Today Only: Two for One!
When the pediatrician walked into the exam room last night, I promised him a deal: "It's two for one night!" I mean, why take just one child to the doctor when you can take two, doubling not only your co-pay, but also your worry and aggravation?

Turns out, they both have low-grade viruses that require little more than some TLC and tissues. As a result, I've got my own Two for One day today: They're both home from school. Right now, they're feeling well enough to create a world of characters made from that foam stuff that comes in sheets. I don't know about you, but when I'm feeling under the weather, my first thought (or any thought) isn't to make cats out of orange art supplies.

I figure I've got about three hours before the fun runs out and the fighting starts, so I'm going to enjoy my Two for One day while I can. Maybe when they start arguing, I can get a free shipping deal?

I didn't think so.
Posted by Jen. November 30, 2007 at 9:28 a.m.

Joining the Band
I was at the musical instrument store where my boys take piano lessons yesterday, when I saw a man buying a trumpet for his kid. Who buys a trumpet for a three-year-old? I wondered.

Then I saw who was buying the trumpet and realized that person is my cousin. I'm glad he doesn't live next door. Surely his kid will be playing "Reveille" in the backyard at 5 a.m.

Now, it might seem frivilous to purchase a musical instrument for a child who still wears light-up sneakers with Bob the Builder on them, but in this case, it's not. Just like his father and his uncles, this child performs on stage every summer weekend at the Jersey Shore in a reggae band called "The Flying Mueller Brothers." Apparently, they're adding a horn section.

My cousin and his three brothers have played instruments ever since they were the little trumpeter's age. Thanks to their father, the drummer, each son learned how to play the drums by drumming on the kitchen table -- one brother after another. (Their poor mother. She was a saint.) Realizing they couldn't all play the drums, they learned other instruments, including keyboards and guitar, and formed various bands over the decade. Now, they're training a new generation.

So, if you're "down the shore" next summer, drop by Jenkinson's on a Sunday afternoon to hear Donny Jr. and his amazing trumpet skills. He's got until Memorial Day weekend to learn how to play it.
Posted by Jen. November 28, 2007 at 10:22 a.m.

Growing Pains
They came in from the rain to ask for something for watering their plants. Yesterday after school, my third grader and his friend wanted some cups of water to pour over the acorns they had planted in the mud. Did I mention it was drizzling outside?

Rather than point out that their acorns, which will likely get dug up by squirrels today anyhow, were getting plenty soaked by the inch of rain we got yesterday, I filled up two cups with water and handed them to the boys. Why not keep them busy a while longer? Also, why not keep their muddy feet and pants out of my house?

So, the boys wandered off into the backyard to water their acorns as I watched from the window. I could hear their big brothers whooping it up on skateboards in the driveway, but the little gardeners ignored them and carefully watered their acorns.

How fitting, I thought. The other moms and I had just talked at the school bus stop about how nurturing our younger sons are. They're the ones who still hug and kiss us. They ask us if they can help us. They water the acorns while their brothers ride down the driveway on skateboards, carrying hockey sticks. (I don't want to know why. As long as there's no blood, fine.)

They never returned the cups, but I found them this morning in the garbage can in the garage. I checked to see if their acorns had started growing, but there's nothing there yet. Maybe with a little more of their love, they'll become trees some day. And our boys will make great fathers.
Posted by Jen. November 27, 2007 at 10:20 a.m.

Want more? Read Jen's Good Grief! blog entry on her kids' half-way mark through childhood called, "The Best is Yet to Come."

Enchanted
You know you've seen a good movie when the audience claps during the credit roll. It was almost a clap of relief, really, when we all started cheering for "Enchanted," which I had taken the kids to see on Saturday. Finally, a kid's movie that's actually good and not just moderately better than what's been out there lately. I've already forgotten much of what we've gone to see this year.

