they missed). When we tied
the score, I tried not to display too much excitement. I'd seen the ref chastise the other linesman for commenting on a call. I caught her eye
and gave her a look that said, "Please don't take my flag, lady." After all, you're not allowed to run up and down the sidelines without a flag. And someone was sitting in my chair.
With second left in the game, our team was in front of their goal desperately trying to get a shot off. I was on the sideline, probably subconsciously motioning the kicks,
while I kept my mouth shut or else I'd have screamed "SHOOT IT NOOOOOOOOW!" Suddenly, we heard it: The ref blew the whistle, and the game ended in a tie.
On the way home, my son and I stopped for a sandwich. After all that running, we were famished. Also, sore. Posted by Jen Singer, June 8, 2009 at 9:42 a.m. "I Don't Know. You Started it." Lessons from the Little Rascals.
There were so many things wrong with the scene, I didn't know where to start. First of all, Jackie, who had to be 10-years-old at the most,
was walking along the road to school with Weezer, maybe 4, in tow, when he accepted a ride from a stranger (Miss Crabtree). I opened my mouth to
warn my fourth grader of the dangers of everything he'd just witnessed on our Little Rascals videos, but thought the better of it.
Do I really need to remind him that this was a different time, back when people didn't know enough to wear seatbelts, and kids seemed to wander
the streets unescorted? I think that was pretty clear that times have changed.
In a later scene, Miss Crabtree picked up the rest of the gang, except Chubby didn't want to get in the car. Never mind that the overweight kid was nicknamed "Chubby,"
he was rubbing his butt and complaining that his father had "tanned" him the night before. So instead of sitting down, he opted to ride while standing on the running board of Miss Crabtree's
car.
I hoped it explained a lot to my son about his grandparents' generation.
So now Miss Crabtree was driving the gang, none of whom were wearing seatbelts, with Chubby standing on the running board and Weezer sitting inside
the spare tire attached to the back of the car, waving, of course.
I really didn't have to explain a thing to my son. Years ago, he and his brother were watching the same videos when he asked me, "Where are the parents?" And when I couldn't answer,
my older son told his little brother, "Don't worry. The cameraman is watching them."
He'd better, too, because in the half-dozen episodes of The Little Rascals that my fourth grader watched yesterday while he was at home, sick,
there was plenty to worry about. Like Stymie dashing out into the street to pick up a five dollar bill. And Spanky, not more than three, wandering around the neighborhood
with no one but Petey, the dog, to watch over him. And someone pouring plaster of paris into the milk. (You remember: "Don't drink the milk." "Why?" "It's spoiled.")
And of course, Chubby riding to school on Miss Crabtree's running board.
I saved the explanations for the things that were truly alarming, like the racist undertones in certain scenes of the uncut videos. (We didn't see those when we watched them on TV
in the seventies.) And Miss Crabtree's fiance "letting her" keep working
after the wedding.
Everything else, like Stymie and Weezer begging for food door-to-door and the whole gang driving a home-made wooden car along the streets and sidewalks, knocking people over along the way,
I left for him to figure out. After all, the cameraman was watching them.
It wasn't until later that I figured out exactly what my son had taken away from the videos. Someone called, so I asked who it was. He said, "It's Mr. Brown from the First National Bank. That what
you just tole me!"
Posted by Jen Singer, June 5, 2009 at 4:02 p.m. Dear Doctor: Swine flu or Haagen Dazs?
I kept telling myself that it wouldn't be -- couldn't be -- the Swine Flu. My fourth grader didn't have the symptoms of the influenza
strain that has hit our area. Rather, he had a weird rash on his face and neck and a slight temperature. But I knew we'd be in the pediatrician's office in the morning
just the same.
"Did you hear there was a case of Swine Flu in the school?" a concerned neighbor informed me this morning before I called for the doctor's appointment.
I checked the school's web site, and sure enough, there was a warning of one case of "mild" Swine Flu in the school.
Here we go.
I checked his symptoms against the list of Swine Flu symptoms, and again, it didn't match up. It did, however, match up to Fifth Disease, Scarlet Fever
and probably some sort of rare disease found only in decendants of Korean War fighter pilots who've traveled to Botswana. But I knew when to turn off the computer
and just go to the doctor.
There, I described my son's symptoms and set up the scenario:
"Okay, there's a case of Swine Flu in his school," I informed the doctor.
"Alright," he said and started to head toward my son.
"Also, he sat next to a kid who had strep throat last week," I added.
"Hmmmm," he said.
"Our next door neighbor's kid had the same rash and a very high fever -- 104.5 -- but tested negative for both Swine Flu and strep."
"Yeah," he said.
"He played soccer at a field surrounded by poison ivy on Sunday," I remembered.
Now he was just staring at me.
"He has allergies to the lake, but he never breaks out on his face, just on his legs. See?" I pointed out.
Silence.
"He had a deer tick on him two weeks ago, but only for 40 minutes," I said.
"Okay, that would take at least 24 hours," he brightened.
"We haven't been to Botswana," I cheered. He looked confused.
"I think that covers it. Good luck," I said.
After the exam, the doctor speculated, "If the tests come back negative, it's probably poison ivy and an allergy to sunscreen."
Both the Swine Flu and strep tests were negative, so we went with the poison ivy/allergy consolation prizes.
"That really hurt my throat," my son said after the strep swab test.
"I'll get you some ice cream," I promised, picturing some cheap popsicles or what's left of the vanilla ice cream in our freezer.
"When you had cancer, we had Haagen Dazs," he remembered.
Throat swab vs. cancer? The kid is good at milking it. On the way home, we picked up some Haagen Dazs chocolate-covered ice cream pops,
just like the ones we kept in the house when I had cancer.
"Am I going to school tomorrow?" he asked.
"Frankly, I'd rather go to Botswana," I said.
He looked confused. Posted by Jen Singer, June 4, 2009 at 3:04 p.m. GOOD GRIEF!
"So many concerned parents, and yet so little worry on my part."
The latest on Jen's Good Grief! A Tale of Two Tweens Blog
No Worries about the Fifth Grade Camping Trip.
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Predicting the Future on Field Day
I was having myself a field day. And so were the third and fourth graders at my son's school.
I'd volunteered to help run an event at yesterday's Field Day, held annually on the soccer field behind the school.
And though I was having fun running the Sponge Relay, it was watching how the kids behaved that truly entertained me.
Every six minutes, a new class of third or fourth graders rushed over to my corner of the field, where there were two orange buckets filled with water and a giant
yellow sponge. Twenty feet away were too smaller buckets with (crooked) red tape marking the "fill" line.
"Green team over here!" I shouted every six minutes. "White team over there!"
"Face me!" I instructed them after they'd lined up.
"Okaaaaaay! First person takes the spongs and passes it over their heads to the next person in line!" I shouted, holding an imaginary sponge over my
Colbert Report cap. "Then that person passes it through their legs like this," I demonstrated. "Over, under, over, under, until the last person, who
squeezes as much water into the little bucket before running back to the front of the line and starting it all over again! Understand?"
They always did. Grown-ups would have provided questions and/or snide commentary. Kids just do what you tell them to. Well, sorta.
What happened next with each and every class that rotated through my water game was informational as well as entertaining to me. I could figure out
what a kid will do when they grow up by how they played the game. For example:
The girl who figured out that retaining water in the sponge mattered more than speed, and persuaded her team to follow her instructions: Team manager in the American division of a mid-sized Swedish corporation.
The child who argued on behalf of her team over my announcement of which team won: Labor lawyer.
The boy who kept missing the sponge, because he was busy staring at the kids at the "Relaxation" station: Information Center clerk at a modestly trafficked library.
The boys who kept tumbling down the hill after each other before returning to line just in time: Dog trainers.
The kids in sports jerseys who couldn't wait to squeeze out all the water, prefering instead to beat the other team in running back to the front of the line: General Motors management.
The girl who couldn't grasp that she was supposed to face the opposite direction: Night nurse or train conductor.
The boy who couldn't summon up even an ounce of enthusiasm for the game: Division of Motor Vehicles clerk.
The kid who refused to pass the sponge over his head or between his legs, instead turning and handing it to the kid behind him with great disdain: Disgruntled temp at a Chuck E Cheese's.
The children (three of them) who dunked their heads in the bucket at the end of the game, despite protests from their teachers: Members of the punk rock band -- The Anarchists.
Posted by Jen Singer, June 2, 2009 at 2:04 p.m. GOOD GRIEF!
"The scans make her mother nervous. I know the feeling."
The latest on Jen's Good Grief! A Tale of Two Tweens Blog
Let's Celebrate with a Cake.
GoodHousekeeping.com.
10 Signs You've Been Living with Children Too Long
When you flip on the TV when you're home alone, it takes you a good 10 minutes to realize that you don't have to watch Dora, the Explorer.
All of your rubber bands have wound into a ball that is now wedged between your couch cushions.
Whenever you hear someone yell, "Stop!" you reflexively shout, "One more time and I'm sending you all to your rooms!" And then the police officer directing traffic stares at you.
You're starting to think that all the doorknobs in the house came with pink glitter on them.
You're down to your last pair of underpants -- again -- because you need to get another load of soccer/baseball/lacrosse/karate uniforms washed right away.
All of your beach towels have cartoon characters on them, and you like to stick your husband with the Disney Princesses one.
You think your car's operating manual should warn people to clear soccer balls, wiffle ball bats, driveway chalk, beach buckets, kid-sized folding chairs and piles of rocks
from behind the wheels before backing out of the garage.
All of the books on your nightstand have pictures in them and not much in the way of plot or believable dialogue.
Your calendar is filled with birthday parties for various people named "Isabella," "Jacob" and "Max," all of whom know you as "your child's name here's mom."
The handy drawer organizer you bought for your scissors and tape, etc. is filled with three broken crayons, a blue paper clip that has been twisted until it's unusable,
two bubble gum wrappers, cookie crumbs and a dried out piece of Play-Doh shaped like a coiled snake.
Posted by Jen Singer, May 31, 2009 at 10:16 a.m. I Am My Mother: Blurtations from the Boys' Shoe Aisle
I was in the Boys' Shoes aisle at Target when I officially turned into my mother.
As I sifted through the sandals for a size 6 1/2, I couldn't help but overhear one of the clerks trying to page a co-worker.
"Jason in Electronics, please come to Maternity," she said.
While I pondered what the heck Jason in Electronics could possibly be needed for in Maternity, I heard the clerk sigh.
"Jason in Electronics, please come to Maternity," she repeated, but Jason didn't respond.
"Jason, are you on Channel 1?" she asked, but heard nothing back. Meanwhile, I found a size 6 and a size 7, but no 6 1/2. While I tried to decide whether to
go bigger, smaller or just head over to Wal-Mart instead, we finally found Jason.
"Jason!" the clerk shouted down the aisle. "I was paging you. Did you hear me?"
And at that very moment, I turned into my mother -- my mother, who has taken to blurting out exactly what is on her mind because she's 71, dammit. And so she can.
"No, but the rest of us did," I answered, and then I gasped and put my hand over my mouth.
Where did that come from? Sure, I've always thought such things. I've even blogged about such things.
But I've never been the crazy woman in her workout clothes in the Boys' Shoes Aisle at Target telling Jason from Electronics what she thought
of him and all the pages for him. I'm too young to turn into my mother. Aren't I?
Then again, my mother is too young to turn into her mother, who decided at age 80 that she was old and could therefore say whatever the heck she wanted to whomever
she wanted. Recently, my mom moved from blurting out her thoughts from Shoe Aisles in stores around northern New Jersey to telling folks face-to-face exactly what she thought of them and their
hairdo/new coat/job/children/landscaping/dinner selection.
So I guess it's only natural that I must now take over the next rung down on the family's Crazy Ladder, even though I've got a good 30 years until people like Jason in Electronics
would dismiss my blurtations as Old Woman Talk.
Neither Jason nor the Clerk Detective seemed to notice what I'd said. They were too busy doing whatever it is that Electronics specialists do around Maternity clothes.
All I know is that I left the store without any sandals. Posted by Jen Singer, May 27, 2009 at 11:53 a.m. 8 Signs it's the (Un)Official Start of Summer
Your mini-van's runners squeak under the weight of sand, lollipop sticks, broken crayons and hopeful optimism that this summer,
you won't run out of swim diapers by noon.
Somebody's sandals have once again been abandoned on a beach, by a pool or under the sprinkler, which was left on for hours -- in the rain.
You've already missed a spot (or two) with your sunscreen, making you look like a giant raspberry swirl ice cream cone.
You just know that you're going to carry around the May issue of Oprah magazine straight through til August without ever getting to
the article about summer clothes which will no longer be in the stores by then anyhow. What a bargain!
You're waiting in line for a three $6 cotton candies at the American Idol concert when Springsteen is playing just down the road. But you're not bitter.
No, really. Your babysitters are all standing in line behind you anyway.
You've started a new workout routine -- lugging beach toys and babies to the lake/ocean/pool/yard while simultaneously texting Hubby to go get more swim diapers
and your Oprah magazine.
You realize now that the UPS truck sounds just like a school bus that makes you jump up and frantically shove papers and sandwiches into the backpacks whenever you hear it.
By the end of the day, each of your children will have three of those little plastic flowers the Vets hand out in front of Wal-mart, Target and the supermarket, because you
didn't think of buying sandals, sunscreen, crayons, lollipops, beach toys, swim diapers and the May issue of Oprah magazine until today.
Posted by Jen Singer, May 21, 2009 at 1:41 p.m. GOOD GRIEF!
"I couldn't explain KISS's 10-inch heels and black and white makeup to my parents, and now I can't explain it to my kids, either."
The latest on Jen's Good Grief! A Tale of Two Tweens Blog
When Did We Get Old?
GoodHousekeeping.com.
S'more Radio, Some More Teasing
I can picture it now: Someone's going to tease me. I'll be walking across the beach at our community lake this weekend when someone will shout,
"Hey Jen! I heard you on the radio this morning." I'll nod, and ask, "The staycation segment?" And then my neighbor will say, "Yeah? Where are our free S'mores?"
This week, I did some TV and radio interviews as a spokesmom for S'mores. My job was to share information on how to have a staycation at home this summer, a summer
when so many of us (60%, according to a survey by Hershey's) are considering skipping vacations and staying home.
I did these interviews surrounded by S'mores for four hours straight without being able to eat any of them. Finally, this weekend, I'll be able to have one (or perhaps two)
at the lake, where somebody's going to tease me. To my neighbors, I'm just Jen, the class mom and soccer coach who happens to also be an author, and isn't that cool, kids?
One family even dropped by my booksigning at the local Borders last month just to see me in my other life -- not as the mom who leads a mini-van full of kids through "Do Your Ears Hang Low,"
but as that sorta famous writer/blogger/author who lives down the street.
So when my neighbors suddenly hear me on the radio or see me on TV, they tend to find it exciting, followed by amusing. Perhaps they'd just seen me shout, "CLEAR IT OUT OF THE DEFENSE!" at
a soccer game, and yet here are reputable media outlets turning to me for comment. Who'd have ever thought that would happen?
I have to admit, I love the two sides of my life: the side that's organizing the fifth grade's end-of-year party, and the side that got to talk on Radio Disney this week.
And I love that my neighbors love it, too, even if they tease me about it. Just the same, I'd better stock up on S'mores for the weekend.
Posted by Jen Singer, May 21, 2009 at 1:41 p.m. What Concert? Why Am I the Only One Who Remembers All That Stuff?
"What time are you coming home for the concert?" I asked my husband this morning in the bathroom.
"What concert?" he asked.
What concert.
Sigh.
"Springsteen," I reminded him.
"Oh, I didn't know that was this week," he answered.
How can you have tickets for Bruce Springsteen and not know when the concert is? How can you live in New Jersey, a veritable shrine
to The Boss, and not realize that he's coming here to perform this week? All you have to do is turn on a radio to find out. Or, perhaps to look at the
tickets that have been sitting in our family desk for a month or so. Or maybe, just maybe, to put it on your calendar.
I asked my husband how come he can't remember when the concert is, or what the last four digits of my social security number are (thereby rendering him incapable
of logging onto my Verizon Wireless account last night. And he couldn't call me while I was out, as he had my phone.) I rattled off his social and the numbers for our kids.
He shrugged.
"Why do I have to keep all this information in my head? Why can't you?" I implored. "It's exhausting!"
"'Cause you're good at it, and I'm not," he replied, and shut the bathroom door ever so slowly behind him and left for work.
I stood in the bathroom, remembering how I was the one who had secured the tickets and the sitter, and how I had made plans to meet my brother and his fiancee before the concert
so we could all go in one car. I was the one who questioned the price of the tickets with Ticketmaster. I was the one who coordinated with the neighbors to get our son to his baseball game
and back. I was the one who put all that mental energy into one night, not to mention the memorization of four social security numbers, among many, many other things he'd apparently never even pondered.
I thought about my husband driving to work, oblivious to why there's so much Springsteen on the radio this week and finally dedicating a little space in his brain for the concert.
And then I realized: I am a sucker. I am a sucker because I have taken over the coordination of most of our social calendar, as well as the reservation of mental space for
various bits of crucial information. I am a sucker for keeping all of this information because I am "good at it."
But at least I am a sucker with Springsteen tickets. Posted by Jen Singer, May 20, 2009 at 2:56 p.m. GOOD GRIEF!
"I volunteer to serve as a linesman at my son's U-10 soccer games because it makes me keep my mouth shut."
The latest on Jen's Good Grief! A Tale of Two Tweens Blog
Falling in Love (with Soccer) Again
GoodHousekeeping.com.
The Great Magazine Hoarding Intervention of 2009
The dust was collecting on the 2005 Food & Wine magazines. The National Geographics from 2006 were looking a little lonely,
and the Woodworking magazines dating back to 2001 clearly hadn't been touched in years. And yet there they sat, in huge piles on the floor next to my husband's side
of the bed. And I just couldn't take it anymore.
I'm not sure why my husband, an otherwise normal, upright citizen, hoards his magazines. Dozens and dozens of them have been piling up in our bedroom for years, and so,
for years, I've been ignoring them. Or trying to.
Every once in a while, I'd hint, "So uh, you gonna ever refer to the Thanksgiving issue of Bon Appétit from 2004?" But he'd just mumble something unintelligible, and I'd
let it go. After all, I don't want to discourage his love of cooking. Besides, I'm not a foodie, so I have no idea what having a few thousand pages of recipes lying around
does for a chef's creativity, even if said chef hasn't looked at them since the day they appeared in our mailbox sometime during President Bush's first administration.
But when I was making the bed the other day and a Runner's World magazine, still dusty from our house renovations two years ago landed on my foot,
I had it. Also I wondered what could possibly be said about running to fill an entire magazine every month.
So, I started making piles of magazines on the bed: a foot-high pile of Food & Wine, a collection of various woodworking magazines, some kitchen
renovation catalogs from before we actually renovated our kitchen, and a 2003 Computer Buyer's Guide, which is probably about as relevant now as a
1978 rotary phone catalog.
I filled the recycling bin with the catalogs, including a 2001 Astronomical Guide, figuring that even though the sky doesn't change much, astronomers had since kicked
Pluto out of their club, and so the guide could go.
Then I put all magazines published before 2009 into boxes and bags and put them in another room. And then I waited. And waited.
My husband said nothing.
Finally, I cornered him in the bathroom where he was brushing his teeth and asked, "So uh, you gonna ever refer to all those magazines I cleaned out and piled up in the other room?"
He said, "I dunno. I have to look at them."
"So, when you're looking for a recipe, you look through old magazines, or do you look it up on the Internet?" I asked.
"Internet," he garbled through his toothpaste.
"So perhaps you can get rid of all those foodie magazines and the 2003 Computer Buyer's Guide?" I asked.
But he didn't answer me. He just shrugged, spit out his toothpaste and left.
And now, so will all those (&@! magazines.
Posted by Jen Singer, May 14, 2009 at 12:57 p.m.
"I know that feeling well, having endured many Sunday church services trying to keep Wrestlemania from breaking out in my lap."
The latest on Jen's Good Grief! A Tale of Two Tweens Blog
Every Moment of Momma Mania.
GoodHousekeeping.com.
10 Signs Mother's Day is Over
Everyone stopped asking you if they can't "get you something" and started asking you if you could get them something.
The only crayon-covered item made just for you today is located on the wall behind the recliner.
The last cookie is up for grabs again and you've lost out. (Again.)
The flowers you got yesterday are now "Barbie's garden" or a "dinosaur's dinner."
Good-bye homemade cards pulled out of SpongeBob backpacks. Hello pile of permission slips, corrected math homework and flyers for yet another Scout's plea for
baby blankets/old sporting goods/pencils/used books/new socks/old shoes, etc.
You still have to empty the dishwasher from yesterday's Mother's Day party.
You have to go back to carrying the giant bag of soccer balls to practice yourself.
You are once again greeted with, "When's dinner?"
You're starting to realize that the gift certificate you got for a massage is going to sit in your drawer until your birthday.
The "Celebrate Dads and Grads" signs have replaced all-things-mom in various storefronts faster than you can say "episiotomy."
Posted by Jen Singer, May 11, 2009 at 3:23 p.m. Like Mother, Like Daughter
My mother was putting on her sneakers in the middle of our Mother's Day party at our house yesterday afternoon.
She wanted to know if she could borrow a baseball mitt.
I followed her into the garage, where I handed her my husband's mitt, and then watched her take off her pretty white linen
shirt and head out into the front yard to play catch with my 10-year-old son.
"Okay, I'm a little rusty," she warned him. "I haven't done this in a year."
"Um, Mom?" I said. "Most 71-year-olds would say "I'm a little rusty. I haven't done this since 1943."
She laughed and then shrugged before whipping the ball to her grandson.
What a sweet little old lady.
Later, after dinner, my 10-year-old invited all the soccer players to the backyard to play. My brother took his place in the goal,
and my kids started to shoot the soccer ball at him. I kicked off my shoes -- the black ones with the flowers on them --
and proceeded to belt soccer balls, barefoot, at my brother, who called me "the one with the blistering shot." To my pleasant surprise, my above-knee flouncey black skirt actually made it easier.
What a sweet little old lady.
Like mother, like daughter -- only, I can't throw like she can and her kicking doesn't quite have my punch. And for Mother's Day,
it looks like we both got what we wanted. Next year, though, I'm bringing my sneakers.
Happy Mother's Day!
Posted by Jen Singer, May 10, 2009 at 12:34 p.m. Space Offerings from my Backyard
First, they dragged two 10-foot long gray PVC pipes out onto the backyard. Then they pulled our mini-soccer goal
next to them. Then they put some old bedsheets we're keeping for rags in the middle.
From my home office, the kids' creation looked like some sort of offering to UFO's who might pop by at any moment.
I kept on doing a phone interview about modern motherhood with a newspaper reporter, while I watched my boys and their friend in my backyard.
At various times, they moved the pipes. My son blew into one from atop a pile of dirt like the guy from the Ricola commercial. Then they put the pipes back.
The sheets disappeared; I still don't know where they are.
I kept on interviewing.
I turned away from the window to look something up, and when I turned back, there was an umbrella shaped like a Hershey's Kiss -- now broken -- in my backyard.
I finished the interview, and opened the window.
"Hey! Why are you breaking that umbrella?" I shouted.
"It was already broken," my child replied.
Nobody had used the umbrella in a long time, so I took his word for it.
I answered the phone. It was a videographer capturing my Moms Nite Out gig tonight at Comic Strip Live.
I glanced out the window and saw my green umbrella -- the one we'd used just that morning -- in pieces.
"Hold on," I told the caller, and then I shouted out the window again.
"Hey! That's my good umbrella! Why are you pulling it apart?"
"Chris broke it before so we're using it as a parachute and (mumble, mumble, mumble...)." I'd stopped listening after "broke," and so I shut the window.
Today, the umbrellas, the PVC pipe and the sheets are gone. I don't want to know where to. The soccer goal, however, is still there. Maybe the UFO's didn't need it.
Posted by Jen Singer, May 7, 2009 at 11:19 a.m. You've got your sunglasses in my newspapers.
The other day, I found my sunglasses wedged in the middle of my newspaper recycling, between Sunday's New York Times and a permission slip that was due at school last week.
And yet, it doesn't surprise me at all. What surprises me is that I found them before I nearly wrapped them up in my newspapers and put them out on the curb for pick-up.
Come to think of it, that's probably where the manual for my 2002 Honda Odyssey went.
I don't know how my sunglasses wound up in the recycling pile, but I try not to think of such things. If I could solve the Mystery of the Moving Clutter, I probably wouldn't
have clutter in my house. Instead,I had sunglasses in my newspapers.
Pleased at my discovery, I put them in the built-in sunglasses case in my car. Then today, when the sun peaked out from the clouds for the first time in, oh, forever,
I got all smug and smirky as I opened the case to snag my sunglasses. That's when the left arm of my sunglasses came off in my hands. Again.
I've replaced the teeny little screw that holds my $20 sunglasses together a half dozen times so far, and now, it's missing again, perhaps in the Travel section of the Times.
And so, I sigh. I don't have a teeny little screw to put it back together, and I just can't keep showing up at my optician with puppy-dog eyes, holding out my broken sunglasses,
which, by the way, I didn't buy there. But then, I don't want to buy another pair of sunglasses, especially since I've got about a 60-40 chance they'll wind up in the New York Times Book Review
before heading off to the recycling center.
Obviously, there's only one solution for my dilemma, and it's duct tape. Duct tape and solving the Mystery of the Moving Clutter once and for all.
Posted by Jen Singer, May 6, 2009 at 12:09 p.m. GOOD GRIEF!
The latest on Jen's Good Grief! A Tale of Two Tweens Blog
This is What I Want to Do.
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Now that we're friends (again): High school revisited
Somehow, I ended up at lunch on Saturday with my 12-year-old son and two old friends I hadn't seen since high school, back when President Reagan was adding "omics" to
his last name and hair was never bigger, especially in our home state of New Jersey, land of Bon Jovi. I suppose I have the Internet to thank for it.
Anne was a friend of mine, but not necessarily in my clique at our very cliquey high school. We went to a few parties and the mall together and generally got along, but after we graduated,
we lost touch. And then Anne saw me on TV one morning a few years ago, and though my last name has changed, she still recognized me. Then she found me on the Internet, and became a fan of my web site
and my books. She even provided a very funny quote for my latest book, at the start of the chapter on potty training.
Though she lives two towns over, we didn't see each other in person until Saturday, when she dropped by my booksigning at our local Borders.
She brought along Tracy, a fellow former classmate who, apparently, has been telling stories about me. Literally. She's a storyteller at festivals and
gigs in the area.
She tells the story of the time she rushed her homework on the school bus and then rushed into class, her hair still wet from the shower, only
to find me sitting there with my homework typed, my folders neat and my hair dry. "How does she do that?" she wondered.
So, after the booksigning, Anne and Tracy invited me to Chili's for lunch, and got my 12-year-old son as a bonus because his dad had ditched him to pick up our 10-year-old from
soccer and take him to the barber. In comparison, lunch with the ladies seemed like more fun to him.
So there we were, three grown women who were never really all that close, becoming friends over various salads and an artichoke dip appetizer,
and a tween who probably didn't need to know quite so much about Mom in high school, but there you go.
And it was wonderful. Wonderful in a way that I just don't think could have happened back in high school. Not with our cliques and our insecurities and our big hair.
Back then, we couldn't truly be interested in each other's lives, because we were too busy trying to craft an image so that the other kids wouldn't make fun of us.
I don't think that we could really be ourselves around each other until lunch on Saturday.
I've told Tracy that I want to go to one of her storytelling events, and I've invited Anne and her kids to our community lake this summer. And so, we will pick up where we never really left off
back in high school. You know, now that we're friends. Posted by Jen Singer, May 4, 2009 at 11:46 a.m. NOT UP THE MIDDLE!
By the third soccer game, it was clear: the boys on my son's team have selective hearing. Otherwise, why would they repeatedly
kick the ball out of the defense straight up the middle of the field when so many coaches and parents repeatedly yelled,
"NOT UP THE MIDDLE!"
It was also clear that I would have to take matters into my own hands. Or rather, my feet.
So at Wednesday's soccer practice, when the head coach set up a drill designed to get the goalies to punt the ball up the sides of the field,
I sat back and waited. No matter how many times each goalie was told not to punt it up the middle of the field, the ball went up the middle of the
field more often than not.
So, I stood in the middle of the field and shouted: "If you kick the ball to me, I'm coming after you! Don't kick it up the middle."
And with that, the goalie wound up the punt and....kicked it right to me.
I managed to smack it down -- with my nose -- and trash talk him while I set up the shot, which wasn't as spectacular as I'd imagined it would be, but really:
I didn't think he'd actually kick it to me.
So I upped the ante, and told the goalies they owe me ice cream for every ball they kick in my direction.
The next goalie wound up his punt and ...kicked it right to me. I started taking suggestions for ice cream orders from the other kids.
The third time I got the ball, one kid suggested a banana split.
"It's like loading a gun that's pointed at you!" I shouted. "And I'll take a sprinkles on my cone!"
But then a wonderful thing happened: They stopped kicking the ball down the middle. Nobody wanted Mrs. Singer to shoot the ball at them, but most of all
nobody wanted to buy me ice cream. By the end of practice it seemed as though they were actually listening to us.
We'll see if it sticks for the game this weekend. If they fall back on their old ways, I'm not yelling to them to stop kicking it down the middle. Instead,
I'm ordering extra whipped cream. Posted by Jen Singer, May 1, 2009 at 9:35 a.m. Feeding My Inner Grouch.
Sometimes, like the past few days, I can feel my Inner Grouch rearing its ugly head, and I cave in. I give up
on trying to put quash it, to put a shine on everything, to smile when deep down, I'm just plain grouchy.
So, on this Monday morning when, among other things, I've got a kid sick at home and a husband with a torn shoulder ligament thanks to a volleyball
game at a Boy Scouts camping trip, I'm giving in to my Inner Grouch. Here's what's annoying her, in no particular order (a partial list):
How we as a society look at Target on Sunday afternoons, save for the nicely dressed people buying last minute greeting cards before a baby shower and kids
in baseball and soccer uniforms.
How on an absurdly hot April day, Astroturf is 20 degrees hotter than grass and smells like a combination of melting plastic and despair.
Women's shoes in general.
I still have to listen to fundraising pleas on my favorite radio station even though I made a donation months ago.
Though New York is the city that doesn't sleep, it can't just keep it down a little when I stay overnight there.
I can find only the Celsius thermometer that I got for free, and all I know about it is that 37 degrees is normal.
The spreading misuse of it's and its, theirs and there's, and your and you're on the Internet.
I can't figure out how to get the clarinet and the tenor saxophone fixed in time to get them back for band practice.
May flies in April.
Posted by Jen Singer, April 27, 2009 at 9:57 a.m. Good news! We are moving MommaBlog to WordPress, which means you'll be able to comment and share easily.
Meanwhile, if you'd like to share what your Inner Grouch is saying, post it on my page at
Facebook.
8 signs you'll see when the economy starts changing 21st century childhood.
"Travel" sports will mean that you have to walk to the field farthest from the parking lot.
Mommy and Me classes will be just that: 1. Mommy and 2. Me.
Good-bye $150 dance recital outfits. Hello Target girls' sizes 2-6x department (with a coupon, of course).
That ATV you were going to buy your son for Christmas will be replaced by an APV -- All Pedaling Vehicle.
Playdates will be B.Y.O.S. (Bring Your Own Snack)
Build-a-Bear workshops will give way to Build-a-Lean-to stores.
This year's hottest toy will be an X-Box: an X drawn on a box to mark where you're supposed to throw your rubber band ball.
Sweet 16 parties will be more like Sour 8 -- your brooding teen, her little sister, both parents and both sets of grandparents for dinner at The Olive Garden.
Posted by Jen Singer, April 23, 2009 at 2:57 p.m. GOOD GRIEF!
The latest on Jen's Good Grief! A Tale of Two Tweens Blog
Maybe it's Time We Fixed Things Instead of Buying New
GoodHousekeeping.com.
No place to go. Hurray!
We have nowhere to be today. No soccer practice. No baseball game. No choir practice. No art class.
When I announced this tidbit of information to my children this morning, they cheered. And then, so did I.
Ever since April started, we've all been feeling a bit like we've been shot out of a cannon around here, and now we're flying
through the air, wondering where we'll land. I hope it's soft there. Also, not far.
I have long tried to avoid the cramped schedule.
I've long said I'm a fan of the aimless afteroon. And yet, this month it seems that the only aimlessness we've been able to fit in was on Saturday when my
12-year-old and I took pictures down at our community lake. Every other moment has pretty much been spoken for, and that concerns me.
I am supposed to be a pro and stopping to smell the flowers. I'm supposed to know what's "truly important in life," because I have survived cancer.
And not just any cancer, but Stage 3, "Holy *&)$ that's a big tumor" cancer. I've faced death and stared it down. Well, after blasting it with cancer drugs
that were originally used in chemical warfare during the Vietnam War. Then I stared at it.
Really though, there's also something wonderful about having so much stuff going on. A crazy April calendar means that life has returned to something more
normal, and that is a very good sign that the worst is behind us. It might not give us much time to smell the flowers, but those don't come out until May anyhow, right?
Still, we will enjoy our aimless afternoon, because, deep down, we understand how rare and wonderful it is to have nowhere to be with nothing to do
and nothing to worry about. And that's something to cheer about. Posted by Jen Singer, April 21, 2009 at 12:56 p.m. 10 Signs You're Deep into Spring, Mom.
Every time you hit the brakes, a baseball, soccer ball, lacrosse ball -- or all three -- roll to the front of the car.
You have three washes: lights, darks and mud.
You're hoping it starts getting warm every day, so you can stop pretending your kid had a "sudden growth spurt" and just go ahead and avoid buying pants in
the next size-up until September.
You have your first sunburn of the year, which really, at your age should be in the shape of an L on your forehead.
You have three recitals, two communions, a wedding, seven baseball games, six soccer practices, four birthday parties and a baby shower
on your calendar, and that's just for April.
Every time you go outside to get the mail, you sneeze, and yet you are not allergic to the Lands End Swimsuit catalog you seem to get every day.
You're beginning to understand what "offsides" means in soccer. Not quite, but you're almost there.
You have a habit of ducking whenever someone shouts, for fear of getting bonked in the head with a foul ball -- again.
You're hoping your tennis shirt can double as your kid's band shirt, which you can't find, even though the recital is tomorrow.
Summer break is actually starting to look like a vacation compared to this month.
Posted by Jen Singer, April 20, 2009 at 10:23 a.m. Mothers sitting in goose poop.
Half-way through my son's soccer practice yesterday, a few other moms sat down next to me in the grass (and frankly, in goose poop)
along the side of the field. I was the "parent contact" for the day, meaning I had to sign out all 12 boys from school, get them to put
on their soccer gear and then make sure they don't misbehave for the trainer. (I also had to stop kids in socks from
chasing each other around the cafeteria and sweep up cleat mud. After School Crazies, you know).
The other moms were coming early for pick-up, but I'll bet they just wanted to sit in the sun, too, especially after the rough winter we'd just had.
One had broken her foot just before spring break and was sporting a corrective boot. Another was being walked by her dog, who desperately
wanted to go say hello to the attractive golden retriever over by the playground. (Tip: Don't sit on the bench. The retriever used it as a fire hydrant.)
Another was, like me, going to rush off to a baseball game after practice.
One father dropped by to pick up his son, whom I was watching for him until he could get there. His son and my non-soccer-playing son had spent much of the afternoon
rolling down the hill behind the gym. We mothers never thought to do that.
We were all happy to be sitting down, even if it was in dried goose poop.
We gave reviews of teachers and compared our kids' homework. We talked about the state of travel soccer and the flexibility of our jobs.
We discussed pets and kids and spring break, and we laughed when one mom's 4-year-old challenged my 12-year-old to a race, and he accepted (and let the little one win.)
We lamented our crazy schedules and compared mileage on our mini-vans and talked about our weekends ahead at our kids' games and practices. We wondered when
we'd be able to get in a haircut for anyone.
Then we brushed ourselves off and moved on to the next field where we did it all over again with other parents, happy to be sitting down at all.
Posted by Jen Singer, April 17, 2009 at 12:11 p.m. GOOD GRIEF!
The latest on Jen's Good Grief! A Tale of Two Tweens Blog
Aimless Afternoons Giving Way to Beefing Up College Applications.
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Too Quick to Carpool
Somehow I've once again managed to wind up spending the afternoon in my car, in soccer cleats, driving six kids around town.
How do I end up this way so often? Because sometimes, I don't take my own advice. And sometimes, I simply need a pre-emptive strike.
Today, it's a little bit of both.
By 8 o'clock this morning, nobody had laid claim to today's jazz band carpool. There are four moms involved, and I'd just done it two weeks ago, so you do the math.
But I can't do it next week, unless I figure out how to clone myself so I can be in two places at once -- something I ponder regularly during the school year.
So, I figured I'd suck it up and make my move, secretly hoping another mom would step in and take the carpool.
I sent out an e-mail offering to pick up the entire tenor sax section of the school's jazz band after practice today. Suddenly, I was bombarded with thank-you e-mails.
Darn it! I should have held out longer. I wish my literary agent negotiated carpool schedules. Then I wouldn't get myself into these binds.
Meanwhile, I've got an extra kid here today, the neighbor's son, whom I will drag back to the school along with my younger son as soon as they get off the bus,
despite the scene from "Home Alone" that went through my head when I started counting out the seats in my van. We're not quite ready for that yet.
As soon as I drop everyone off, I will race to soccer practice where I will help coach in the rain. Meanwhile, I'll try to be slower on the draw with the carpool e-mails.
Darn it! Posted by Jen Singer, April 15, 2009 at 12:03 p.m. GOOD GRIEF!
The latest on Jen's Good Grief! A Tale of Two Tweens Blog
Hope for Seasonally Challenged Parents Like Me.
GoodHousekeeping.com.
When Toddlers Attack.
First, she put her mouth on each block before throwing them on the ground, one by one. Then she grabbed the crackers, handling
three for every one that she actually decided to eat. Then she reached for a cream puff, foolishly set eye level on the coffee table, with her eyes wide open
as though she'd just found the solution for the economic crisis or, perhaps, a hunk of pure gold. And her mother never got to sit down.
My cousin Susie's 15-month-old daughter, Amelia, was too busy being a toddler at my mom's Easter dinner this weekend to sit still. She had things to tip over,
stairs to climb and a smorgasboard of appetizers and, later, desserts, to fondle. And I enjoyed every minute of it.
"I hate to tell you this," I advised Susie, "but you won't be able to sit down at family gatherings until 2012."
I couldn't hear her answer, as she was busy chasing Amelia into the hallway -- again.
"I remember finding crumbs in my closet when your boys were that age," my Aunt Nancy recalled. "After Christmas dinner, I went upstairs to find a trail
of cracker crumbs leading to my closet, and I wondered How did these get there?"
My sons, now 10 and 12, smirked.
"You used to climb up one flight of stairs and come down the other," Aunt Nancy told them. "And your mom never sat down either."
As I watched Amelia relocate my mother's antique teddy bears from the living room to just next to the coffee table, where she dumped them
in favor of squeezing raspberries, I remembered those days well. Only, when my younger son was Amelia's age, my older son was not quite three,
so I had double the toddler fun, double the crumbs and double the smooshed raspberries. I spent the end of the 20th century and the beginning of the 21st
running in two different directions. And yet, watching just one toddler run circles around us at my mother's house, tired me out.
This weekend, we visited some friends during their family's Easter dinner. I grabbed a seat at the table, where their kids had abandoned to go play, and my
son sat in a chair behind me.
"Is he in a time-out?" my friend Mike asked.
"No, he's twelve," I replied. "He sits."
Mike's eyes widened as he took in this information.
"Woooooow," he said.
Wow, indeed.
Posted by Jen Singer, April 13, 2009 at 11:31 a.m. GOT TODDLERS?
Check out my new book, Stop Second Guessing Yourself -- The Toddler Years. I wrote it in short bursts so you can read a little,
chase your toddler a little, read a little, save the raspberries from toddler hands a little... Check out the book here.
Cracked eggs, confused husband.
When I pulled the eggs out of the fridge yesterday to make egg salad for lunch, my husband told me he'd thrown a few of them out.
"They were cracked and the fridge smelled like eggs," he said.
"Why do you have to throw them out if they're cracked?" I asked.
"Why would you buy cracked eggs?" he asked back.
"I didn't buy them cracked," I said.
"Well, they were cracked when I found them," he said.
And then I took an egg and smacked it on the counter to break the shell.
"They're hard boiled?" he said, surprised.
"Yes. You mean, you thought I bought cracked eggs?" I asked.
Then he lifted up the cover of the egg container. "Where does it say that they're hard boiled?" he asked. "It doesn't say that anywhere."
"You mean, I have to write 'hard boiled' on the container?" I asked.
"YOU hard boiled them?" he asked back.
"Yes," I answered. "For Easter eggs. Everybody in the house knew that but you," I said.
"Everybody knew it but me," he repeated. "What the heck does that mean?"
"It means we all knew they were hard boiled eggs that might have cracked shells and therefore, would make the fridge smell like eggs," I answered, and started to giggle.
"So, if everyone else knows, I'm supposed to know, too?" he asked.
"How am I supposed to know you're going to look for the eggs during the week? You usually don't touch the eggs until Saturday." I cracked another one and peeled off the shell.
"But they were cracked, and they smelled," he reiterated, as though this would clear things up.
"Because they're hard boiled," I said, cracking a third egg shell. "Everybody knew that..."
"...But me. I know."
"Now you understand," I said, mixing mayonnaise into my hard boiled eggs.
He just sighed and made himself a grilled-cheese sandwich.
Men.
Posted by Jen Singer, April 11, 2009 at 11:43 a.m.
Wrestlemania: Grandma vs. Mom.
My 71-year-old mother beat me at leg wrestling yesterday. She was trying to show my son how she leg wrestled in summer camp
when she was his age, but he wasn't understanding how to do it. So, I volunteered to demonstrate, as I, too, had leg wrestled
at the very same summer camp where she'd gone.
And so, there were my children's mother and grandmother lying on the family room floor, heads in opposite directions, lifting one leg each three
times. Then we locked legs and WHAM! She pulled me right over.
She didn't have to grunt or groan. She just pulled and there I went.
When we got up, she shrugged and said, "Well, I work out."
Yeah, me too. But when I felt how strong her leg was, I was afraid to engage and suddenly, I'd lost.
Now, I couldn't have won either way. If I'd pulled my mother's leg over mine, I'd have been accused of beating up on an old lady.
Obviously though, my mother is no little old lady. Rather, she is 5 feet, five inches (and shrinking) of pure muscle.
Don't mess with Hommy. She'll crush you.
My children seemed mildly amused by the whole episode. I, on the other hand, am heading to the gym.
I call a rematch -- in about 30 more Spinning classes from now and some free weights.
Posted by Jen Singer, April 9, 2009 at 3:41 p.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
The latest on Jen's Good Grief! A Tale of Two Tweens Blog
The Antidote to Suburban Parenting.
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Bingo! So much for Family Game Night.
My husband accused me of cheating last night. But I had laid down a perfectly legal move, called a BINGO, in my very first move of our family game night Super Scrabble match.
It involved using up all of my letters at once -- in my case ARTISANS -- for which I received 50 extra points. It was all downhill from there.
It was our fourth grader's idea to have a family game night, like the kind you see in Milton Bradley commercials or in regional parenting magazines under the headline,
"Families Who Play Together, Stay Together."
So, after dinner, he and his brother brought down several boxes of games, including Dominoes (the game, not the pizza), Monopoly and Trouble.
But Scrabble turned out to be the real trouble. And no, I didn't cheat.