I wasn't sure if two boys would really want to go see a movie about a prince and a princess, but "Enchanted" had received the most important review of all: Two thumbs up from the nine-year-old boy who lives next door. Besides, the commercials were funny. Also, we needed to get away from turkey dinner leftovers before we'd all implode.

My sons and I giggled through much of the movie, which was largely absent of the usual jokes just for the grown-ups and had only one potty joke. Nobody cursed, and there was no wise-cracking side-kick once the Joe Pesci-sounding chipmunk couldn't talk anymore. And I never once decided to "rest my eyes" like I usually do in kids' movies. (Tip: Sit by the wall so you can rest your head.) It was good clean fun with a scary dragon thrown in for the boys, which is why we all applauded.

Look out, Nemo. "Enchanted" is enchanting to this mom of boys. No nap necessary.
Posted by Jen. November 25, 2007 at 10:19 a.m.

Smarter Than a Fifth Grader
I am proud to report than my family is smarter than a fifth grader.

We found this out yesterday when we played my son's DVD version of the TV show game before our Friday Thanksgiving dinner, a tradition for five years now. The dinner, that is, not the "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader" game. That's new.

We split up into two teams: boys vs. girls. The boys, my brother, my sons (who aren't yet fifth graders), my father (a retired executive who watches the news all day and is, therefore is a good person to have on your team) and my husband (when he wasn't stirring the gravy for dinner) made up the boys' team. The girls included my niece, Erin, who is a sixth grader (our ringer), my brother's fiance, Judy, my mom (who knows history, but groans at science) and me.

Both sides made it to the million dollar question, though we got a little help from my father, who just couldn't help but shout out answers he knew, even when it helped the girls' team. Lucky for us, my mom remembers lots about botany for a woman who doesn't do any gardening. The boys were little stronger in math than we were until the end, when my mother pointed out that the boys had to split their million bucks five ways, but we only had to split it four ways.

We're all still waiting for our checks. Maybe we aren't as smart as we thought.
Posted by Jen. November 24, 2007 at 1:00 p.m.

Foreign Objects
I was in the hospital yesterday, having my port-o-cath removed. (It's a catheter that's surgically implanted under your skin for chemotherapy.)

In the same-day surgery recovery area, I saw two parents standing over their son, who was about four-years-old. When the boy awoke, his father held up a plastic container with a small black object in it.

"Don't ever put this in your ear again," he scolded his son.

Apparently, the boy had removed a mirror from his toy car and thought, Hmmmmm. Where can I put this. Oh, I know! before shoving it into his ear.

His parents looked exhausted, relieved and, perhaps, wary of the holiday season ahead. If the boy is putting toy car mirrors in his ear now, wait'll Christmas morning. Maybe they should sign up for a frequent visitors card at the ER. Or maybe everybody's getting toys without any parts smaller than a child's ear. Or nose. Or mouth.

All I know is that I'm thankful that the object my doctor removed was supposed to be there in the first place.
Posted by Jen. November 21, 2007 at 11:05 a.m.

Sick Day, Snow Day
This must be agonizing for my nine-year-old: There's snow piling up outside, but he's stuck inside with the flu. His temperature is rising, but the snow keeps falling. And later, it's supposed to rain, thereby washing away any fun he might have. Poor kid.

Meanwhile, his brother and other neighborhood kids had a soaking good time this morning playing in the snow while waiting for the school bus, which never showed up. Finally, a neighbor pulled up, and the kids piled into her car. She drove them (and their big clumps of snow) to school.1 They might be in class now, but at least they got a good 30 minutes of (sopping wet) play in the snow.

But not my flu patient. He's sitting in the family room with his nose pressed up against the huge picture window we just had installed, sighing at the snow falling in the backyard. All I can hope is that it stops falling -- and starts melting -- before his brother and his pals get home from school this afternoon. I don't think I can take the heartache.
Posted by Jen. November 19, 2007 at 10:31 a.m.