We split into two teams: Chris and Dad, Nick and Mom. I promised to ditch my Scrabulous/Lexulous rules, agreeing that it's unfair that I play the online
version of Scrabble every day with fellow authors and journalists. We are word people, after all, so it's not fair. Then my husband trash-talked me, and the game began.
After a Rocks, Paper, Scissors shoot-out between the team representatives, both of whom have school today, Team Dad, a.k.a. "The Thunder Bolts," made their first move:
HAVE for something like 12 points.
I looked over our letters. "Oh boy," I mumbled. I looked at my fourth grader considering sparing him the BINGO. But then I remembered the trash-talking from my husband, the IT
guy who would love nothing more than to take down an author, especially one who blogs about him on occasion. One by one I placed the letters down on the board,
A-R-T-I-S-A-N-BLANK (for S). Then I announced, "Bingo!" on behalf of our team, "The Cellos."
They all looked at me as though I'd been hit in the head and thought I was playing a different game.
"What's a Bingo?" my husband asked.
"It's when you place all your tiles down in one play," I explained. Then, sensing descent, I grabbed the Scrabble rules page and pointed to the line about BINGO.
"It's an extra 50 points."
My husband's shoulders slumped. Chris fired up his Nintendo DS. Nick beamed.
For much of the game, we were neck-and-neck -- if it weren't for the 50 BINGO points. But then we kept getting double word scores and triple
letters scores for high-numbered letters. I had to get out the dictionary to prove that XI is a word before I laid it down for 18 points.
My husband stared at the board and sighed. "What's the score?" he asked reluctantly.
"We've got a 150 point lead," I answered. Chris cheered; he'd scored high in his Pokemon game. So much for Family Game Night.
After more than an hour of being trounced, my husband surrendered. He and Chris disappeared.
"Isn't the loser supposed to clean up?" I asked Nick as we poured our tiles back into the bag.
"Not a sore loser," he replied. And then we all went off to read on our own. Posted by Jen Singer, April 6, 2009 at 11:17 a.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
The Fourth Grade Chaperones on the New Jersey Turnpike on my
GoodHousekeeping.com blog.
Party Like it's August 2008
I am going to spend my Borders gift card today like it's August 2008 -- on a large green tea latte and a magazine.
Of course, in April 2009's economy, this feels all wrong. Four bucks for a drink that has no alcohol in it? And paying the full cover
price for a magazine? That's so pre-crash. So "Flip That House." So MTV "Cribs."
And it's not as though the gift card is found money, either. It actually belongs to my 4th grader, who won it for doing something special at school.
But when we went to spend it on a book for him, we couldn't find it. So I paid cash, and he promised to give me the gift card in return. So really,
I'm about to go blow 10 of my own dollars on nonsense.
At the very least, I should use it to subsidize my book addiction. Or maybe I could stock up on Burt's Bees lip balm at the register. Or I could just regift
the gift card for the next birthday party my kids will go to.
But I'm feeling defiant. I'm feeling deserved. I'm feeling like a large green tea latte and a Publisher's Weekly.
And so, while my other cashes in the remainders of his Christmas gift card by stocking up on books he'll spend weeks reading, I am going to sip
my latte and flip through my magazine for eight minutes of pure selfish joy. And then I'll probably feel guilty about it the rest of the day. Posted by Jen Singer, April 4, 2009 at 8:41 a.m.
Where's Tommy? Lessons for the Class Trip Chaperone
I couldn't find *Tommy. Again. The four other kids I was in charge of at the fourth grade class trip to the science museum
on Tuesday were right where I'd left them, trying to find an answer about germs for the information Scavenger Hunt their teacher
had assigned to them. But Tommy? He was elsewhere, perhaps on the other side of the Communication display or over by the Hieroglyphics.
It's hard to say, because I couldn't see him. Not in that blend-into-everything brown shirt he was wearing. Not over the dozens of other kids
between us. Not anywhere.
Finally, I decided to do what this soccer coach does best: I yelled, "TOMMY!"
Parents turned their heads toward me in shock. Kids looked, too, especially all the kids also named Tommy. Sure enough, though,
the Tommy I was in charge of came running around the corner.
"What?" he said, as though he hadn't wandered off and I wasn't in charge of him.
"Stay where I can see you," I admonished him. He nodded....and then started to wander off again.
A girl from his class informed me, "Oh, he gets in trouble all the time at school."
And I get a Tommy on every trip that I chaperone. Maybe the teachers are aware that I have a loud soccer coach voice that even the Tommys can't ignore.
All I know is that I've learned a few things while chaperoning class trips over the years. Here are a few of them:
Your job is part Sherpa, part GPS. Expect to carry kids' sweatshirts, lunches and gift shop swag. Also, the map.
The girls pretty much stay where you leave them. The boys scatter like puppies.
Your lunch will get schmooshed in your purse.
You will be amazed that the school bus driver doesn't have a low-grade migraine Monday through Friday.
You will lose Tommy every 5-6 minutes or so.
*The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. Posted by Jen Singer, April 2, 2009 at 3:24 p.m.
It's a book! That's nice, Mom.
It's my third time, and like any third time, I know what to expect. I know that I might worry, lose some sleep, check on it all too often.
I've been through this twice before, after all.
My third book, Stop Second Guessing Yourself -- The Toddler Years,"
has officially hit bookstores and online booksellers today. I know well enough that it won't change my life in huge ways, not today anyhow.
But I know that it'll be fun to see it in my local bookstore, where I'll have a booksigning in a few weeks (May 2nd, Borders in Riverdale, NJ). I know that
it feels good to know that all the hard work I put into it paid off. I know that, this time, I have MommaSaid's fans to thank for providing such great quotes
for the book. For example:
Page 132: Okay, I admit it…
"I wish someone had told me that it's like having an unmedicated schizophrenic suicidal know-it-all without bladder control, on uppers 24/7"
-- Colleen, Tuscon, Arizona
I know that my mother is probably stopping every mom she sees pushing a toddler in a stroller today, and handing out cards featuring my book.
"My daughter wrote this," she's saying. "You'll love it!"
I know that my kids and my husband are happy for me. ("That's nice, Mom," they smiled this morning) And the well wishes online have been wonderful, too. But I also know that
today, though special, is also another day of carpools and supermarket trips. It's another day of folding laundry and watching "American Idol" with the kids.
It's another day like any other day, except that there's a new book out there with my name on it. A book that I hope makes people laugh and learn. A book that I hope
annoys husbands everywhere as their wives giggle while reading it in bed.
Actress Melissa Joan Hart, who had worked with me last year for Pull-Ups, where I'm a Potty Training Partner, had given me a really nice book jacket quote, so I made sure
I'd sent her a book last week. She told me yesterday that she hasn't been able to read it yet, but her nanny is reading her favorite parts out loud to her. Melissa says it's like
hearing an audiobook. And hearing that, is most certainly not like any other day for me.
So, to Melissa and her nanny, my mom and the mothers she is accosting at the mall, all the moms quoted in the book, my family, friends and fans, my publisher, agent and publicist,
thanks for making an otherwise ordinary day a little special for this third-time author. I hope to see you on my blog tour, my radio and TV appearances and at my booksignings. And of course,
right here on MommaSaid.net...right after I get home from the carpool. Posted by Jen Singer, April 1, 2009 at 10:09 a.m.
P.S. Follow my book on Twitter: If Toddlers Could Tweet GOOD GRIEF!
In Alan’s Spinning Class, Nobody Can Hear You Scream, on
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Carpool Diem and the Big Book Launch
In the shower this morning, I started counting down until summer break like I'm a fourth grader or something.
I don't know what came over me, but it probably has to do with Wednesday, which looms over me like a logistical nightmare with saxophones in tow.
This Wednesday, both of my kids have two activities each, and I have carpool. Three of those activities overlap, and the location of one was moved across town
so that I have to be in three places at one time. And yet, I am just one mother with just one mini-van that seats seven.
I volunteered for jazz band carpool this week because I'd have to be at the school anyhow to pick up two Cub Scouts, whose meeting is usually, almost always, at the school.
I figured I could pile the four jazz band kids and the two scouts into my car and drive them all home.
Except, one son's soccer coach called a practice on Wednesday, to start the very moment that jazz band and scouts end. And though most soccer practices are usually at the school, not Wednesday.
Rather, this Wednesday -- the Wednesday I volunteered to carpool -- soccer practice is clear across town. And I'm kinda, sorta assistant coaching practices this season.
But wait! There's more!
My son's Cub Scouts leader decided her den would not have this Wednesday's meeting at the school, like they usually, almost always do,
but at the park in yet another corner of town. Parents have been advised to meet the scouts at the park at the precise
moment I need to pick up four boys at jazz band. Also, at the very moment that my son and I are supposed to be in cleats on the soccer field elsewhere in town.
Luckily, the soccer coach's son is in the same Cub Scouts den, so she is facing a similar dilemma. Unluckily, I have no more room in my car to pick up her son, if I could even get there
at the right time.
And she can't pick up my son if she's supposed to be at the field, coaching soccer, clear across town at the very same time. Hey, I know! She could ask her assistant coach to help. Oh. Scratch that.
Also on Wednesday, my new book is launching. My sister-in-law asked me today what I'd be doing on Wednesday for the big launch.
Well, it looks like I'm going to be in three places at once in front of a good-sized crowd. That's where. If you'd like your book signed, I'll meet you at the park. No, the school. No, the soccer field.
P.S. I'm going on a Blog Tour. Drop by to see where I'm heading. (No carpool necessary.) Posted by Jen Singer, March 30, 2009 at 10:09 a.m.
The night the landscapers came calling.
I was in the middle of telling a story at the dinner table last night when the doorbell rang. I got up and answered the door.
A man told me in broken English, "I looking for work."
Ain't we all, pal.
He explained that he worked for our neighbors down the street, the ones with the beautifully landscaped yard with the stone retaining walls
and apparently deer-proof shrubs.
"Oh, you are a landscaper?" I asked.
"Yes," he nodded. "I look for work," he reiterated, and then he swept his hand all Vanna White-like toward the abomination that is my front yard.
"Well, we just had construction done," I apologized. "Just" in this case means "two years ago." I hoped he hadn't worked for my neighbors with the beautiful yard for very long.
He still stood there. I thought about explaining that we aren't doing the landscaping until we add a deck to the back of the house in the area where the money ran out two years ago.
We don't want construction trucks digging up our nice landscaping now, do we? Which is why our front yard looks like a fresh construction site: brand spankin' new siding, roof and shutters
emerging from the mud. Crumbling slabs of slate have been thrown hastily every few feet between the driveway and the new front steps, causing visitors to hop slab to slab or else
end up with muddy shoes. The grass, what there is of it, grows in patches, except where the backhoe had mowed through the trees to get to those front steps from the road.
There are no shrubs. There are no retaining walls. There is no landscaping and there won't be until we get that deck.
Sadly for the rest of the neighborhood, ours is the first house on the street. Therefore, neighbors have to pass my muddy moat of a front yard whenever they want to go out,
and then they have to pass it again whenever they come home. I wonder if they think, "When are they going to fix up that pit?" Or in the case of my visiting landscaper,
"¿Cuándo van a fijar para arriba ese hoyo?"
In this economy? ¡Aye carumuba!
I thanked my entrepreneurial visitor after turning him down. I shut the door and then I went to the window to watch him hop slab to slab back to his truck, where, no doubt,
he reported the disappointing news to his fellow workers.
When I returned to the kitchen table, I told my family what had happened.
One son asked, "Well when are we getting a deck?"
The other son replied, "When I leave for college."
A vision of a college tuition bill popped into my head. I shuddered. Then I thought about the empty space where the deck should be and my muddy front yard and I muttered, "I looking for work."
Posted by Jen Singer, March 26, 2009 at 9:51 a.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
Maybe Not All Friendships Are Meant to Last.
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Between the children's and men's shoe departments.
For a moment, he forgot he was allowed to sit in the front seat. My son, who turned 12 this weekend, opened the back door of my mini-van yesterday
in the parking lot at Macy's, before he remembered that he's old enough now to join me in the front of the car. So he closed the sliding back door and opened the front passenger
door. Then he sat down next to me.
"Ready?" I asked.
"Ready," he smiled. I expected him to commandeer the radio and root through my coins, but mostly, he just sat there, hands folded in his lap except to
adjust the sun visor now and then -- a novelty for someone who's never before sat in the front seat of a car.
I tried to pick music he'd enjoy -- mostly jazz, a little Elton John (for the piano), but certainly not KC and the Sunshine Band. He has his standards.
"Dad's not here. You can turn it up," he said when I put on Cold Play. We like our music loud; his father does not.
We visited five stores before we found what we were looking for: a Spring windbreaker, in black, and shoes that fit his size 6 1/2 narrow foot.
We bounced back and forth between the children's and men's shoes department before we finally found sneakers and a pair of dress shoes that he'll surely outgrow
before Thanksgiving, but not until after Easter and his jazz band concert in June.
"You won't find narrow until he's a seven," the salesmen in Macy's men's shoe department warned us. "You'll have to go with whatever you find, but it won't be here."
And so, we braved the whiny toddlers and pushy parents in the children's shoe department and found him a pair of shoes that will do for now -- until he's
big enough for the men's department. Surely, before his 13th birthday a year from now.
Posted by Jen Singer, March 22, 2009 at 11:29 a.m.
Phone Calls and Playdates and Doorbells, Oh My! My Work-at-Home Skills
By the time my yard was filled with football-throwing boys, I had given up on taking a shower. I'd worked out first thing yesterday morning, but came home
to conference call after appointment after deadline, followed by impromptu playdate, snack attacks, phone calls, ringing doorbells and
a trail of broken corn chips. Just the way I like it.
If I ever have to go back to working in an office, I will be able to put some unique skills onto my resume that come only from working from home:
SKILLS
Can wedge herself into the closet during conference calls to drown out noise from fight over the Wii going on in the next room.
Can return urgent text messages with one hand and unstick zippers, pour juice or open Girl Scout cookie boxes with the other.
Can write coherent paragraphs while shouting, "Leave him alone!" between sentences.
Can come up with clever quotes for media interviews while driving mini-van full of boys singing "Batman Smells" to soccer practice.
Can find that contract, if you just give her a minute, unless it's after school, in which case, she'll look for it after Cub Scouts.
Posted by Jen Singer, March 19, 2009 at 11:52 a.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
Only One Year Until I'm the Mom of a Teenager
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Begging a Banker for a Bagel
I should know better by now. I've been a mother for nearly 12 years, so you'd think I'd know better than to blithely promise
to pick up a few green bagels for my son on St. Patrick's Day.
But at the time of my promise, I figured I'd swing by on my way to the gym for Spinning class this morning. Besides,
the little promise caused a big smile on his face, and after the week we had around here, we all needed that.
So when my fourth grader asked me again this morning to get him a few green bagels, I thought I'd best make good on my promise even though
I'd nixed the idea of Spinning class after waking up with sinuses full of snoogies. After
my son got on the school bus, I set out to run a few errands. First stop: the bagel shop.
When I walked in, I saw one of the bagel shop clerks loading green bagels into a large bag. I got in line and waited for my turn,
but when I reached the counter, the clerk said, "I just sold my last green bagels."
I thought about appealing to the mom with the bag o'bagels, telling her about my green bagel promise to my son, but her three-year-old was
in tow, and I didn't want to get in the way of any promises she'd made to him. My 10-year-old would get over it; her preschooler might be a harder sell.
The clerk yelled into the kitchen, "Are we all out of green bagels?" A man with a Spanish accent replied, "Yes."
And then I saw her. A woman in business clothes asked for her order of green bagels, and the clerk lugged a huge shopping bag full of them and plopped
them on the counter. I waited for her to pay and turn to leave before I made my move.
"Can I buy a green bagel from you?" I asked, waving a dollar bill. "I'd promised my son, but you got the last of them."
She frowned.
"They're for the bank," she said, as though this explained why she couldn't spare one bagel for a child.
Now, I understand that bankers have had a rough year. I can see why they might be too fragile to handle another disappointment, such
as one fewer green bagel in a jumbo bag of them. And I can see why they might feel that the green bagels would help allure skeptical customers
to trust the ailing banking industry and hand over their money, perhaps buying a $5,000 FDIC insured CD with a relatively robust 2.5% APY.
I mean, the once-in-a-lifetime banking crisis can certainly be overcome with a few dyed bagels, right?
"That's too bad," I said, putting away my dollar bill. "My son will be disappointed."
Perhaps I appealed to her heart. Maybe to her wallet (She must have thought, Hmmmm, there's more dollars where that one came from.)
But she reached into her shopping bag and pulled out a green bagel and handed it to me. I offered up my dollar, but she declined.
"Well, I was late in ordering them," she explained. "I called this morning, so it's my fault there weren't any left," she added in a backhanded way that said,
"Look lady. You have to plan ahead like the rest of us or you'll miss out on the green bagels." I thanked her anyhow.
Victorious, I put my green bagel into my bag and rushed out of the store before she could remember that, perhaps, Bob in home loans wanted
more than one green bagel, and left it on my kitchen counter for my son.
Posted by Jen Singer, March 17, 2009 at 11:47 a.m.
Dear New Jersey Lifestyle Magazine,
I read this plea on a journalism list-serve today, and it got me thinking:
"I am in need of a NEW JERSEY home owner who would be interested in
having his or her home photographed for possible publication in a
New Jersey lifestyle magazine. I am looking for a home that is
either extremely well-decorated and luxurious, or unique in
architecture and design. I would need to see a few pictures of the house in
order to present it to the editor as a possibility."
Oh, the possibilities. If I were to answer their e-mail, I would say:
Dear New Jersey lifestyle magazine:
I understand you are in search of a New Jersey house to photograph for possible publication. I would like to offer up my house.
Though it is not luxurious, it has many features that I believe your readers (or maybe, Parenting's readers) will relate to, including:
Large picture windows from both my home office and the family room upstairs that, at least once a day, allow full view of six-boy hockey stick and
PVC pipe fight a la "Mad Max."
Dead Christmas wreath on the front door, thereby officially signifying the end of the holiday season and welcoming the onslaught of March Girl Scout cookie deliveries.
Deck furniture, piles of rocks and bags of concrete where deck used to be before the remodeling money ran out. (It's Cross Bronx Expressway median
with a touch of off-season Martha's Vineyard.)
Bionicles, and lots of them, covering various floors.
A saxophone case so large, it doubles as a bench.
Gorgeous new kitchen tiles -- in brown, to match the dirt.
New glass shower doors that, sadly, are not soundproof. ("Moooooooooom!")
A jumble of DVD, Wii, Tivo, VCR and TV wires that look like the media staging area outside the White House.
If you are interested in taking a closer look at my New Jersey home, kindly e-mail me. I'll be here, watching today's Mad Max show.
Posted by Jen Singer, March 16, 2009 at 10:26 a.m.
The only "slouchy" here is in my shoulders.
I thought it was an ad for an old 80's movie, but it wasn't. The full color ad in my newspaper this morning,
featuring a young woman in rolled up pants, promised that "slouchy pants" are back in. The ad read: "Billowy is the word of the season."
No, the word of the season is muddy. But if you roll up your billowy pants, you won't get them dirty, so that's a good thing.
Who decides that we after a decade of talk on "What Not to Wear" about "fitted trousers" that we're all supposed to look like extras in a Pat Benatar
video circa 1984? Who brought back harem pants?
The Associated Press wondered, too. After Fashion Week, the AP lamented,
"The trouble is, it'll be hard for anyone who is not a tall, slim French editor to pull off such draped, billowy pants."
I am tall, and I edit, but that's as close as I get to being able to pull this look off. Frankly, why would I want to try? Harem pants, though comfortable,
are completely unpractical for the average mom. Think about it: They'll get stuck in the mini-van's sliding doors; They'll take up too much room on the stands at Little League baseball;
They'll make it entirely too easy for a toddler to scale your legs like a cat up your good curtains.
So, I hope the billowy fad dies fast and hard and the new word of the season is "same as last year." Okay, that's four words, but it makes the most sense to me.
Posted by Jen Singer, March 13, 2009 at 11:51 a.m.
I am not your doormat.
I am spending entirely too much time thinking about doormats. But I have to; there's a muddy trail through my kitchen where a good, sturdy mat should be.
But I can't buy a good sturdy mat, because there's but a 3/8" clearance under the new door to the garage, thereby limiting my mat purchasing options.
If you lived here, you'd see that you can't just buy any old doormat for the spot by the door to the garage. For example, you can't buy an industrial one with a corner
that rolls up. Well, you can, but you'll spend an awful lot of time trying to get the corner to stay down on the ground where it belongs instead of tripping up retirees
and children upon their entrance to the house.
You'll put heavy objects, including a tenor saxophone case and some ski boots, on it to try to weigh it down. But it'll just roll back up.
When you go on vacation, you'll flip it over so that it lies flat for an entire week. But when you return and flip the mat back over, it'll just curl right back up again,
as though it waited seven days to mock you.
After one too many people trip over the curled up mat, you'll stick it in the garage somewhere or throw it in the garbage can. That'll show that stupid mat. Except now,
you've got nothing protecting your kitchen floor from spring's muddy shoes and pollen and who-knows-what-the-kids-drag-in.
So you'll buy one of those super thin mats that look nice, but are woefully inadequate. Those mats that belong in front of a door that you open only for the rare
Girl Scout cookie delivery or the meter man. Such a mat does not belong in front of your highly trafficked entry way full of backpacks, coats (why can't they hang them up?), musical instruments, grocery
bags, baseball mitts, balled up soccer socks, laptops and shoes.
So now your super thin mat is full of dried mud -- and so is your kitchen floor. Reluctantly, you Google "thin doormat" and find mats that are surely not thin enough
to fit under your door. So you Google "thin doormat that fits under door" and you find all sorts of odd web sites and message boards where people spend entirely too much time
talking about doormats.
You find mats for industrial areas that would most certainly make your kitchen look like the entrance to Bank of America.
You find mats designed to pull mud off shoes and let the rest of the outdoor detritus fall through -- onto your kitchen tiles.
You find a mat that reads, "I am not your doormat." You decide this is true.
You find the stinkin' mat that curls up, even though it says nothing about that on the web site. You contemplate adding that comment, and then you realize that you are spending
entirely too much time thinking about doormats.
And then you give up, shove a beach towel by the door and hope the mud season is short this year.
Posted by Jen Singer, March 10, 2009 at 9:59 a.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
Aw, Forget it: Moms Losing Their Minds?
GoodHousekeeping.com.
So long Winter. We'll miss you.
I miss my snow. Just a few days ago, it covered my backyard in a blanket of pure white, but now there's nothing but
dead grass and a muddy pit that eats children's shoes. Ants have found their way into my house (and onto the wayward chips on my kitchen floor).
And I'm sneezing. And sneezing. Worse, somehow I lost an hour.
Just a few days ago, I was on a ski slope but 20 miles from here swooshing down the trails with my boys. It had just snowed the day before, and we were
trying to take in as much winter as we could before the spring-like temperatures would come along and ruin it all.
My boys and I had missed out on two ski seasons because of my health, and so we were trying to cram in as much winter as possible.
We took quite a few runs until they finally picked up where we'd left off in 2006. I decided to pick up my speed and shoot down the trail, figuring I'd wait for them at the bottom of the run.
But midway through my race down the hill, I turned around to find them both right behind me, keeping up just fine, with big smiles on their faces.
I'd created skiers.
Two days later, we returned to the mountain with neighbors to ski some more. My dear friend had just lost her dad on Tuesday to cancer, and so we thought
we'd keep our minds off things. Her father was kind enough to send us a perfect spring skiing day: warm and sunny.
We were skiing against time. The warm spring sun melted the snow so that it was icy in spots, slushy in others.
The ski lift operators worked tireless to shovel snow under the lift so we wouldn't have to ski on carpet. It was clear: Winter was coming to an abrupt end.
This time, we headed up to the top of the mountain where the boys took off. After a few spills, they got the hang of it, and we all had a great time. As we watched the sun
set over the mountain, I couldn't think of a better farewell to one of my favorite seasons.
Before we left, we stuffed ourselves with hot dogs and then headed home, singing out loud to ColdPlay's "Viva la Vida," the car smelling like
a cross between a New York hot dog stand and a ski lodge. And now, this morning, the snow is all gone.
I'll return my boys' skis to the rental shop this week, until next year, when we'll do it all again. Until then, I'll keep an eye on that mud pit. I don't want to lose a kid in it.
We've got a lot of skiing to do next year. Posted by Jen Singer, March 8, 2009 at 11:53 a.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
Mom is Trying to Be a Bit More Useless.
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Girls in the house? That's so ri·dic·u·lous.
We are not used to girls being around here. That's why when my neighbor dropped off her two daughters here this morning, it was just a tad
uncomfortable for all of us: the girls, my boys and me, a 10-year-old boy trapped in a housewife's body.
My job was to get the girls and my boys to our Snow Routes bus stop down the mountain, as the school bus doesn't come up here when the roads
are snowy and slick. The girls' mom had to get to work, so I offered to help out.
But when they arrived, it wasn't like when boys enter my frat house for fourth graders. Rather, it was awkward and quiet. I told the girls to take off their boots and coats
and go play the Wii. None of the kids acknowledged each other, and it appeared almost painful for my son to pick out a game for the girls. I noticed that once
he got them set up on Mario Kart, he disappeared for a while. My other son, however, gave them pointers from the safety of the recliner, while the girls sat on the couch.
I took this opportunity to get some girly fashion advice. I pulled out an old ski hat I hadn't worn in years and asked the girls, "Is this a ridiculous hat?"
They seemed uncomfortable with the question. "C'mon," I pleaded. "I never have any girls around here to help me out with fashion."
One girls meekly offered, "No," and the other blushed and tried to hide behind her Wii controller.
I removed the black faux fur-lined hat and replaced it with a purple Elmer Fudd-style hat from the Gap.
"Is this one more ridiculous or less?" I asked. They liked the purple one, probably because it was made for a 12-year-old.
"There's no such thing as 'more ridiculous,'" my son countered. "It's either ridiculous or not."
I argued that are degrees of ridiculousness, and that I thought the purple hat was rather ridiculous, but I'd wear it anyway, because the girls said so.
And then the girls got that look on their faces as though they'd really rather walk to the Snow Routes bus stop. Also, that I'm a geek and both of my hats
are truly, really ridiculous. Girls' facial expressions are so complex. My son's expression simply said "You're wrong, Mom."
So, I wore the purple hat. After I left the kids at the bus stop, I looked up "ridiculous":
Ridiculous ri·dic·u·lous (ri-dik-yuh-luhs) Deserving or inspiring ridicule; absurd, preposterous, or silly.
While my black hat certainly inspires ridicule, the purple one is just plain silly. And those girls will beg their mother never to drop them off at our house again.
Posted by Jen Singer, March 3, 2009 at 2:02 p.m.
The Horn in My Backyard
I thought that there was something wrong with my son's saxophone when I heard a loud, out-of-tune horn noise coming from my backyard yesterday after school.
I assumed that my fifth grader had taken his sax outside to share the song that's always in his head with the neighbors.
Or maybe to scare off the bears who are waking up from hibernation too early, thanks to the warmer weather. Only, he
wasn't playing his sax. He was playing a 10-foot long gray PVC pipe.
Silly me.
It has never occured to me to see what kind of sound would come out of construction materials if I just blew on them. Rather, I've always
thought of PVC pipes as something the plumber attaches to the house and then buries in the yard while I promptly forget about them.
Nicholas, on the other hand, looked at the stray PVC pipe in the backyard and thought, "Ode to Joy," or whatever he was trying to play. It sounded
like a cross between a sickly French horn and those annoying plastic horns people blow between beers at professional soccer games. And yet, it sounded
he was trying to play a song, not just random notes. It had a melody. It had structure. It had mud.
This morning, he played it again, the sound echoing off the woods between the houses as if to say, "Good morning, bears!" Or, "Aren't you glad I'm not your kid, neighbors?"
And yet, I don't mind. The boy always has music in his head that has to come out somehow. Usually, it's on the tricked-out keyboard his grandfather gave him.
That's when he makes up all sorts of sounds and songs, so that I feel like I'm, at turns, in a horror movie, a Victorian party, a Russian play, a jazz concert, etc.
Sometimes it's on his saxophone, like Saturday after we came home from the movies and he taught himself to play the theme from "Pink Panther."
So it's really no wonder that he looks at a pipe and thinks, "horn," whereas I think "What's that doing in the yard?"
He's promised me he's not actually putting his mouth on the filthy pipe, but onto his hands. And he doesn't try to bring the thing into the house. So, I'm going to let
him get some music out in our backyard. The neighbors can thank us for the bear thwarting system later.
Posted by Jen Singer, February 27, 2009 at 9:46 a.m.
Shopping for Pisos and Blinds.
"Where did you find the carpet?" I asked my son, Nick, 11, at Lowe's on Saturday. He had been there with his father to pick
out an area rug, but they came home empty. Let's just say that my husband is not one to purchase things quickly.
Nick looked up at the aisle signs, but said nothing. He looked confused.
"How about aisle 12 -- Pisos," I asked. "It's not Ventanas or Puertas," I said reading the Spanish translations on all of the signs.
I must have learned more Spanish from a 20-minute visit to Lowe's than I did in two semesters of college Spanish, which I took because
I was too lazy to continue with French. Ah, but continue I did. A classmate who'd also made it to French V in high school and I constantly
mixed French into our Spanish sentences.
"¿Donde esta le vin rouge?" we'd ask. Our professor would sigh and we'd shrug. "What?"
Nick and I found the rug among the Pisos. It came in four sizes. We discussed which would best fit the space, and I grabbed the one we picked, hoisted it up over my
shoulder and set out to find a shade.
"If Dad were here, we'd still be standing by the rugs," Nick said, trying not to get clocked in the head by the rug every time I turned sideways. The boy prefers my decisiveness (or perhaps, impatience).
"Excuse me, where are the window shades?" I asked. The Lowe's man stared at me with a blank look. I didn't know the Spanish word for shades.
Besides, I was having a hard enough time in English.
"You know, you pull it down to cover the window at night?"
He sent us to aisle ocho -- Blinds, not Shades, you idiot, Jen, which would have been a helpful sign.
We got our blinds (cheap white shade for the bathroom) got it cut to size, and went to check-out. Then, we went to Target to buy a bedspread and some pillows, a task that took us about seven minutes.
If Dad had been there, we'd still be standing in the Pisos aisle at Lowe's.
By the end of our short trip, we'd brushed up on our Spanish and stimulated the economy, and Nick got his early birthday present. ¿Es bueno, no? Oui.
Posted by Jen Singer, February 24, 2009 at 10:02 a.m.
Toddler on the Loose
The priest was on his final paragraphs about the virtues of the church's Catholic school this morning, when a very happy, somewhat noisy toddler
raced by our pew. She'd escaped from her mother and was enjoying the freedom of running up and down the aisles in front of a few hundred people.
Every time her mother neared, the girl screamed. So Mom figured it was better just to let her run until the priest finished talking and mass ended.
As the toddler ran by the pulpit, the priest said, "She's on the loose, but that's okay. She can't hurt herself." And then he kept on talking about
how the school is a big family.
Adults chuckled, but kids were amazed, showing expressions that said,
"Who is this little girl and how come she's running loose through the church? Why aren't the grown-ups stopping her?" And yet, not long ago, some of these kids would attempt the very same thing.
One Sunday when my boys were toddlers, one kid managed to open the door that goes from the "Cry Room," where families with loud little ones sit, into the church.
Soon, a stream of toddlers rushed out the door as though somebody had left the gate open at the horse farm. Out they went.
We parents jumped up and ran out to extract our escapees from the church before they could overrun the congregants. Then we brought them back into the Cry Room, where one father stood guard over the door
for the rest of mass.
And yet some of those very same kids thought that this morning's toddler-on-the-loose was an unusual and silly sight.
When the priest finished speaking, the organist began playing and the choir started singing. That's when the toddler's mom scooped up her charge and left ...
until next Sunday when she'll likely guard the door a little more carefully.
Posted by Jen Singer, February 22, 2009 at 11:46 a.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
The Blogger's Dilemma: It's Just a Snapshot. Read Jen's Tale of Two Tweens blog on
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Last minute, off-site storage -- only a mom would understand
I was a good seven minutes from home when I realized I had a trunk full of skiing gear. In the back of my mini-van were three pairs of ski boots,
three sets of poles and my kids' rental skis. I'd left them there because it was just easier than finding room for them in the garage amidst the
the bikes, the wheelbarrow, the skateboards and the stove leftover from our 2007 kitchen renovation.
But I was rushing to get into the city. I was running late and running out of gas, and I didn't think I could afford to turn back home to ditch the skis.
But I didn't want to bring them to a parking garage in Manhattan either, where I'd hand over my keys (and possibly, our skis) to the attendant.
So I did the next best thing: I pulled into Katy's driveway.
My friend Katy was busy packing things into her car when I pulled up.
"Hey, Katy, do you mind if I leave a pile of ski stuff in your garage while I go to the city?" I asked. I didn't have to explain much more than that.
She's a mother; she understands. Besides, she was on hold with her son's pediatrician's office.
"Sure, but you'll have to get them out by the morning because we're going away for the weekend," she said.
"I'll be back in around 2:30 ish and then back out around 4:10 and then back in around 4:45 and then out again in the morning," I advised her.
She didn't even flinch at my schedule.
"Just call my cell, and if I'm here, I'll open the garage door for you," she said, still waiting for the results of her son's strep test from the doctor's office, who'd put her on hold.
"Oh, and I just found your e-mail about picking up Nick yesterday from jazz band," she chuckled. "Obviously, I did that."
"I figured as much when he arrived at home," I said. Then
I dumped all the gear, ran back to my car and took off.
A few hours later, I called as I neared her house to ask if I could pick up my skis.
"Now that the power's back on and I can open the garage, sure," she said.
And so I piled all the ski stuff back into my car where they'll stay until spring -- or the next time I have to go into New York. Hello, Katy?
Posted by Jen Singer, February 20, 2009 at 2:56 p.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
We're So Queasy, So Queasy, Yeah. Read Jen's Tale of Two Tweens blog on
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Got RB? The inevitable phone call from the supermarket.
When I heard the phone ring, I knew it was going to be him. My husband had gone to the supermarket with my shopping list and the plan to pick
up one of those $6 pizzas in the refrigerated case near the 10 Items or Less lane. And, as is the case whenever he goes to the supermarket, he had a question.
"What kind of razor blades?" he asked.
"I didn't put razor blades on the list," I replied.
"Okay, roast beef?" he asked.
"No," I answered, wondering where this was going.
"Okay, I give up. What's 'RB'?"
"Ohhhhh. Raisin bran," I explained. "Where you going to go with root beer next?"
"No, I was going to come home without your RB."
I got my RB, which I had for breakfast this morning. Too bad I didn't notice until I went to shave this morning that I could really use some more RBs, though.
Posted by Jen Singer, February 16, 2009 at 9:19 a.m.
They're heading for the swamp.
They're heading for the swamp. They're heading for it in boots, but I know I'm about to clean up a muddy mess nonetheless.
Whoever designed these "rain boots" for kids clearly never had children and a swamp in close proximity or they've have made the boots taller
and more waterproof -- more like waders than puddle jumpers.
They wouldn't be so blue or so bright red or so darn cute, either. They wouldn't be modeled in catalogs by recently bathed children in pressed khakis, matching windbreakers and warm smiles.
Rather, they'd be tattered and brown and muddy, and they'd come smelling like the New Jersey Meadowlands so you wouldn't care when they end up that way anyhow.
They'd keep socks dry and pant legs protected from whatever's in the swamp.
They'd scare bears off and thwart burrs and bees.
They'd self-clean the leaves and mud off, and they'd never, ever cross the threshold into your house.
They'd be heading toward the swamp in the woods behind my house right now, and I wouldn't be getting out the paper towels and queuing up the washer.
And it would be good.
Posted by Jen Singer, February 13, 2009 at 12:35 p.m.
The New Definition of "Getting Lucky"
Mid-way through our call this morning, the phone started cutting out.
"I can't hear you," my husband said. I least I think that's what he said. It sounded like, "I --n't h--r y--."
I repeated what I'd said, but I suppose he could only hear half of it, and then he gave up. "We'll talk tonight," he said. Or more like,
"--'ll t--- --nigh-."
Sure we will. Just like we'll finally hang something on the kitchen walls, which were painted a year-and-a-half ago, and how I'll remember to
tell him my idea for his mother's birthday present. Frankly, it'll be easier just to buy it and wrap it. Then he can be as surprised as she is when she opens it.
And who doesn't like a surprise?
Relationship experts and Oprah say that the key to a good marriage is communication. I hope that e-mail counts, because it's the only way my husband and I seem to be able
to maintain conversations around here. When we are actually in the same room at the same time, other things get in the way of our conversations: The kids fight, the phone rings,
a neighbor's kid shows up at the door, someone asks for something that's in the other room, the clothes dryer buzzes, I get a text message, the kids ask a question...you get the idea.
At dinner, we manage to talk to the children and they talk to us. Sometimes we relay what we did that day and often, I run down the schedule for the days ahead.
But we can't talk about things the kids don't need to hear at dinner, and today, anyhow, we couldn't talk about it on the phone, either. If it weren't for e-mail,
we'd never talk to each other.
In fact, after nearly 12 years of parenthood, I can honestly say that "getting lucky" means completing full sentences -- in person -- with my husband. Oh, how good that feels.
Recently, a friend of mine forwarded a funny e-mail to me. When I told her that I liked it so much, I sent it to my husband, she replied, "Don't y'all live in the same house?"
Yes. Yes, we do. But the reception is really fuzzy in here.
Posted by Jen Singer, February 10, 2009 at 1:44 p.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
Lesson Turns Disgruntled Tweens into Skiers Again. Read Jen's Tale of Two Tweens blog on
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Imaginative Play Makes No Sense
It was not something adults would do, and yet, the way my boys were playing this afternoon was supposed to prepare them for adulthood.
One son was pretending his hands were tied behind his back while attempting to retrive paper from his desk drawer with his mouth. The other son was in
the closet, playing quietly; I discovered him when I opened the door to put some clothes away. Meanwhile, his brother wheeled around the room on his chair,
his hands bound behind his back by invisible string.
Now, I know that parenting experts would say that this sort of "imaginative play" is what gets children ready to become adults. But what exactly
were they getting ready for? Life as a captured CIA agent and, I dunno, the next Anne Frank?
Adults do not do act this way. If I hadn't been busy putting away clean laundry or mopping the kitchen floor or cleaning the bathrooms this afternoon, I would not think:
"I know. I'll pretend my hands are tied behind my back and attempt to do some like clerical work." Nor would I take my newspaper and hide in the closet,
though, honestly, there are days when that would sound like a fabulous idea.
I finished putting away the clothes, and they finished their "imaginative play." One is now playing the piano and the other is in the backyard, surveying the melting snow.
I'm not sure either of these activities will prepare them for adulthood, but at least I understand them better. If nothing else, they might help foster more mainstream careers
in music and lawncare. Sorry for the loss, CIA.
Posted by Jen Singer, February 8, 2009 at 2:16 p.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
We've Had Enough of Losing Around Here. Read Jen's Tale of Two Tweens blog on
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Hurray for our Snow Afternoon
Last week, we had a snow day without snow. Yesterday, we had snow without a snow day. I can't wait to see what's next this wacky winter.
Our snowless snow day was actually an ice day, which means the kids were trapped inside all day, except when they wandered out in the freezing
rain and sleet to try to pretend they could sled and make snowmen and try to catch precipitation on their tongues, which probably hurt.
But there would be no snow day when it was actually snowing, because our school system has used up its three allotted days already -- by late January.
That's like running out of swim diapers by the 4th of July: You know you'll never find any now.
So the snow fell and the buses picked the kids up. And the snow continued to fall, and no early dismissal was called. And the snow came down some more,
and I decided to let the piano teacher off the hook and cancel lessons for the day. And the kids got to go out in snow -- actual powdery, pretty, fun-to-play-in snow --
and sled, make snowmen and catch (painless) precipitation on their tongues, until it got to dark and cold to be in the yard.
We had a Snow Afternoon. And I can't wait to see what's next.
Posted by Jen Singer, February 4, 2009 at 3:42 p.m.
No Springsteen tickets for the short people.
I am not bringing my kids back to 1984. Or forward to spring of 2009, either. I am not taking them with us to the Bruce Springsteen
concert at the Meadowlands.
I know that it would be very cute to take my children to see my favorite band and its best venue. After all, I took my
mother to the "Born in the USA" concert, so why not bring my kids Bruce's "Working on a Dream" tour?
Let's see...
My older son hates rock and roll. A fan of jazz and classical music, he tends to poo-poo whatever I play in my car. It's like
riding around with a 70-year-old man -- a man who shouldn't be at a Springsteen concert.
My younger son prefers the food to the show. And at the Meadowlands, the food costs more than the Gross Domestic Product of, well, the United States.
Unlike my brother, who will get two of the tickets I snagged this morning, my kids won't pay me back.
Also unlike my brother, they might be disappointed if I have to unload my tickets due to an economic downturn. My brother can get himself to the show. Also, he can unload the tickets.
They don't know the words to "Hungry Heart."
So, as nice as it would be to introduce my children to the spectacular show that is Springsteen at the Meadowlands, they're not invited.
But they may well have to listen to him in the car.
Posted by Jen Singer, February 2, 2009 at 10:14 a.m.
So Long, Hoochie Momma
I was at my new gym this morning when I saw a woman who really shouldn't have been out in that outfit. Her workout clothes
were a tad ratty; holes were forming along the seams of her tight gray workout pants and a thread was hanging off her purple top.
I thought: Even if it were brand new, she really needs another few months of working out to look even half-way decent in that outfit.
And then I realized I was looking in a mirror.
Why nobody warned me not to wear that old outfit before I left the house is beyond me. Actually, it's not beyond me. It's beyond the males I live with.
A daughter would come in handy in these situations -- the kind where you're about to go to a fancy schmancy new gym dressed like a hoochie momma.
I hadn't been to the gym since my membership at my old gym ran out last September, back when I was wearing shorts and loose shirts to work out in.
I have been working at a friend's house once a week since, but I don't have to look particularly nice for her, so I guess my standards have lowered. Also,
my belly and butt, judging from the view on the elliptical machine this morning.
But the truth is that I forget that I am out of shape, choosing to be in denial over the entire chemo, steroids, blast-your-muscles to nothingness that happened to me not long ago.
I feel so much better now, so I guess I think I look much better, too -- until I passed by a full-length mirror in the free weight section at the gym.
When I got home, I chucked the ratty outfit in the garbage and sifted through my sweats to see what will cover my chemo-flavored muffin top until I start to look more like I feel.
So long, hoochie momma. You can't come to the gym with me anymore.
Posted by Jen Singer, January 31, 2009 at 12:19 p.m.
Dear January: Good-bye to your "Snow Days."
Dear January:
I can't say that I'm sorry to see you go. That's hard for me to say when you and I go back so far together, back to when I was born
on January 8th 42 years ago, on Elvis' birthday. But I have to admit that I'm kind of looking forward to February. I hope you understand.
It wasn't just the Christmas bills this time, though in this economy, they stung more than usual. And you know that this cancer survivor is
thrilled to be another year older.
Rather, it was the sick days and the "snow days" that turned out to be ice days and soon, rain days. If you're going to be a winter month, please
be one. This wishy-washy, slippy-slidey driveway stuff is getting old.
And back to the sick days. Can you coordinate them so they fall on your "snow (ice/rain) days"? Call it your "Big Blowout 2-for-1 January Sale!"
and stick it on a sales rack with the size 2 Petite pants and the lipstick-stained sweaters you're so famous for.
I tried, I really tried to enjoy your January-ness,
but I'm still waiting for my toes to thaw from our afternoon of skiing (falling) down the mountain. But I do thank you for making sure
my son didn't hit a tree when he caught tremendous air sledding over a rock in our backyard. That ice sure does add speed, doesn't it?
Maybe the Monkey Wars thing could have happened in any month,
trapping me a classroom with eight fidgety boys who want to write about soccer moms battling out gun-toting monkeys. But then again, I could have moved the Cub
Scouts meeting to the playground if it hadn't been covered in ice.
Now, stop that. Stop the pretty light snow quietly falling into the woods behind my house like a scene from a hot chocolate commercial. It's too little, too late.
Besides, February can do the same thing. And if it doesn't, well, at least it's three days shorter than you are.
Goodbye, January. We'll meet again, but next year, please leave the ice and flu bugs and Monkey Wars behind.
Posted by Jen Singer, January 30, 2009 at 12:19 p.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
Math Games for People Who Prefer Words. Read Jen's Tale of Two Tweens blog on
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Mom and the Sick Day Blues
When I am under the weather, I rarely, if ever, feel like spending my sick day bouncing rubber balls across the family room floor.
In fact, when I'm feeling well, I don't feel like it either. And yet, ever since we got home from the pediatrician's office 45 minutes ago, my son
has been bouncing his rubber ball collection on the floor over my head.
It is right about now that I begin to wonder if I really should have called my child in sick. Or at least, if I should have dropped him off at school
when his quick strep test turned up negative and his pediatrician diagnosed him with "just a bad cold." A bad cold that was accompanied by
a barky seal-like cough -- kind of like the one his friend with whooping cough has -- this morning, but now, not so much. Now, it's accompanied by bounce-bounce-bounce-bounce-bounce.
I thought we'd be done with this by now. This Name-That-Illness game. This It's just a cold, but keep him home anyway stuff. This nebulous sick day nonsense.
He's 10, not 3. He's not going to sneeze on the other kids.
He's not going to put various objects in his mouth. He's not going to fall asleep at his desk. Rather, he is going to bounce-bounce-bounce his rubber balls while I wonder
what he's missing at school today. Also, what I'm missing because I can't leave the house.
Here's what I did when I heard his cough this morning:
I texted my friend Cheryl to tell her I wouldn't be working out with her this morning.
I texted my brother to cancel lunch.
I called the school nurse to ask her to send homework home with my other son and to send him home on the bus today.
I cancelled piano lessons.
I called my son in sick at choir lessons.
I cancelled our choir carpool.
I checked the pantry to make sure that we have enough food for two night's dinners, as we're supposed to get snowed in tomorrow.
I made an appointment at the pediatrician's office and took my son there and then back home, stopping for soup along the way.
I turned my car around and backed it into the garage in case I need to get out in the snow tomorrow.
I listened to bounce-bounce-bouncing.
Here's what my husband did:
He went to work.
If only I'd been lucky enough for the Sick Day and tomorrow's Snow Day to match up, to align like stars in a rare newsworthy instance. Then I couldn't have gotten out anyhow and
my son's cough would have subsided and the bouncing would have started. I could have skipped my entire list and gotten some work done. But alas. If only I felt like bouncing balls.
Posted by Jen Singer, January 27, 2009 at 11:51 a.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
I'm the One Behind Monkeys vs. Soccer Moms. Read Jen's Tale of Two Tweens blog on
GoodHousekeeping.com.
I Resign as Keeper of the Stuff
Dear family,
I hereby resign as the Keeper of the Stuff. This means that I will no longer keep track of where you put the gift certificate you got a month ago,
nor the shoes you've somehow misplaced once again. Also, papers, scissors and the cheese you left out on the counter last night.
If you leave something on the kitchen table or countertops that are not A. napkins or B. a coffee maker, I will move them and then promptly forget where I've put them.
Franky, this is nothing new, but it continues to surprise and confound you, so I thought I'd make it official.
If you are headed somewhere where I will not be either joining you or dropping you off, I will not provide detailed instructions on how to get there,
when you should arrive or what the weather might be like. Contrary to popular belief, these are not innate abilities of people who possess two X chromosomes.
Besides, it's filling up my brain, and I need to clear out some disk space to make room for other things, such as: when your soccer club money is due, what we're having for dinner on Monday,
where tomorrow's birthday party is and when, who's in my carpool from Cub Scouts, whether you've got clean socks, if the mortgage has been paid,
when your current events project is due, what to get my mother-in-law for her birthday, where the 1099's for the 2008 taxes are being stored until the accountant asks for them,
how many words I have yet to write in my book due to my publisher on March 1st (23,916) even though you are talking to me while I write,
where the throat lozenges are located, when your annual pediatrician's check-up needs to be scheduled (now) and what time "American Idol" starts, among other things.
I simply don't have the room for whatever it is you just asked me for.
And so, I resign. This will make my life easier, as you will no longer be compelled to ask me where your things are. It will make your life easier, too, because
it will save you from the crushing disappointment that so frequently follows such inquiries. Perhaps you will even begin to be your own Keepers of Your Own Stuff. Who knows?
All I know is that you're out of socks, the birthday party is at the ice skating rink and I've still got 23,916 words to write by March 1st, even though you're talking to me while I write.
Best regards,
Mom Posted by Jen Singer, January 24, 2009 at 4:02 p.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
The Pinewood Derby Turns Me into a Slacker Mom. Read Jen's Tale of Two Tweens blog on
GoodHousekeeping.com.
5 Things I Don't Miss about Toddlers
I love my nephew. I really do. But when I see my two-year-old nephew, I remember what it was like to have toddlers in my house (and on the couch, the tables
and the counters), and I remember to appreciate the ability to remain seated and to eat with both hands at the same time. Also, I remember what I don't miss about
having toddlers around. Here are five of them.
When it comes to toddlers, I don't miss...
...having to scan the room for potential hazards, much like the Secret Service at the Presidential Inauguration.
...shoving dinner down the chute in 4 minutes, 44 seconds (toddlerhood meal average) so I can get back to following a toddler up the stairs, down the stairs, up the stairs...
...enduring meltdowns over the gum/mints/Reese's Peanut Butter cups/Good Housekeeping magazine with the cupcake on the cover that's
eye level in the supermarket.
...nap-inducing drives around the neighborhood. (Why do they work better on Mommy?).
...mysterious sticky substances on various surfaces, including the cat's fur and my boots.
Posted by Jen Singer, January 20, 2009 at 9:50 a.m.
Jen's new book, MommaSaid.net Presents: Stop Second-Guessing Yourself - The Toddler Years is available for presale at Barnes and Noble.com.
5 Things That Don't Happen When I'm Away
Cheerios are not removed from the floor, making for a nice crunching sound upon my return that reminds me of stepping on ice-covered snow
or dried-out contact lenses.
Crumbs are not wiped from the kitchen table. If only we had a pet bird.
Coats are not hung up in the closet, because, it seems, that the chairs and the floor must have been cold.
Clothes are washed, but not put away, thereby creating a grand Tower of Laundry that serves as a sartorial Jenga game: Pull out the wrong thing and then whole thing comes down.
The beds are not made. I mean, really. We're just going to use them again tonight.
Posted by Jen Singer, January 19, 2009 at 11:12 a.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
Don't worry. Everybody falls. Read Jen's Tale of Two Tweens blog on
GoodHousekeeping.com.
American Idol is Sucking Us In
We are so sucked in. All it took was one episode, last night's season premiere of American Idol, and I can just feel
the disappointment brewing already. And yet, we watched, and we'll continue to watch, because we are so sucked in.
This is only our second season of watching America's favorite karaoke show, so please bear with us as we go through all
the emotions that more seasoned viewers worked through back in 2002 or so.
Last night, my fourth grader was "just going to watch until 9," but wound up right next to me near the show's end at 10, watching the
blind contestant sing his way to Hollywood. He pointed out which contestant fit which profile:
"Oh, she's a Syesha," he said of one girl who was, indeed, much like last year's Syesha, bubbly but "Broadway," as Simon derided runner-up Syesha.
"He's the Archuleta," he observed about a sweet sounding teen with the face of a baby seal.
"She's the Kristy Lee Cook," his accurate description of the girl in the pink cowboy hat (who didn't make it, but never mind.)
And that's when I realized the whole thing is probably the same thing year after year, with a few new side dramas and gimmicks, but largely
the same old thing. Which means one night of big disappointment in May when this year's Archuleta doesn't win.
Why am I watching this? Why can't I stop watching it? Worse, why did we start watching it in the first place? I can't remember. All I know is
that there's another two-hour show on tonight, and I can't help but think we'll wind up watching the whole darn thing until we identify
the full set of last year's repeats (i.e. "He's the David Cook.") And suddenly, I miss my Tivo very much.
Posted by Jen Singer, January 14, 2009 at 4:44 p.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
How About a Boys Will Be Boys Badge?. Read Jen's Tale of Two Tweens blog on
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Looking for Redemption on the Slopes
There's a moment when you see your kids figuring out how to ski without wiping out and taking innocent bystanders down with them
that makes the whole thing worthwhile. We are far from that moment.
It's been three years since I last took my kids skiing. I'd endured all the schlepping and the whining and the complaining about cold toes.
And that was just me. I even got hit in the head by a ski lift. Ah, but it was worth it when my boys finally figured out how to ski.
But then two years of health issues kept me (and therefore, them) off the slopes. So while I'm excited to be able to give skiing a go this afternoon
for the first time since 2006, I am also weary of the schlepping and the whining and the complaining about cold toes. Will we have to start all over,
or will they be able to remember that moment when they both figured out how to ski without my help? Or will we impale innocent bystanders with our ski poles
and call it a day?
I've packed up the skis and gear, and I sent the kids to school with pick-up slips. I've checked the conditions on the Mountain, and I've summoned up
my courage. Also, my strength for the schlepping and the low-flying ski lifts. All I need now is that moment we had three years ago to arrive quickly
and victoriously. And cash for pizza and hot chocolate, just in case we need to get off the slopes for a while.
Posted by Jen Singer, January 12, 2009 at 10:12 a.m.
My Husband's Mood for Food
My husband is in a cooking mood. I think the weather does it to him. There's something about a looming blizzard
that prompts him to pour over his Bon Appetit magazines until he gets inspired enough to head to the supermarket
and return with all sorts of high end ingredients that I rarely think of buying.
We've got a bowl of cream sitting out on the counter that I am not to touch. "It's supposed to be out all afternoon," he
explained. "It might turn into creme fraiche."
Or botulism. We'll see.
There's also a roast and a lot of fancy looking herbs and the look of great promise on Hubby's face. Obviously, he stayed up late
watching the Food Network again last night because he has clearly been inspired. He's also smart: He knows that what will amount to hours of work,
ending in a disappointing 12-minute dinner with one kid skipping it altogether, isn't quite worth it. So, he's trolling for neighbors
to come over and eat his masterpiece. After all, we'll be snowed in around here. I just hope the power doesn't go out, or he'll be grilling outside
in 30-mph winds. At least the creme fraiche doesn't require refrigeration.
I am happy to be among the benefactors of my husband's cooking inspiration. I will make sure I praise his hard work and his meal,
because I want to encourage his cooking moods. It's a lot of work to do all that cooking, and I have no desire to do it, looming blizzard or not.
But if the creme fraiche turns my stomach, I might have to intervene.
Posted by Jen Singer, January 10, 2009 at 11:48 a.m.
HOW'S JEN?
Want a PET scan? The magic word is "birthday." Check out
How's Jen.
The Snow Day without Snow
A Snow Day without snow is like a Hallmark "Just for Fun" card minus the fun.
I know this, because school is closed today thanks to an ice storm that spread across our area just in time for whoever wakes up at 5 a.m. and decides
whether to send out the school buses. As a result, I have five desperate kids trying to play in the icy backyard while pretending not to notice the rain
beating on their heads.
Or I had them outside. Now they are inside. I can't complain; this was my idea. I figured that three extra kids would distract my two kids, thereby keeping them
from killing each other before dinner. But I didn't expect the rolling noise over my head. It's either a Magic Eight Ball or the final moments in the lives of one of our
Wii controllers. Maybe of my life, too, if I hear that loud crash again. It's hard to know for sure.
Lucky for me, they're old enough to call for help, but help will have to ice skate here. And so I wait out the storm and the kids and the Wii controller/Magic Eight Ball noise,
hoping that tomorrow brings a sunny, dry day for us all. And maybe a Zamboni for the driveway. Now that would be Just for Fun.
Posted by Jen Singer, January 7, 2009 at 1:33 p.m.
Dear Family, It's Time...
Dear Family,
I am wearing my last pair of clean underpants. I tell you this not to make the pre-pubescent among you giggle, though if I have, you're welcome.
I tell you this because, despite your long faces this morning, it's time.
It's time for you to go back to school and to work.
It's time for me to get a chance to do my own laundry, instead of waiting for the snow gear to finish up in the dryer -- again.
It's time to put down the holiday cookies and put your hands where I can see them.
It's time for Dad to stop hollering down the stairs, "Who left the lights on again?"
It's time for me to be able to carry on a telephone conversation without simultaneously motioning to people to clean up the milk/close the snack bags so they don't go stale/
leave the wet snow gear in the garage...for now/stop hitting your brother/turn off the lights so Dad doesn't holler again/stop snitching cookies/check the dryer for mittens.
It's time for me to be able to write a sentence, maybe two, without listening to the shredder operate just 10 feet from my desk while two people ask me whether the model train store
is open, as though this type of information is provided telepathically to anyone with XX chromosomes.
It's time for the holidays to end.
It's not that I didn't enjoy our time together. I did. But I'm wearing my last pair of clean underpants, and so it's time for the break to end. I hope you'll understand
why I did not share a long face with you this morning as you left for work and for school. Also, why there are no mittens in the dryer, just my underpants.
Love,
Mom Posted by Jen Singer, January 5, 2009 at 1:12 p.m.
Battle of the Moms: Player One Rocks!
"Let the moms play!" the six kids who'd been taking turns at playing Guitar Hero chanted. We'd finished dinner at our neighbors' house,
and it was almost time to go. But not before I kicked Grace's butt at playing "Ramblin' Man."
I'm sure the kids thought it would be funnier if the moms competed than if the dads jammed out. Perhaps, but it wasn't the first time
I'd held a Guitar Hero guitar. Plus, it was on Easy mode.
We took our guitars and our seats, and Grace picked "Ramblin' Man" from our list of songs. Good thing, too, because I don't think I could
handle any more "Livin' on a Prayer." I like Bon Jovi, just not over and over and over -- with children singing along. When did the bad boys
of New Jersey become choir material? It makes me feel old.
Once the son started, I flew out of the gate fast, hitting note after note while poor Grace apparently didn't, prompting coaching from her teen girls.
One of my sons told me to hit the reverb bar, or something like that, but that proved too advanced for me. Instead, I concentrated
on hitting the notes until soon, I'd racked up double Grace's total score. Her kids kept on coaching her. I tuned everyone out.
The song ended, and the screen announced, "Player One Rocks!" Grace, apparently, did not. But they just got their Wii, so I suspect she'll practice
until we have a Guitar Hero Mom Rematch. Until then, I'm happy to know that for a few minutes in a suburban living room with children cheering me on, I totally rocked. Posted by Jen Singer, January 2, 2009 at 3:12 p.m.
Tag, You're It! No, I'm It.
I was tagged in an online game of tag by
Jamie Novak, organizer extraordinaire, so now I'm "It," which means I'm now in the middle of a huge Internet-wide game of posting,
"Seven Things You Didn't Know About Me."
So, here are mine:
When I was 15, I raised two abandoned baby raccoons, thereby getting a taste of how hard motherhood can be. (My human babies were nocturnal, too.)
I tried to friend about 60 Jen/Jenny/Jennifer Singers on Facebook, but only one accepted.
Of their two parents, my kids' mother was the one who lived in a fraternity house for two summers in college.
I'm also the only one in the house who can belt a soccer ball into the far upper corners of the goal from outside the 18-yard-line. On a good day, anyhow.
When I walk through cigarette smoke, I grimace, cough and gag as though I might drop to the ground, thereby requiring medical assistance.
I taught a mini-van full of first graders the words to the "Diarrhea Song." And I'd do it again, given the chance.
After battling cancer at 40, I've started to round up my age to the next birthday like a kid does so that I've confused myself. Will I be 42 or 43 next Thursday?
Happy New Year!
Posted by Jen Singer, January 1, 2009 at 11:47 a.m.
Speed-Shopping Leads to Slow (Okay, No) Delivery
As soon as I saw that it was my husband calling me, I sighed. He had left the house a half-hour earlier to head to
the plumbing supply store to buy new heaters for our son's room,
and was no doubt calling to ask my opinion, of which, frankly, I have none.
"Buy the white ones," I answered the phone.
"Huh?" Pete asked.
"White, in a large," I replied. And then he laughed. He knew that he'd called me numerous times from various home supply stores while we were remodeling our house last year.
He also knew that I was in no mood for it now. I'd had my home decision for the day when the furniture delivery guys dropped a piece of my brand new chair on our front step.
Yes that chair, the one I wrote about the other day. The one that I'd picked out faster than it took my husband to order dinner last night at a local restaurant. The one that was supposed
to arrive at my house on the 20th and then the 27th and then today due to various mix-ups, as reported by The Only Joanne in the Universe, the furniture saleswoman who refers to
herself as "Joanne" when she calls my cell phone, leaving me to figure out which of the 247 Joannes I know that this one in particular might be.
I was hopeful this morning. I really was. I thought that maybe the chair would arrive, and I could put it in the family room where my husband would instantly fall in love with it,
thereby vindicating my speed-shopping style. I sprung out of bed early, pulled his car out of the garage to make room for the furniture deliverymen and moved the big burgundy
chair out of the way. My husband was getting his new chair. I was getting my props.
I pictured us rejoicing over the near-perfect selection of a new chair for our family room -- a selection that had taken my mother and me all of 12 minutes to make.
I'd pour Hubby some coffee as he lounged back in his new chair, satisfied with its comfort and color. And he would never doubt my shopping abilities again. Maybe he'd even
stop calling me from home supply stores.
Pete was upstairs when the deliverymen arrived. I watched one of them carry our new chair across the front lawn, and I smiled. It was perfect, just like I remembered it from the showroom.
I started to motion toward the garage, where I thought the chair would better fit through the door, when the deliverman put the chair on my front step. And then I heard it:
the sound of a piece of wood hitting concrete.
The &*#! chair was broken.
I shouted up to Pete, "You want to see the chair before I return it?" But there was no answer. Then I told the delivery guys to take away the chair -- my chair, my not-so-perfect chair.
And then I watched them carry it back to the truck, close the back door and drive off.
Five minutes later, Pete appeared in the family room. He looked around and then looked at me and shrugged. Vindication would have to wait.
I'm waiting for The Only Joanne in the Universe to call so we can figure out how to get an entirely new chair, and not my chair with the piece of wood glue-gunned on.
Until then, I'll just have to imagine what a new chair would look like in our family room, a new chair that took 12 minutes to order and at least 17 days (and counting) to get here.
Posted by Jen Singer, December 29, 2008 at 10:36 a.m.
Drunk with Christmas, Now the Hangover Comes
The children are hungover. They were drunk with Christmas, and now, they're moving awfully slowly and they look tired.
Too much running around from house to house. Too much singing in the choir at church. Too many cookies and cakes.
Now they now how middle age feels much of the time.
They didn't make it through the holiday week unscathed. On Saturday night, my boys were among eight kids in the basement at our neighbor's house.
We grown-ups were trying to sit and talk, but we kept hearing too-loud noises coming from downstairs. When one dad went down to investigate,
he found tennis balls mysteriously rolling away from the children, who were standing ever so still. My son reported, "We weren't doing anything...
but he started it!"
By the time the night was over, one of my kids managed to clock his own head on a door, leaving behind a nice knot on his forehead, while
my other son somehow hit his own eye with a tennis ball. At least that's how they told it. After all, they weren't doing anything.
And now, everyone's just plain slow, tired and refraining from throwing balls or whipping doors open. Everyone's hungover from Christmas, and yet,
New Year's Eve is just two days from now. I'm not sure we can handle it. Our wounds are still too fresh, and everyone's hungover.
Posted by Jen Singer, December 29, 2008 at 10:36 a.m.
Reckless Shopping and the New Chair
I could see it in his eyes: He didn't want me to do it. He didn't want me to go there. But I grabbed my coat and my keys anyhow.
"I'm going. It'll be alright," I assured my husband, Pete. And yet, he still looked worried.
I was about to do something he would never think of doing. I was about to make a major purchase without first searching the Internet
for information, interviewing consumers and otherwise poring over all available data. I was just going to walk into the furniture store and buy a chair.
Actually, my mother was going to buy the chair as a Christmas present to us. We had ditched my husband's 15-year-old Lazy-Boy -- the one that was just
one jumping kid away from completely collapsing -- in the Dumpster when
we remodeled the house last year. Since then, Pete has been sitting in a not-made-for-lounging chair from the living room. My mother was doing us -- him -- a favor.
Before I left for the store, he printed out information for some potential chairs from the Internet and handed it to me.
"Do you have to get it today?" he asked.
"This is how my mother and I shop," I reminded him. "And the chair is free." I knew that if I left it up to him, we'd still be researching the chair come spring.
And then my mother might lose interest in purchasing the chair altogether.
I thought back to the agony he had put himself through when we bought a new sectional couch after our construction. He researched and
asked questions and even called me from the store -- twice -- to confirm that this indeed was the couch for us. And then, after three months of
intense research, he bought the very couch I'd had in mind from the very beginning. We get to the same place; I just take the short cut.
My mother and I do not shop this way, Pete's way. We don't have the patience or the interest to comparison shop. We know what we want, and then we buy it.
And we never have buyer's remorse.
A few years ago, I needed to buy a sweater for an upcoming TV appearance. When we walked into Talbot's, she flanked to the right while I went to the left. Thirty seconds later
we both arrived at a forest green turtleneck sweater hanging on the back wall.
"This is perfect," we both said, and then I bought it. I didn't even try it on.
If only we could make a living at speed shopping.
When my mom and I arrived at the furniture store last week, I asked the saleswoman to show me one of the chairs on Pete's print-out. I sat in it and shook my head.
"Let's look over here," Mom said.
We rounded the corner, found a chair that wasn't on my husband's list, and tested it out. I nodded at my mother, and she nodded back.
Elapsed time: 12 minutes.
I thought about Pete at home, fraught with worry, so I took a picture of the chair with my cell phone and e-mailed it to him. Then I called him.
He asked for the serial number, so he could look it up on the web site while I lounged in the chair.
"Is it gold?" he asked.
"It's brown, and it's sitting right next to a chair that's the same color and fabric as the couch, and it looks great," I reassured him.
"But does it match the brown in the carpet?" he agonized.
"There are three shades of brown in this chair," I said. "One of 'em will match."
I heard a long sigh. My mother explained to the saleswoman what was going on.
"Okay," he relented, adding that I should negotiate the price, and then he hung up.
Moments later, my Mom and I bought the chair -- that very chair -- for 20% off.
Our new chair hasn't yet arrived, but I'm confident that it's perfect for the family room and for him. I'm hoping that once he sits in it, he feels the same way.
I hope, too, that he's over the trauma of witnessing his wife buy a chair in the same amount of time it takes him to choose coffee.
Posted by Jen Singer, December 26, 2008 at 10:29 a.m.
Happy holidays from MommaSaid.net.
The Baby Registry -- Do Not Add List
My husband and I were overwhelmed by the aisles and aisles of baby stuff we encountered when we went to the store to sign up for our baby registry.
"Do we really need all this stuff?" I mumbled, while he disappeared behind the mountain of Pack 'n Plays.
"God, I hope not," I answered my own question.
And yet, there we were a year later, packing for a family trip to the beach with so much stuff in and on top of our SUV,
we looked like the Clampetts rolling into Beverly Hills.
You really do need a lot of the stuff you'll add to your baby registry, but not all of it. Here's my DO NOT ADD list for baby registries*:
Wipe Warmers. Not only do they drip condensation all over the changing table, they also set up your baby's expectations for a level of comfort
one might receive at the Ritz Carlton or at Donald Trump's Mar-a-Lago. It's a cold world out there: The sooner your baby learns that, the better.
A baby bathtub It can be handy at first, but they outgrow them fast, and then you wind up bathing them in the bathtub anyhow.
And in these environmentally conscious times, all that's left is to make a planter or an extra large dog bowl out of the darn thing. Note: The sink makes a fine infant tub, too.
Spoons, bowls and other feeding supplies. Baby won't need them for about six months, when he might prefer Thomas the Tank Engine over your Winnie the Pooh
dinnerware.
High chair. Why have it clogging up kitchen space when you won't need it for at least six months? On the other hand, why not have Grandma pay for this one?
It's a tough call.
Childproofing stuff. I'd go ahead and get the electrical outlet covers, but other than that, you won't really need the
doorway gates or the cabinet locks right away. And don't waste your money on too many gadgets, like the toilet lid latch my kids broke into like Houdini.
Wait a few months and then see what's working (or not working) for your friends with kids a little older than yours, and read online reviews before you buy childproofing gear.
Playmat. A blanket works just fine, too, but some of those playmates do come with fun stuff that hangs just within Baby's reach. Up to you.
Portable play pen. We used ours as a portable crib for trips. Other than that, nobody really sticks their babies in a playpen these days.
Baby Swing. It does come in handy if you'd like to prepare lunch with both hands, but I know some babies who hate them. Better to test drive one when your
baby is old enough.
Baby Monitor. If your house is big, get one. Otherwise, maybe you don't need to hear every whimper, sigh or burp.
We had a video one, which really wasn't necessary, except when my older son started climbing out of his crib. (Relax. You've got time.)
*I realize you may have disagree with some or all of the items on my list, but please maintain some perspective and refrain from calling me
all sorts of naughty words, simply because you loved your wipe warmer. Happy holidays! Posted by Jen Singer, December 20, 2008 at 10:51 a.m.
Those Annoying Holiday Family Letters Posted by Jen Singer, December 19, 2008 at 8:18 p.m.
That's Music to My Ears?
My efforts to de-class my children has fallen short. I don't know how I wound up with a child who listens only to classical music
and another who prefers Frank Sinatra, but I did. It's like living with two octagenarians, minus the fond memories of the FDR administration.
They have shown little interest in Guitar Hero, rolling their eyes while I jam out to Joan Jett's "I Love Rock and Roll." When I turned up The Partridge Family
on my radio the other day, they told me to "turn that down!" And who ever heard of two New Jersey boys who don't appreciate Springsteen? I have. I live with them.
So, as I reported yesterday, I bought my kids kazoos. It was time to de-class the place a little. But here's the thing: They didn't know how to play them.
They blew into them like they were playing their clarinet or tenor saxophone. It took a few lessons for me to demonstrate how to play, but today, they got it.
What did they play? Santa Claus is Coming to Town? Britney Spears? David Cook?
No, they played "In the Hall of the Mountain King," which you probably know best from Harry Potter, though my kids have never seen Harry Potter. They may have learned it on Wii Music, or maybe from the other people at the old folks' home. I'm not sure. But there they were,
standing by the Christmas tree, harmonizing a classical tune on kazoos while failing to see the irony in that.
Clearly, there's only one thing I can do now: Teach them to play it with arm farts. Let's see them harmonize that. Hello, Julliard? Wait'll you see what we have here.
Posted by Jen Singer, December 18, 2008 at 10:36 a.m.
Kazoo Lessons and Mom's Never Ending Responsibilities
My heart sank when he started blowing into it. How can a kid make it to 11 without having a clue how to play a kazoo?
So, his little brother tried it. He, too, blew into it like he was at band practice, and not jamming out on a plastic toy with a piece of wax paper inside it.
I took the kazoo away from my boys and demonstrated how to play it. I played a few bars of "Sleigh Ride," and handed the kazoo back to them.
One blew air again and the other asked, "What is this thing?"
Clearly, I have done wrong by my children. They do not know how to play kazoos and one isn't even sure what it is. Yet, one can play the tenor saxophone and the other the clarinet, and both
can play the piano. Still, neither can play a $1.50 kazoo, which is pretty much the extent of my musical talents.
Didn't I show them a few dozen hours of "The Little Rascals?" Yes indeed. Didn't I teach them the words to "The Diarrhea Song?" Yep. Didn't I show them how to blow a bubble inside a bubble
with two pieces of Bazooka? Absolutely. I have done my part to prepare them for childhood. But the kazoos...I forgot the kazoos.
I guess I thought they'd figure it out, like the slingshot
they fashioned out of rubber tubing and a hockey stick.
Naturally, they can play the kazoo and many other instruments on the Wii, including, but not limited to: the cello, the ukelele and the sitar.
They can both play the theme from "Star Wars" on the real instruments my father gave them -- a 70-year-old clarinet and a 65-year-old saxophone. Real ones, not Wii ones.
But the kazoos? Not so much.
By the time they left for school, they were getting the hang of playing the kazoo. They'll need more lessons this afternoon, but I have faith that their two years of
lessons with more complicated instruments will pay off. If not, we'll have a remedial lesson from "The Little Rascals" and demonstrations by me, an accomplished kazoo player,
if I do say so myself. Oh, the never-ending responsibilities of motherhood...including cleaning off those kazoos before we all pass the stomach flu around for Christmas.
Posted by Jen Singer, December 17, 2008 at 11:54 a.m.
The Mystery of the Junk at the End of My Driveway
When we left the house last night to attend a concert at our church, we noticed something at the end of our driveway near
where we usually put our recycling bins and garbage cans. I got out of the car and found an old rusted ironing board
and a weed whacker minus the part that whacks.
This is not our stuff. We do not live near a dump and we no longer house a huge Dumpster in our driveway, our house construction having been
finished over a year ago. We are not on the way to much of anything other than houses; you have to drive around a loop and back past our house to leave the neighborhood.
So you'd think that if these items had accidentally fallen off a truck and into our hedges, as some in my family like to think, their owners might have noticed them
on the way out and stopped to retrieve them. Rather, I think that someone dumped them there on purpose.
I would really like to be in the camp that believes that this was merely an accident, but I am too paranoid for that.
It's pretty amazing that they'd fall off a truck and land not in the middle of the road, but rather, on the edge of our property.
But we did once find a dead cat in our bushes at the end of the driveway, so maybe I don't understand the laws of physics as they
relate to tires. (The boys and I had been praying for a cat, which my husband does not want. We were more specific in our prayers after that.)
Or maybe they fell off a truck and into the middle of the road, and so a neighbor had to get out of the car and move them to our property. Which means that not only
do we have ugly junk at the end of our driveway that neither the garbage men nor the recycling guys will take, an eyesore that will no doubt tick off our neighbors, we are now
known as the family who leaves junk in the road. Which explains why I'm so prone to paranoia when it comes to these sorts of things.
The garbage men have come and gone this morning, and yet, the ironing board and the broken weed whacker still sit at the end of my driveway. We can leave them there and hope that
the people who "lost" them will return and take them home with them. Or we can hide them until bulk garbage day, an event that happens when you least need it, probably next July or something. I never
know when it is until I see junk at the end of my neighbors' driveways. And if other neighbors schedule their bulk junk removal the way I do, others will no doubt put their old weed whackers and ironing boards at
the end of their driveways, what with having seen the Singers' stuff sitting there, waiting to be picked up. And soon, there will be junk up and down the road,
cluttering up the nice holiday decorations and freezing to the shrubs.
I'm not sure we'll ever solve the Mystery of the Junk at the End of My Driveway, but I'm still sticking by my theory that the dumping of the stuff was intentional.
So, I will add to "The 12 Days of Christmas" my own edits: "On the first day of Christmas somebody left for me, an ironing board and a weed whacker that doesn't whack."
Posted by Jen Singer, December 15, 2008 at 11:32 a.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
Well, Virginia: Santa's Flying Light This Year. Read Jen's Tale of Two Tweens blog on
GoodHousekeeping.com.
The Rubber Band Man and My Freshly Painted Walls
He wanted a bag of rubber bands. I didn't ask questions.
I assumed that my fourth grader needed the bag of rubber bands he'd put into our shopping cart at the supermarket
for a school project or to organize things on his desk.
After nearly 12 years of motherhood, I really should know better.
This morning, I discovered why my child "needed" the bag of rubber bands, when a 3-inch rubber band ball bounced past my
head, narrowly missing my tea, hitting a picture of Illinois Governor Blagojevich in the New York Times, ricocheting
off our (freshly painted) wall and landing under the Christmas tree.
When I pointed out that I had been unaware of his intentions with the bag of rubber bands, his brother listened intently.
I mentioned the potential effects on the walls, and my other son suggested that perhaps the ball might break some of our
Christmas decorations.
I thought I had an advocate for the Anti Rubber Band Ball campaign, until the son without the rubber bands asked, "Can
I have a bag of rubber bands?"
"Sure. When you get your own house," I answered.
Posted by Jen Singer, December 11, 2008 at 11:17 a.m.
The 2008-2009 Children's Winter Gear Contract (a.k.a. Find your own gloves, kid.)
8 December, 2008
Now, therefore, for the due consideration set forth herein, it is hereby mutually agreed by and between the parties
("MOM" and "OFFSPRING") hereto as follows:
CLAUSE 1
For this day and the remainder of the winter 2008-2009 season, or whenever it's no longer cold enough to warrant
wearing anything from the Lands End Winter Catalogue, MOM is not responsible for locating, storing, keeping inventory of
and/or otherwise devoting any brain cells to the whereabouts of any gloves, mittens, hats, scarves, coats, boots or other
winter gear that belong to OFFSPRING.
CLAUSE 2
This includes, but is not limited to, the days that OFFSPRING removes muddy gloves and abandons them under muddy snow pants in the garage, only
to have a third party (i.e. DAD) run over them with his car.
CLAUSE 3
This also includes, but is not limited to, whenever OFFSPRING ditches hats in the back of MOM's mini-van, in the neighbor's yard
or on the playground at school.
CLAUSE 4
Should the latter occur, it is the responsibility of OFFSPRING to root through the Lost and Found box in the school cafeteria, because MOM
has better things to do, including, but not limited to, working, carpooling and buying OFFSPRING's Christmas presents.
CLAUSE 5
OFFSPRING hereby promises not to wait until 90 seconds before the school bus arrives to search for gloves, mittens, hats, scarves, coats, boots or other
winter gear that belongs to OFFSPRING, but rather to place them on the shelves in the closet where MOM put them in the first place, back when it was still warm out.
CLAUSE 6
MOM hereby promises not to reply "where ever you left them" when OFFSPRING panics and asks, "Where are my gloves?" while pulling every item
of clothing out of the closet and leaving them on the kitchen floor, because the bus is now here.
CLAUSE 7
Rather, MOM promises to take her tea and go hide elsewhere in the house. She will not help OFFSPRING (see above Clauses 1-6).
IN WITNESS WHEREOF, the parties have executived this Agreement as of the day and year written above, until we do this all over again
with sandals, swimsuits and goggles when the weather gets warm again.
SIGNED
Jen Singer
Posted by Jen Singer, December 8, 2008 at 10:23 a.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
This Descendant of Puritans is Proud to be Unbalanced. Read Jen's Tale of Two Tweens blog on
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Three Minutes Til SpongeBob -- and Other Sick Day Announcements
Three minutes until SpongeBob! I know this, because it has been announced by one of the two children who are home, sick from school today.
Not the one who got me up at 5 because his post-croup throat hurt and he needed to sit by an open window and inhale cold December air until he could breathe better.
The other one. The one who has taken Motrin and Maalox in an alternating schedule for the past two days. Meanwhile, my Christmas list collects dust.
Ah, but with 21 days 'til Christmas and two sick kids, I am grateful that Al Gore invented online shopping. Or whoever. Without it,
everyone would get Motrin and Maalox and a color-coded calendar of Nickelodeon's TV schedule for Christmas.
For now, though, I am doing my best not to catch either flu, though judging by the two sweaters and fleece socks I'm wearing -- and yet, I'm still cold --
I'm losing that battle. Maybe it's time to go lie on the couch and declare a sick day for Mom, whatever that is. After all, SpongeBob is on.
Posted by Jen Singer, December 4, 2008 at 1:57 p.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
This Descendant of Puritans is Proud to be Unbalanced. Read Jen's Tale of Two Tweens blog on
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Recipe Swap? Can I type up a take-out menu instead?
My sister-in-law should know better. This morning, she sent me an e-mail that warned,
"You have been invited to be part of a recipe exchange."
To other people, that's a pleasant invitation, not unlike one for a cocktail party. But for me, it she might as well
have invited me to do her laundry or clean the grout on her bathroom floor. I cook because I have to. My husband, on the other hand,
cooks because he loves to, which is why the five most romantic words he says to me are
"Get out of my kitchen."
Oh how I love him.
And yet, the disturbing e-mail went on. "Please send a recipe to the person whose name is listed in the number 1 position below." In my case, that was to my sister-in-law.
So, I sent her the recipe for the lunch I'd "prepared" for my son, who is home, sick today, and me:
Call the bagel shop.
Order bagels and soup.
Pay the delivery person when she arrives.
Enjoy!
After all, the e-mail did say, "Don't agonize over which recipe." Also, "Think of the recipe that you make when you're short on time."
I made mine with the phone and eight bucks. Exchange that.
Posted by Jen, December 3, 2008 at 1:56 p.m.
How to Run a Playdate in the White House by Jen Singer
When you live in the White House, you can't have the usual run-around-the-yard playdate. Here are some playdate planning guidelines for Mrs. Obama as she plans the First Daughters' social calendar come January:
Step 1: Decide which kids to invite over. If you can "reach across the aisle," extending an invitation to, say, Newt Gingrich's grandkids, it'll make Hubby happy.
Step 2: Remember: When you call the playdates' parents, you don't have to supply your address.
Step 3: After the children arrive, greet the parents, who will undoubtedly make no motion toward leaving.
Step 4: Realize that you, too, are now having a playdate. Tell your social secretary that the seating chart for the state dinner will have to wait, and start the private tour.
Step 5: Don't worry: The Secret Service will chase the First Puppy, who has now escaped into the Rose Garden. And CNN will film the madcap chase for your family reel.
Step 6: Warn the White House chef of the impending pantry raid.
Step 7: When you wonder if anyone can hear that loud Hannah Montana music over in the West Wing, go tell the kids to turn it down. After all, Daddy's working from home today.
Step 8: Apologize to Miley Cyrus for referring to her music as "that god-awful sound," and ask her if her stay in the Lincoln Bedroom has been satisfactory.
Step 9: Remember that you can't just kick them all outside to play without alerting the SWAT team up on the roof. Tell Rosebud and Radiance to show their friends to the bowling alley in the basement instead.
Step 10: Note that you've got to go greet Hamid Karzai's wife in the Blue Room, and excuse yourself, leaving your guests with your social secretary.
Step 11: Don't feel bad about not escorting your playdates to the door. They're busy heading to the gift shop, anyhow.
Step 12: Tell Miley Cyrus it's time for her to go home, too.
Posted by Jen, November 29, 2008 at 4:41 p.m.
How to Grow Your Tongue, and Other Considerations
Child: "How can I make my tongue longer?"
Me: "Why would you want to do that? You'd have to roll it up to get it into your mouth."
Child: "So I can wipe my eyes with my tongue. Like a lizard."
Me: "Well, that would come in handy when I want to take out my contact lenses and my hands are full."
Child: "Yep!"
I asked my brother if he'd had any such conversations with his 13-year-old daughter, and oddly, he can recall none like it.
Ah, but what he's missing out on indeed.
Posted by Jen, November 26, 2008 at 11:59 a.m.
The Four Horsemen of the Children's Choir
The priest jokingly referred to them as "The Four Horsemen." I'm certain he didn't think that the four boys -- the only four boys --
in the choir at our church would bring to us Strife, War, Famine and Death. Rather, they brought us a nice little ditty about the Lord
being our shepherd.
My son is one of the Four Horsemen. He leads off the four with a solo while the other three wait their turns at the microphone, and the girls --
about 12 of them -- wait for the chorus, when they join in. I would think that the boys were simply smart to choose an activity that is so
steeped in estrogen, but at 10-years-old, I'm sure that meeting girls is not (yet) their motivation for joining the choir. Instead, I think it's
got more to do with "American Idol."
While other boys come to church in their football uniforms, the Four Horsemen wear their Sunday best and cross their fingers that they'll get a solo each week.
A solo like David Archuleta got every week on "American Idol" until he lost out to David Cook in the finals last spring. Clearly, these boys are aiming for
the same kind of adoration of screaming fans, or at least the "good job today" they get from parents after church. Also, they like to sing.
And the choir is one of the few places they get to do that with a microphone and an audience.
The Four Horsemen will be joined by others from the Y chromosome at the Thanksgiving Service, when the adults and the "cherub choir" join the children's choir
for an hour of singing and celebrating. And I'll be in the pews, hoping that my own horseman gets a solo and a little adoration from his fans.
Posted by Jen, November 23, 2008 at 12:16 p.m.
Captain Red Pen, the Sequel
When I lifted my pen and started to make editing marks on my son's homework last night,
he let out the same long sigh that my brother used to emit whenever my father (a.k.a. Captain Red Pen) looked over his homework.
Rarely did my brother's work come out unscathed, and that was back before editing was made easier by computers.
Sadly for my son, I have inherited the Captain Red Pen gene. I can't help myself. After spending the afternoon editing the proofs
for my next book, I couldn't help but get a little edit-happy with his essay on "Crash," a book by Jerry Spinelli. It wasn't enough
to fix the punctuation and capitalize letters where needed. No, I had to wonder if there was a better phrase or a more clever thesis.
By the time I was done with my editorial control, he'd retyped his essay four times and was beginning to look very weary.
Finally, I put down my pen, and he put his essay in his backpack. Then, he went to bed early. I don't blame him. Being on the receiving end
of edits is exhausting, especially when Captain Red Pen is your editor.
Posted by Jen, November 21, 2008 at 10:26 a.m.
What's in a dust bunny?
I heard on Oprah that dust is really dead skin. Apparently, we are sloughing off skin all the time, and it ends up as dust in our house.
Really, Dr. Oz? Have you studied the dust in my house? Because, though I'm no scientist, I can bet that our dust bunnies are more than just dead skin.
In fact, if you put our dust under a microscope, here's what you'd likely see, from greatest to least concentration:
Cheddar Bunny crumbs.
Pieces of plastic from Wii disc containers, TV remote controls and Nerf basketball hoops.
What's left of the bits that have chipped off our dinner plates.
Sand from the summers of 2004-2008.
Frayed shoelace parts from the sneakers of the child who refuses to tie his shoes.
Blush from a make-up disaster, starring me.
Dried mud from the swamp down the street.
Halloween candy wrappers, especially M&M's.
Pencil points.
Dead skin.
That's what's in our dust bunnies, Dr. Oz. But I try not to think about it.
Posted by Jen, November 19, 2008 at 3:42p.m.
Snapshot of a School Day: School Visitation Day
The cars were spilling over from the school parking lot into the street out front.
Dozens and dozens of parents had gone to my kids' elementary school for School Visitation Day this morning, when parents
drop by their children's classrooms to sit while trying not to distract the class. It's supposed to give you a snapshot
of what their days are like, if their days were really about a bunch of kids behaving extra, extra well because half a dozen
parents are watching them from tiny little chairs in the back of the room.
When I got to my 4th grader's classroom, I realized he wasn't there. I soon figured out he was in the band room with
nine other aspiring clarinet players. I was the only parent in the band room, and the teacher seemed surprised to see me there.
I guess nobody else was stopping by to listen to nine- and ten-year-olds attempt to belt out "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel" on
a very complicated musical instrument. But I'm glad I did.
A few things struck me as I watched the teacher demonstrate how to play an "A" note:
The man has to know how to play, what, a dozen different instruments? That's amazing.
Plus, he has to teach groups of young children how to play them all day long. Also amazing.
They were playing their clarinets pretty well for a bunch of kids who just started playing two months ago. Again, amazing.
We are very fortunate that our school system has such a good music program.
The band teacher probably doesn't get paid enough.
After clarinet practice, I visited my 5th grader's class where they were learning about some sort of triangle I'd never heard of
and have promptly forgotten what it's called, but I know that it has no even sides. It looked like he was in good hands, so I went
to my 4th grader's classroom where my son had returned and was feverishly writing a story in his writing journal.
His teacher called on a few kids to read their stories, but they never called on my son, who seemed dejected that he didn't get to read it
while I was there. I'm sure I'll get to read it later. It was time to go.
By the time I trekked out to the road to retrieve my mini-van, I'd filed my snapshot of a school day away in my head for when they kids are older
and probably won't want to see me pop into the back of their classrooms. Also for when my 4th grader plays in his first school-wide band concert.
Note to self: Pick out a nice end-of-year gift for the band teacher. He is amazing.
Posted by Jen, November 17, 2008 at 1:58 p.m.
Thank You, God, for the Time-Out
For the third (fourth?) Saturday in a row, it is raining and miserable outside. But this Saturday, I am not miserable,
thanks to God.
Today is the pre-Christmas religion class (CCD) mandatory gathering. As a result, my kids who already have a touch of Cabin
Fever (in November? Ah!), are not here to bicker, nudge and otherwise annoy each other -- and me. Rather, they are getting a good dose of
God this morning.
Amen.
For three hours, they are in separate classrooms getting separate lessons about loving thy neighbor and hopefully, thy brother, too.
Also, not giving thy mother a headache and fleeting thoughts of running away somewhere warm with an ample supply of rum.
So, thank you, God, for offsetting the depressing weather by setting up CCD class for this morning. My husband and I thank you, and so does
our Cabin Fever.
Posted by Jen, November 15, 2008 at 10:47 a.m.
Neighbors Know Me from the Corner
"Where do I recognize you from?" a woman I'd just met at a party down the street asked me last night.
I was about to say, "Soccer? Church? The supermarket?" when she placed me.
"Oh, I know! The corner," she exclaimed.
Now, before you picture me hanging out on the corner drinking out of a paper bag or worse, what she meant is
the end of the street where the school bus stop is. Dozens and dozens of cars pass by there every morning,
so my neighbors recognize me as the mom who carries the soccer ball home after the bus leaves.
Then the party's hostess introduced me to another neighbor.
"Jen lives up the street, near the top," she said.
"I know," the neighbor replied. "I've seen her on the corner."
Again with the corner. I'd just finished coaching a rec soccer team. I'm a class mom.
I got up at church on Sunday and
gave a tearful speech. I'm an author who was on TV just a few weeks ago.
And yet, I'm best known around here for my role as "mom on corner."
It could be worse, I suppose. I could be known as "that crazy mom on the corner." But at least I'm memorable.
Posted by Jen, November 13, 2008 at 10:57 a.m.
Four-day Weekend Makes Mom Long for the Leaf Blower
By the time I'd sent one kid to his room and the other to my car to leave early for a concert yesterday, I knew that four straight
days together had taken its toll on my boys. Thanks to teachers' conferences here in New Jersey, my kids had a four-day weekend,
and though they spent a portion of it getting spoiled at my in-laws' house, it was clear that they'd had quite enough of each other.
In other words, they were out of training.
Just a few months ago, four days together was no big deal to my kids. They had some 95 days together throughout the long summer break.
But after two months at school this fall, where they are in separate classes in separate grades, not to mention separate activities with
separate schedules, they'd gotten used to being apart. In short, they fell out of brotherly shape.
It started early, shortly after church yesterday morning. One kid annoyed the other, while the other egged on the former, and my husband remained
oblivious to it all while he worked the leaf blower in the yard ALL DAY LONG.
I, however, got the brunt of it, and warned them both to stop it or else. Then I followed through on the "or else" by separating them.
It felt like the middle of August should feel, when they've gotten sick of each other and the lack of structure that comes with summer break.
Yet it was November, and the fourth day of a four-day break that, if it had continued, would have broken me.
There was yelling and tackling and fighting over everything from the computer to snacks to subtle, yet annoying noises one child was making.
And it made me long to operate the leaf blower ALL DAY LONG.
So, I sent one kid to his room with instructions not to come out until he heard the garage door close. And I sent the other to my car, so I could
take him to a concert of classical pianists at a local church.
When we got there, I let out a long sigh. How peaceful it was to have my children separated.. and then... How long until the next four-day break? Ugh. Two weeks.
I call dibs on the leaf blower!
Posted by Jen, November 10, 2008 at 2:06 p.m.
Premature Empty Nest Syndrome and Mom's Weekend Off
My husband and I had a long, uninterrupted conversation last night. Nobody asked us where their backpacks were.
Nobody fought over the Wii. Nobody needed to get to a Cub Scouts meeting. And it was both glorious and saddening at the same time.
The kids are at my in-laws' house for a few days, because school is closed for teachers' conferences. They go there every year for at least part of the four-day weekend,
while I stay home and catch up on work, laundry and Tivoed episodes of "The Colbert Report." Normally, I welcome the break while still missing the kids a little bit,
but this time, I miss them more than usual. This time I had a case of Premature Empty Nest Syndrome.
I've
blogged about how much I'm loving my tweens' ages and stages. When you can have an intelligent, thoughtful conversation with your children about
the presidential election as opposed to, say, an exasperating explanation as to why one shouldn't keep toy trucks in the refrigerator, it makes life easier indeed.
And, for me, somewhat more enjoyable.
So after my husband and I finished our uninterrupted conversation last night, I remarked, "It's awfully quiet around here." He agreed.
And suddenly, I pictured my boys gone off to college a few years from now, and I felt a pang for the end of the soccer games, the piano recitals,
the Guitar Hero showdowns, the conversations about the presidential election. I missed my boys, even though they still live here.
Don't get me wrong. I won't be one of those mothers who creates a shrine in each kid's bedroom after they leave the nest. I like to believe that it will
feel like it'll feel like it's time for the next stage, and that I'll be satisfied with raising them. But I'm not done yet, and there's still so much left
to do with them.
They'll be home tomorrow with their dirty laundry and loose papers and bickering, and then I'll get over my Premature Empty Nest Syndrome. Until then, though,
I'll let the pang linger a little longer.
Posted by Jen, November 7, 2008 at 10:43 a.m.
The Mysteries of Marriage Revealed at 4 a.m.
"Did you wake me up at 4, or did I do that by myself?" my husband asked. In other words, was I tossing and turning, thereby shaking him awake?
"I've been waking up every morning at 4 for the past five years," I answered. Well, except for last year when I the steroids
I took during chemotherapy pretty much kept me up all night. That's when I wandered the house like the Ghost of Internet Surfers Past.
I guess he slept through that, too.
After 17 years of marriage, I still get surprised that two people who live with and love each other can have absolutely no clue about
things that seems obvious to one or the other. Like the fact that I pretty much lay awake every morning at some point before dawn.
Or whatever he does that I have been paying little or no attention to. I'm sure it involves a power tool or the yard or deep thought over wine selection.
But maybe that's a good thing. Maybe we've gotten along for so long simply by not being involved in every last detail of each other's lives.
Some surprises are good in a marriage. Maybe not in the middle of the night, but still, we continue to be a bit of a mystery each other, and that's what keeps
our marriage going strong.
At the very least, it gives me something to think about at 4 a.m.
Posted by Jen, November 4, 2008 at 9:53 a.m.
The Week When I'll Get Nothing Done
I swear that the school bus is just taking my kids around the corner before heading back home. At least, that's how it feels
during Teacher's Convention week, when the kids have half-days for three days, and then they're off the last two days. Meanwhile, I get
nothing done, except to look exceptionally nice, having dressed up for today's teachers' conferences. But I'm not fooling anyone: I don't normally dress
like this to work from home. After all, I wouldn't want to get salsa and chips on my nice jacket.
After the mad rush of September and October, with the start of school and coaching soccer season, November is sort of an odd thing around here.
Between Thanksgiving's four-day weekend and this week's non-week, the kids are around a lot, which means more laundry, more messes to clean up
and more yelling out the back window, "Stop holding Gladiator Practice!" as the kids drop their sticks and wander off to find other trouble to get into.
It's like summer without the nice weather or Christmas break without the new stuff to keep them entertained. But I look on the bright side: At least it's not December,
the month of madness, between the parties and the holiday cards and the shopping and the sopping wet snow clothes. You know, a month in which I'll get nothing done.
Posted by Jen, November 3, 2008 at 10:26 a.m.
Soccer Season Ends Before My Bladder Falls Out
It's a good thing for my bladder that soccer season ended last night. If the team I coach had made it any farther in the playoffs, I just
might have screamed my bladder out. And nobody wants to see that when they're setting up for a corner kick.
"We can hear your coach on the other field," I overheard a fourth grader say after one game. Yes, I am THAT coach, the one who's always yelling
instructions and encouragement, even when everyone else is quiet. Only, last night, I wasn't the only one yelling.
The official score was 2-0, but a few of the kids on my team swear that the last goal the other team scored wasn't really a goal. The ball had slipped through the gaping hole
in the net behind the post, but the ref didn't see it. But it doesn't matter. We didn't get any of our shots in no matter how much all the parents on the sidelines shouted
and cheered and screamed. No matter how much I raced up and down the sideline shouting, "Shoooooooooooot it!"
Oh well. The boys played well, and, most important to me, they played better than they had at the start of the season. Even better, they had fun. And so did I.
So, I will drink warm tea and rest my vocal chords -- and bladder -- until next soccer season. Go team!
Posted by Jen, October 31, 2008 at 10:13 a.m.
Semantics and the Swamp that Swallows Sneakers
When I went across the street to retrieve my 5th grader, who'd hung out there while I coached his brother's soccer practice,
he was barefoot.
"Where are your socks?" I asked.
"Oh, in the garage," he answered. "They're wet."
Then he proceeded to walk outside in 50 degree weather, barefoot and carrying his sneakers.
We grabbed his wet socks and headed home.
"Why are your socks and sneakers soaked?" I asked, reluctantly.
"I landed in the swamp," he answered.
"How did you fall in the swamp?" I asked.
"No, I landed in the swamp," he insisted.
"How is that different than falling in the swamp?" I asked, leaving his soaked socks in the garage, next to his sopping wet sneakers.
"Falling means you go sideways and end up on the ground," he explained. "I didn't fall. My feet landed in the swamp instead of on the rock I was aiming for."
Oh, that clears it up. I guess I should be happy he "landed" instead of "falling," or I'd have extra laundry to do.
The socks have dried out, but his leather sneakers are pretty much as wet as they were two days ago when they landed in the swamp,
thereby landing his feet in his too-small sneakers from last spring. They will not land in a new pair of sneakers anytime soon, no matter how much he asks for some.
I'm not falling for that.
Posted by Jen, October 29, 2008 at 11:31 a.m.
R.I.P Sally the Fish, or Whatever
The fish died, and yet, I feel nothing. Maybe if he'd (she?) have curled up in my lap and purred or something, I'd have felt closer
to the fish that grew and grew and grew in my son's fishtank over the past few years. But, mostly, I just avoided its eerie stare whenever
I put underpants in my son's dresser drawers. It seems that my sons feel pretty much the same way.
"Sally, the fish died," my fourth grader announced last night.
"The fish's name was Sally?" I asked.
"I said sadly, not Sally. I don't know what the fish was named," he answered. "Nick, what was the fish's name?"
"I dunno," Nicholas answered with little measurable enthusiasm before wandering off to play the piano.
And yet, we remember the cat's name. Though it's been three years since Kifli died, we still miss him and wish we could get another cat.
But my husband doesn't want another cat who could potentially ruin another screen door (if we had a deck leading to the screen door) or take its claws to the new couch.
And I won't declaw a cat, so we're stuck with no cat and one teeny fish who hides whenever you walk by the tank. (Maybe "Sally" ate it. I have no idea.)
The other day, Nicholas spotted something gray running through the backyard. It was too big to be a squirrel, but too small for a coyote. Turns out, it was a cat, and a stray one at that.
We tried to lure it the door, but he/she wouldn't come near us. We haven't seen it since, but we keep looking, not because the fish is dead, but because we'd like something furry to curl up with
at night.
I don't miss Sally, or whatever. I just miss purring, and perhaps, racing for the screen door.
Posted by Jen, October 28, 2008 at 10:46 p.m.
How Scary! The Countdown to the Mob at My Front Door
The chipmunks have already gotten to my one and only pumpkin -- the one I wouldn't buy, so my father got one for me. Congratulations, Dad.
The wildlife in my yard would like to say thank you for dinner.
It's T minus four days until Halloween, and I'm getting scared. The weather is supposed to be nice -- sunny and 60, so that
Chewbaccas won't boil and yet the Britney Spearses won't freeze. Plus, the holiday falls on a Friday t his year, so there will be more kids than usual.
And they'll all come here -- the first house on the most popular trick or treating street in my neighborhood.
Got candy?
I haven't bought any yet, because I'm holding out for a sponsor, a candy company that will bail out my Halloween by donating candy in exchange for a prime
advertising spot: My front door.
Think of it: the kids around here will think your company is a hero for ensuring that they get the good stuff, and not a handful of candy corns and year-old lollipops
like I'm currently planning. Grown-ups will love you, too, especially my husband, who will be guaranteed we won't get TP'ed for handing out cheap candy.
I think I said it best here:
So if you'd like to sponsor my Halloween, e-mail me. The kids (and my trees) will thank you. Posted by Jen, October 27, 2008 at 1:10 p.m.
B Roll and the Backyard: Catching My Afternoon on Film
The camera-man was in my driveway when the school bus pulled up. CBS News was here to film a segment on families and the economy and the pasta I'm cooking
more often and the missing deck off the back of my house where our money ran out after renovations. The producer wanted to get "b-roll," or background footage,
of my boys playing after school. And they got enough for a whole show.
As usual, I wound up with a bunch of kids who don't live here, plus my two boys. Here's a snapshot of what they did on camera:
They dumped their backpacks, jackets and shoes in my garage by the door.
They raided my pantry.
They rang my doorbell.
They played the Wii.
They played the Theme from Star Wars on a trumpet, clarinet and saxophone.
They dropped chips on my floor and then stepped on them.
They played soccer in the yard.
They raced, bellies down and head first, down my driveway on skateboards.
They disappeared into the woods.
In other words, it was a typical afternoon at the Singer house. And now America will get a taste of it.
In the mean time, I'll be vacuuming up chips. Posted by Jen, October 24, 2008 at 10:48 a.m.
The Hard Lessons of Soccer and the Sharp Pain in My Temple.
It was supposed to be an easy game. Last week, the boys' soccer team I coach had crushed this particular team 14-0.
The other team had been missing two of their top players, but still, I figured that we'd be able to take them at last night's game as well.
I fielded a heavy defense and didn't start two of my two star players. But when the game was tied at 0-0 10 minutes into the game, I put in the big guns and waited
for the goals to start. And waited. And waited.
And then, in the second half, the other team scored. It was a beautiful goal, with their star player dribbling around my defense and popping it into the goal
as though we had no goalie. That's when the boys on my team learned a tough lesson.
Suddenly, they stopped playing their usual game. A few guys did just fine, even great, but the rest of them, well, they gave up. And then the other team scored again.
The whole second half, I paced the sidelines, shouting reminders to "Pass the ball!" and "Follow your shots up!" and "Stop standing around like this is a tea party!"
I heard a kid from the other field tell the parents on the sideline that she could "hear your coach all the way over there."
Soon, I had a headache and the strong desire to go home and climb into bed.
I had taught them various lessons on how to play soccer, but I hadn't taught them how to deal with getting run over by a team they had low expectations for.
Then again, how could I? And maybe it's a life lesson that will go with them forever. And maybe I'll get rid of this headache.
We managed to score one goal, but when the ref blew her whistle to signify the end of the game, we all stood there, stunned that we hadn't won.
We have another game tomorrow night, this time against a team we had crushed 8-0. But I won't remind my team that. Instead, I'll get them ready for what may well
be a very tough game. It'll be good for them.
Posted by Jen, October 22, 2008 at 2:53 p.m.
Singer for VP! And I'm His Speechwriter.
Remember this: Singer is a bringer. At least, that's what it says on my fourth grader's school election campaign poster. He wants to run for VP of the school, but first,
he has to run for head of his class. He's up against two other kids, but he's hopeful. After all, he's got one heck of a campaign team.
His big brother stepped up as campaign manager, and I've promised to work as his speechwriter -- or at least as his editor. Plus, he has access to my publicist, who
has okayed his motto: Singer is a bringer. His platform? More recess.
I know, it's like offering tax cuts for Americans or free marshmallows to a bunch of first graders in exchange for staying really quiet in the hallway. It's an easy sell.
If only he could really come through with it, but then campaign promises are more like suggestions these days, right?
Yet, we have back-up data to support his promise. I printed out an article on why kids need more play, and how recess and after school play has declined nationwide over the past decade.
In fact, a New Jersey congressman, Rep. Robert Singer (no relation) has created a bill to make recess mandatory in all Garden State schools. My fourth grader wants to make sure his school's 110 minutes a week
of recess and gym not only keep from declining (or disappearing), but actually increase. And he's all fired up over it.
He turned in his campaign poster today at school. Next, he has to work on his speech. Whether he wins his class and gets to move on to run for VP or not,
at least he's passionate about an issue, and he thinks he can do something about it. That's more than I can say for many other politicians this election year.
Posted by Jen, October 21, 2008 at 10:40 a.m.
My Creativity Ends Before It Reaches the Birthday Boy's Cupcakes
My creativity ends before it reaches my fingers. I can dream up a clever "Family Fun" magazine kind of idea, such as arranging cupcakes into a circle, alternating
vanilla and dark chocolate icing so that it looks like a big soccer ball. But the actual implementation usually falls short -- and it has again.
Ever since the baseball-and-bat cookie incident of 2006, when I sent my son to school on his birthday with sugar cookies that ended up looking
like something from a urology pamphlet, I have shied away from created baked items altogether. But with the economy in the toilet, shelling out $20
for an ice cream cake for my son's birthday party seemed like a bad idea.
So, I bought cupcake mix and icing (on sale for $1.50!) and dug up some cupcake liners and set out to bake something simple, but clever. It's the clever part that usually
gets me in trouble.
We baked the cupcakes on Thursday night, and then iced them last night -- but only after my 11-year-old, the artist planned out the design for me.
Otherwise, I'd have wound up not with a soccer ball, but a giant polka-dot skirt.
I carefully arranged the cupcakes with the vanilla icing next to those with dark chocolate icing on a plate as per my son's design so that the result looked like a soccer ball.
Or so I thought.
I called over the birthday boy to check it out. He looked it over and said, "Well, it if you really think about it, it sort of looks like a soccer ball."
Or a polka-dot skirt, perhaps.
Next year, we'll all just have a bag of cookies. Posted by Jen, October 18, 2008 at 11:51 a.m.
The Boy Band in My Woods
My house has become an Early Morning Care center where parents who have to rush out to work drop off their kids
until the school bus comes. I don't mind, really. It's the same thing as most days after school, anyhow, except the kids' pants
don't smell like mulch (yet) and they don't pilfer our snacks before school.
And this morning, they even helped me out. They played "music" outside, thereby scaring away the black bears who roam the neighborhood
freely this time of year, getting ready for hibernation.
One child had two sticks, which he drummed on the bottom of two empty overturned rubber garbage cans.
Another played the fake sousaphone his father had made for his Halloween costume, and the other boy sang.
I let it go on for a few minutes before shooing them away.
"The neighbors don't want to hear that!" I shouted out the garage door.
"Let's go in the woods!" one of the boys announced. I figured this meant that they'd go into the woods out back to play.
And by play, I mean that they'd pretend to play Army or throw acorns at rocks until the bus came. Their version of play, however, was rather different.
Soon, I heard the boy band again, only farther away. When I opened the window, I discovered that my very own International Silver String Submarine Band, a la the Little Rascals,
was performing Queen's "We Will Rock You" in the woods between houses.
I shouted through the window, "Hey! I said to stop playing, not to move the band into the woods!" Which would have been a more
effective discipline tool if I hadn't started laughing by the time I got to "move the band into the woods." Now they were laughing, too.
I called the neighbor whose house they were now closest to, but she said she couldn't really hear them over her kids anyway. Besides, they're scaring away the bears,
she said.
So I let them finish their concert among the trees before putting them on the school bus.
The "drum set" is still in the woods between houses, so
I'm guessing that there's another performance scheduled for this afternoon.
It's a good thing I'm the only one who works from home around here. A perk of the job? Front row seats for the coolest boy band in the area.
Posted by Jen, October 15, 2008 at 10:18 a.m.
The Worst Thing You Can Think Of
Overheard in my house this morning:
Older Child: "What's the worst thing you can think of?
Younger Child: "You."
Older Child: "I can think of something worse."
Younger Child: "What?"
Older Child: "Two of me."
It brought me back to when I had a pre-verbal toddler and a colicky baby who cried upwards of 10 hours a day.
I was attempting to get my 19 month-old to put a blanket over my feet while I repeatedly patted my newborn's back,
only to get the tissue box, a pillow, a toy truck -- anything but the blanket. I thought about the McCaughey septuplets,
who were celebrating their first birthday, and I thought At least there aren't seven of them.
In fact, this was my mantra throughout the sleepless early years of parenting, when I was exhausted and cranky and so confused that I sometimes
changed one kid's diaper twice and left the other kid sitting in a sopping wet diaper until it fell off. I could barely handle two of them.
But seven? Now that's scary.
So when my boys contemplated the worst thing they could think of, I thought, Oh, I can think of worse. And I have.
Posted by Jen, October 14, 2008 at 10:23 a.m.
A Confession about the Laundry
Another mom and I were hosting a Cub Scouts outing on Friday (I know, I keep getting sucked in), when she pointed out
that both of our sons had filthy pants.
"They must have played in the dirt at recess," she observed.
I had to confess.
"Uh, my son went to school like that," I offered.
"Oh, I know what you mean," she said. "My son plays outside before school, too."
I shifted my weight and pondered whether to get it off my chest. And then I let her know the truth.
"You don't understand," I explained. "His pants came out of the wash with grass stains on them. I let him wear them because
I figured they'd wind up like that anyhow. And it appears I was right."
We looked at the stains and grime on both of their pants and shrugged.
And then we told them to stop kicking the dirt. Posted by Jen, October 12, 2008 at 11:11 a.m.
Pitching Super Mario Sluggers from My TV
"Mom, you want to pitch?" my son asked me as I wrapped myself in a blanket on the couch. He was playing Mario Super Sluggers, a Wii
baseball game that looks like something you might dream after too many beers and Cracker Jacks at Fenway Park. I didn't want to pitch.
I wanted to watch the news and nurse my cold, but my fourth grader was in the middle of a video game in which characters that look like monkeys,
mushrooms and ballerinas play baseball. But you can also put Miis in the game: characters that my kids created on the Wii.
And one of those characters is designed
to look like me.
"Here, I'll put you at third," my son said, clicking on his Wii controller. Suddenly, there I was on the screen next to a legless floating character
and Luigi of Super Mario Brothers fame, only he didn't look all pixelated and one dimensional like when I played Super Mario Brothers back in the day.
"Good catch, Mom!" he congratulated me, even though I was not holding a controller. Rather, I was reading the instructions on a cold medicine bottle.
My Mii was playing for me. I fluffed my pillows to watch the game.
"We need to give you more hair," he added.
When we got our Wii last year, I was bald from chemotherapy. Lucky for me, there's no bald option for the female Miis, so my boys gave my character
a light brown buzz cut. As my hair grew in, they've made it longer, then darker then as close to curly as you can get on the Wii. (Note to Nintendo:
There are curly haired people and bald women. Adjust.)
"Hey, you're up, Mom!" he announced, and I watched my Mii swing at the ball and miss. Soon, I was out, which doesn't seem fair considering I wasn't even playing.
The screen read "Switch sides."
Another character that looks like a cross between a Mutant Ninja Turtle and something from Looney Tunes was at bat. It hit the ball and Chris tried to get
the ballerina character to catch it, but it hit some sort of iceberg thingy floating in the outfield.
I imagined that this game would be more fun if you dropped acid first, but I didn't share that with my son.
"Uh oh, extra innings," my son announced. I must have frowned, because he asked me, "Did you want to do something else?"
I mumbled and blew my nose. He finished the game up quickly and turned off the Wii.
"Here, Mom," he said, handing me the remote to the TV.
I thanked him and turned on news coverage of the election. Several pundits were arguing over who won the vice presidential debate, and I thought,
Super Mario Sluggers makes more sense than this. So, I changed the channel.
Posted by Jen, October 6, 2008 at 2:38 p.m.
Introducing: The Shout-and-Run Exercise Program
The last time I had played tennis with my neighbor, I had trouble getting to the ball.
This was nothing new. It's been one very slow post-cancer comeback for me, starting with molasses-slow treks up stairs
all the way through to watching my neighbor take a nice shot on the tennis court while I stood perfectly still, because frankly, why bother going for it when I'll just come up empty
and disappointed, not to mention winded?
And then there was today, a new day. A day I have 10 boys to thank for.
It had been two weeks since I'd last played tennis, or rather, slow-motion tennis. My neighbor had humored me, but I can't imagine it was much of a workout for her.
She didn't even break a sweat, while I, on the other hand, was dripping wet as though I'd just ran a marathon. And it felt like I'd run a marathon. I came pretty close to crossing
the base line and collapsing. Well, maybe it wasn't that bad, but it felt like it.
That day, I left the court frustrated that my comeback wasn't coming back. But today?
I got to the ball -- lots of them. I served with power and I dashed to reach drop balls -- and actually got them.
I even won a few games. All in all, I lasted an hour on the court before I got winded and dizzy, which is a major improvement over
oh, every single time I'd been on the tennis court this summer.
"What happened these past few weeks?" my neighbor asked me.
"I yelled while running," I explained.
I've been coaching soccer for the past few weeks, which means I've been running around the field in my old soccer cleats,
shouting gems like, "Jared! You're right halfback. Why are you on the left?" Also, "GET THAT BALL OUTTA HERE!"
Apparently, this combination of running, sometimes backwards, and shouting directions is one heck of a workout, because suddenly,
I am in better shape than I was even just a few weeks ago. Much better shape, though my throat hurts a bit from last night's
"Nobody's in front of the goal!" and "Way to go, Colin!" and "Nice save, Jimmy!"
As a result, I may have stumbled upon a new workout. Maybe I can sell it to Nintendo, prompting people across the nation to shout at soccer playing
cartoon characters on their TV's while getting back into shape. All I know is that I've got two soccer games and a practice to coach before the
next time I play tennis. And, thanks to the boys on my soccer team, I'll be ready. My neighbor had better look out. Posted by Jen, October 3, 2008 at 2:16 p.m.
I don't want to take a close look at the Circle of Life
One by one, they all gathered at the edge of the road to look at it while we parents stayed away. All six boys at the school bus
stop have been fascinated by a dead opposum on the road near the neighbor's house since it appeared yesterday morning.
My boys wondered allowed if it was just sleeping. Then they decided just its nose was hit, and it died without much pain.
I tried not to think about it. My neighbor the vegetarian tried not to acknowledge the whole sad affair.
This morning, the boys discovered that the opposum was gone. I explained that turkey vultures or who-knows-what probably ate it.
"But where are the bones?" my son asked.
"Probably in the woods," I answered.
And so several boys went into the woods to try find the opposum, or what's left of it.
Somewhere a parenting expert is advising on situations like these as an opportunity to explain to kids about death and the circle
of life and all that Lion King stuff, but I think the boys figured that out all on their own without our running commentary.
They can go stand in the woods and decide for themselves how life works. I'm too busy trying not to think about it. And my neighbor the vegetarian
isn't acknowledging it at all. Posted by Jen, October 1, 2008 at 12: 18 p.m.
I ran your kids around in the mud, sugared them up and now, they're yours.
Perhaps the parents in my town will think twice about signing up their kids for the soccer team I coach.
Here's why:
I let them wear their brand new soccer jerseys at our impromptu scrimmage last night, even though the field was full of mud.
They have their first game on Thursday, and now their parents have to wash their jerseys before the season even starts.
I encouraged one mom to bring treats to celebrate her son's birthday after the scrimmage, which means that the boys filled up on cupcakes with two-inch high
icing about 30 minutes before dinnertime.
When I drove two of the kids home, I let them have lollipops at the gas station.
In other words, I behaved more like a 13-year-old with sudden control over a bunch of children than a mom/coach.
And I'd do it again, because I really wanted a lollipop.
Posted by Jen, September 30, 2008 at 11:36 a.m.
Pour out your boots. It's time to come inside.
My children have a new hobby: Wading through swamps. Not swamps really -- we don't have alligators in New Jersey -- but areas
of stagnant bodies of water in the woods behind our houses. They have mud and gunk and frogs, and the boys just love them.
I certainly don't mind a visit or two to a swamp, but the daily romp through all that gushy stuff can add a lot of extra work
for a mom after much of that stuff ends up on my sons, their clothes and their boots.
On Friday evening, my son returned home covered in swamp gunk. "I can't get my boots off," he said.
Lucky for me, I was wise enough to attempt to remove them in the garage, or else a quart of muddy water would have landed
on my kitchen floor. We could have started our own koi pond with it. Maybe next time, we'll even get a fish.
My only consolation is that he wore his rain boots in the first place, rather than his new sneakers.
So now I have three types of laundry to do: lights, darks and swampy. If I'm lucky, cold weather will arrive early,
so that the swamps freeze over, leaving the muddy water in the woods behind our houses at least until spring. Posted by Jen, September 29, 2008 at 11:56 a.m.
The coach doesn't want practice, either. Shhhh.
I have a confession to make: I was happy to find out that it will pour all day today, so I could go ahead and cancel
soccer practice tonight. I know that the coach is supposed to be enthusiastic and gung-ho and all that, but the coach
has been fighting a cold all week and has to drive to Jersey City today to shoot videos and all that. And so, the
coach would like very much not to put on her cleats and run around after 8, 9 and 10 year-old boys tonight.
And the coach would like not to have to pick up a pizza to feed her child and her neighbor's child en route to Cub Scouts, which
begins minutes after soccer ends. And the coach would like to stay home and watch a week's worth of Tivoed Daily Shows and Colbert Reports
without smelling like dirt and grass.
And so the coach didn't bother to try to sound all disappointed in her "Soccer is cancelled" e-mail, though she refrained from
adding exclamation points and emoticon cartoons who look like they've won the lottery. Rather, the coach sent her e-mail and then ran off to blog
about it before she heads to Jersey City in the pouring rain. Posted by Jen, September 26, 2008 at 9:13 a.m.
"Please send to school..." Let the treasure hunt begin!
Thanks to my mother, I was able to complete Step 1 of the annual Home and School Treasure Hunt, when my sons' teachers request various
objects from home, such as empty paper toilet rolls and old magazines. This week, Chris' teacher asked for a collection of photos that best illustrate his summer vacation.
Normally, I would have all of those photos on a disk in my camera, shoved into my purse. I would not have actual paper print-outs of these photos
if my mother hadn't given me a portable mini photo printer. As a result, I was able to pick out a few photos, stick them on a disk, put the disk into the printer
and print out the photos for my son to take to school.
I'd like to think that Mom supplied the printer to make my life easier, but really, it was all about her.
An avid scrapbooker, my mother is the type of person who prints out her photos within 24 hours of an event and then crops them and affixes
them to her scrapbook. (My brother has accused her of actually scrapbooking events from the future, but he hasn't been able to prove that yet.)
So when I take photos of a family event, my mother will ask for copies for her scrapbook, knowing full well that I don't have them. Why print them out and add
to the clutter around here? As a result, it took her three months to get a photo of her kids and grandkids at the American Idol concert, and she's still waiting
for shots of our August trip to Baltimore. She has promised to make me a scrapbook of our trip to Disney, but that was just two weeks ago, and I don't want to
set her expectations too high by coming through with the photos in the same month as the event.
But, thanks to her and her generous gift of the mini photo printer, I just might get her those photos sooner than later. And if my other son's teacher wants photos from home,
I can whip those up, too.
Anything for the annual Home and School Treasure Hunt.
This morning, Chris said that his teacher wants him to bring in an old sock to use as an eraser for a dry-erase board. Old unmatched socks?!
Why I could supply one for every kid in fourth grade! Clearly, I win round two of the Treasure Hunt.
Posted by Jen, September 24, 2008 at 11:36 a.m.
I can see the light at the end of the closet.
Yesterday, I found a bag full of my husband's travel-sized toiletries, some Christmas chocolates and photos from 2004 in my closet. I'm not sure
that I really needed any of those things, but at least I've neatly put them away now, instead of leaving them in a pile on the floor of my closet, along
with way too many other things.
Same goes for the crumpled Christmas wrapping paper, two silver candlestick holders and a yellow Livestrong band intertwined with a bracelet that doesn't
belong to me. It was like an archeological dig of the Singer Family, the 2004-2008 period.
When construction started last year, my closet became a (okay, one of our) dumping zone for all sorts of junk, not to mention my clothes and a pile of shoes
from which I've been picking for nearly a year now.
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But the construction is long over, and I've got much more energy than I've had since finishing chemo and radiation last fall. So, I spent yesterday morning
braving the dust (achoo!) and the third grade art projects, empty shoe boxes and abandoned winter sweaters to clean out my closet. I organized, put away and dumped.
I sneezed, lay on the bed for a while looking through my kids' schoolwork for the last two years and stopped for a grilled cheese sandwich. But I did it: I
cleaned out my closet. Also, I found marzipan, which made my husband very happy.
When I walked into my closet this morning to get a pair of jeans, I could a. find them and b. reach them without balancing with one foot on my scale and the other
in a beach bag full of shells, goggles and half-used bottles of sunscreen. If I knew anyting about Feng Shui, I'd say I'd opened my chi, improved my flow
or whatever. But I prefer to say that I saw, I decluttered and I conquered. And now I feel much, much better. So much better, in fact, that I'm eyeing
up the front hall closet. Grab the tissues! I can see the light at the end of the closet. Posted by Jen, September 22, 2008 at 10:25 a.m.
No dogs allowed, thanks to a lab named Midnight.
"I hope he doesn't poop!" my son declared this morning when he told me he was once again tagging along with the neighbors,
who are dog sitting a black lab named Midnight this week. "It stinks!" he added. Luckily, I was done with breakfast.
Thank you, Midnight, for guaranteeing that my children will not campaign for a pet dog. They don't want the clean-up duty, and I
don't want the hair, walks in rotten weather or chewed shoes. Don't get me wrong: I love dogs...as long as they're someone else's responsibility.
To me, dogs are like toddlers: fun, but you have to keep an eye on them or they'll go and stuff something in their mouths when you're not looking.
Cats, on the other hand, are my favorite, because they are more like teenagers: fairly self sufficient yet nice to have around at times.
I miss our cat, who passed away three years ago, and so do the boys. They have asked for a cat, but my husband is a fish guy. Fish are like
grown children who move nearby. You feed them now and then, but otherwise, they really don't need you.
We have a fish. At least I think we do. And for a few minutes every day this week, we'll have Midnight, too. Until he poops, of course. Posted by Jen, September 20, 2008 at 10:58 a.m.
Class Mom Meeting: The Usual Suspects
I am a serial class mom. Even last year, the year I had cancer, I still managed to get roped into being a class mom. This year, though,
I signed up willingly and without hesitation. This is my last chance to be class mom for my older son; fifth grade marks the end of
the need for class moms in our school system. Or maybe the middle schoolers just don't want the moms hanging around.
At our annual kick-off meeting this morning, I noticed it was largely the same folks as last year and the year before and the year before that.
Some obviously had stopped in from work, as they were rather nicely dressed for collating Emergency Contact Forms.
Others lugged little kids along or breezed in from yet another volunteer job.
We've all done this so many times, we got right down to business so we could stop in the classroom, introduce ourselves to the teacher, wave to our kids
and get the heck out of there. Luckily, our kids waved back.
This is the last year of Halloween parties and scooping ice cream at the year-end picnic. This is the last year of getting to know
our kids' classmates and of being a special part of their school experience. Next year, we'll chaperone the Teen Canteen, and that simply can't be as much fun.
That's like being a cop in a neighborhood that hates law enforcement. The class mom, though, is like being Elvis in Vegas, especially when you're
carrying a tray of cupcakes.
I am a serial class mom. Only, it's my last chance to be my fifth grader's class mom. I'm sure all the other Usual Suspects at the class mom meeting
feel a little blue about it, too. At least, until we have to make our first School Closing phone calls to disgruntled parents at 5:30 a.m. Then maybe we won't miss it so much after all. Posted by Jen, September 18, 2008 at 2:08 p.m.
Where's all that free time again?
I don't know why this surprises me each and every September, but it does. I think that once the kids get into school, I'll
have so much free time to "get things done." But so far this week, all I've gotten done is the soccer coach meeting, choir practice carpool,
calling the parents of all the kids on my soccer team, one load of laundry (which still hasn't been put away) and some e-mails about Cub Scouts.
And I still have the class mom meeting, the first two soccer practices (and planning for them) and a town-wide search for 3 x 5 index cards for my son's
class.
As a result, I already had to carry home a pizza for dinner -- on the second day of school. This doesn't bode well for the rest of the school year.
When your car smells like garlic, you've either got an organic farm or you have too much going on. And there's nothing growing in our backyard but weeds.
I keep telling myself it'll all calm down soon and I'll get that free time...maybe after soccer season. Until then, I've got to go dig up the shin guards
and some soccer balls. Oh, and index cards. Got any? Posted by Jen, September 17, 2008 at 1:56 p.m.
Sad to see the school bus. What's wrong with me?
When school ended a week earlier than usual this past June, I teased the other parents
at my son's baseball game about the long summer ahead. School wouldn't start until September 15th, leaving
because of construction at the high school.
"That's 95 days from now, folks," I announced. "Did you know you can walk the Appalachian Trail in that time?"
Everyone groaned. And yet, here it is the first day of school, and I want to do the summer all over again.
This is the first year I was actually sad to see school start. In fact, the kids were happier about it than I was.
What the heck is wrong with me?
When my boys got on the school bus about a half-hour ago, I felt a pang -- the same pang I used to get when it was my own first day of school.
I wanted to sneak them out of the line to the bus and take them to the lake one last time. I wanted to bring them on yet another trip to see a cousin or two.
I wanted to sit at the kitchen table, trying to read the newspaper, while the boys asked, "Wanna play Guitar Hero, Mom?" Even though I had to write a
book at night because the kids were home much of the day, I don't want this summer to end.
But with the chill in the air and the leaves already starting to fall, I know it's time for the Summer of 2008 to end. And for me to
drive them to piano, choir, Cub Scouts and soccer this week -- some of that all in one day. It's time to go back to being the Overseer,
the person who makes sure the homework goes back to school and the shin guards make it to practice. But I'd rather play Guitar Hero
and go to the lake with my kids.
Maybe there's nothing wrong with me after all.
Posted by Jen, September 15, 2008 at 9:17 a.m.
The endless summer ends.
By the time my kids were wrestling each other as they climbed out of my mini-van and into the Staples parking lot last night, I knew it was time.
They've been out of school since it ended on June 12th and don't go back until Monday -- a 95-day summer break, courtesy of construction at our district's
high school. Until last night, I was enjoying our seemingly endless summer. But that ended when the protests and the kids hit the parking lot.
I suppose that I made this summer boredom-proof by taking my kids on trips every few weeks. In June, we went to Philadelphia to visit my cousin.
In July, we went on our annual trip to the Jersey Shore with my in-laws. In August, it was Baltimore with my mom to see more cousins, followed by
Boston to see friends. This week, it was a few days in Walt Disney World. It kept the kids so busy, they practically forgot to torment each other.
And it made me want summer to go on forever. Until last night, that is.
As the climbed over each other to get into the store to sift through what was left of the school supplies, it was as though I snapped out of it.
Suddenly, fall seemed like a wonderful idea with my days to myself and the boys not with each other practically every waking moment.
Suddenly, I longed for a little structure, Back-to-School night, soccer practice and waving good-bye to the big yellow bus five days a week.
It's time for the endless summer to end.
I'm sure that when school starts on Monday, I'll feel a pang of loss for the great (long) summer we had -- just as soon as the fighting over
the new pens stops. Posted by Jen, September 12, 2008 at 9:40 a.m.
P.S. Click to read Jen's "Treating My Tweens to Two Summers in One" on Good Housekeeping.com
Tired Mom or Bored Babysitter? It's hard to tell.
I was trying not to stare, but I kept peering over the top of my book anyhow. Poolside at the condo where we stayed in Orlando this week,
I'd spotted a baby pull himself up to try to see over the edge of the Pack N Play his mother had put him in. At least I think she was his mother.
It was hard to tell by her apparent disinterest in the baby whether she was a tired mom or a bored babysitter.
It was clear, though, that she was trying to rest on a lounge chair a few feet away, but her three year old
kept interrupting. The baby wasn't making any noise, as though he knew it was no use anyhow, and soon he gave up, choosing instead to look at
me, because at least the lady behind the book would wave.
When I heard the woman-who-might-be-a-mother speak, I realized I might be watching a cultural difference. Maybe in Britain mothers don't
dote on their babies quite so much, like the American mothers making teachable moments in the pool. Or maybe she was just exhausted from dragging
two kids around Disney in 90-degree heat while still used to another time zone. No matter. It fascinated me either way.
Nobody else had brought the Pack-N-Plays out of their condo bedroom closets and down to the pool. The other moms of babies seemed to realize that these were meant
to serve as cribs, not poolside baby pens. The other moms were being good mommies. The lady with the baby in the Pack-N-Play was, well, I'm not sure.
Eventually, the woman with the baby and the three-year-old left the pool, though I didn't get to see them go. I was too busy going down the slide with my kids,
content that our Pack-N-Play would stay in the closet while we were in Orlando. We didn't need it, either for sleeping or for penning in babies.
And that made me feel like a lucky mommy. Posted by Jen, September 11, 2008 at 1:46 p.m.
Lessons from Disney.
I'll write more about our trip to Disney World this week, but first, here are five lessons I learned while we visited there this week:
Everything ends with a gift shop, but I could get the same result by stuffing 25 bucks under the too small clothes and the broken toys in
the backs of my kids' closets.
Judging by all the toddlers passed out in strollers by 2 p.m., that's one expensive nap.
I will never be chipper enough to be the average Disney "cast member," but if I had to brave the humidity and crowds every work day,
Grumpy would be a good character for me.
Thanks to a picky eater, I didn't get to eat in France while at Epcot, and settled instead for cheap Chinese food I could have gotten at home.
Quel horreur!
Epcot must stand for "Every Parent Comes Out Tired."
Posted by Jen, September 10, 2008 at 4:10 p.m.
Men's shoes on my boy.
My son's sneakers look like the kind of shoe you'd find in the break-down lane alongside the Cross Bronx Expressway.
They're misshapen, filthy and slightly malodorous. The insoles are missing, and the knots in the laces are so tight,
no one can untie them. In short, it's time for a new pair of shoes.
So we dropped by Target yesterday to pick through what's left of the back-to-school rush, and he found a pair identical to
his current pair, only they don't look like they've been repeatedly run over by 18-wheelers en route to box stores on Long Island.
The only problem is that they were too small. So I looked for the next size up, and I couldn't find it. Not in any shoe. Not on that shelf.
That's when I realized, my boy needs men's shoes.
Reluctantly, we headed toward the Men's shoe shelves, where we found the same style shoe in a size seven -- and it fit him.
My eleven-year-old is done with the boys' shoe section.
Okay, so it's not exactly like buying him his first razor, but it's still an adjustment for me. Because a men's size 7 is a women's size 9 -- my size.
But I won't point that out to him. I don't want my shoes to wind up on his feet, and then ultimately looking like it belongs on the Cross Bronx Expressway.
Posted by Jen, September 2, 2008 at 12:05 p.m.
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