Just One Hommy
Much like Tiggers, there is just one Hommy. She's the only one. My mom was supposed to be called, "Grammy," by her grandchildren, but my niece pronounced it "Hommy," and it stuck. And it fits her, too, because she's one-of-a-kind.

The only thing grandmotherly about Hommy is that she knits. Beyond that, well, she's not your ordinary grandmother. She doesn't cook, bake or sew Halloween costumes. She's too busy jumping rope, diving into the pool and holding spitting contests on my front step.

Yes, you read that right: spitting contests.

One afternoon, she brought my kids home from piano lessons, and then disappeared with my 10-year-old. All of a sudden, I heard the distinct sound of people spitting on our front step. My mother was teaching my son how to spit and spit far -- and she won.

My mother is a 10-year-old boy trapped in a grandmother's body.

When my niece was little, she left Hommy's house, only to return moments later. "Hey!" she declared. "You're my grandmother!" It took her two years to figure out that the woman who loves to shoot basketballs at Chuck E. Cheese's was her grandmother. After all, she doesn't act like a grandmother. She acts like a Hommy.

Today, Hommy turns 70. She has so many friends that the celebration started weeks ago and is expected to run into December. Look for the parade in your town. We're taking her out to dinner this weekend -- but only if she promises not to spit at the table. Happy birthday, Hommy. We love you.
Posted by Jen. November 16, 2007 at 9:14 a.m.

The Run Around
My house is slowly returning to its former status as the Kid Magnet of the neighborhood. After six months of construction, which warded off children and their soccer balls, bikes and driveway chalk, kids are once again finding their way from the school bus stop and neighboring houses to my yard. Even though it's getting cold out these days. Even though it gets dark only an hour after they get home from school. Even though the addition cuts into our backyard. They are thrilled to be back. Too bad my husband doesn't feel the same way.

Once again, I am the hostess of the Frat House for Fourth Graders. Only, this house isn't the tired old home it was before we started construction. Now we've got gleaming new kitchen cabinets and counters, fresh tiles and stunning new hardwood floors, which, if my husband had his way, would all be sprayed with child repellent. He doesn't want the neighborhood kids to ruin our investment. And neither do I. I just can't be in three places at once to guard it all.

Halloween was especially hard on my husband. When he came home from work, he stood over a fresh mark on the new hardwood floors and asked, "Any idea how this happened?" But I have no idea. I was busy ordering pizza for our Trick or Treating crew, doling out snacks to my kids and their friends, entertaining the parents who stopped in and answering the door -- all while dressed as Dr. Evil. I don't want marks on our hardwood floors, either. But I can't watch over them with a taser gun in hand all day. Kids are just too fast and too filthy.

As he watched dozens and dozens of Trick or Treaters track through his newly seeded dirt on the front lawn, he sighed, and I felt bad for him and for our house. We once again live in a frat house. You can come in now, but please, leave your shoes and whatever else makes marks on our floors, at the door. My husband will thank you for it.
Posted by Jen. November 14, 2007 at 9:53 a.m.

Message in a Bottle
During the 12 minutes I spent eating breakfast this morning, somebody left a message in a bottle on my nightstand. I found it when I returned upstairs to brush my teeth. The note inside the bottle wasn't signed, but I know who it's from -- the same people who drew in chalk on our driveway and left their dirty socks on the floor. I have a message for them, too.

Dear Offspring:
Thank you for the message in a bottle you left on my nightstand this morning before school. Though I can't extract the message (or the cork) from the bottle, I'm sure you have written something heartwarming and sweet. At least, that's what I tell myself. It's probably the rules for your latest "Boys Only" club or something to do with Pokéamon that I don't understand (and don't care to understand.)

May I suggest that, in the future, you leave something more useful, like some moisturizer or a book I'd like to read? Your Christmas list, perhaps? The missing gloves I've been hounding you to find since you lost them already -- even though we've only had about eight days cold enough to even wear gloves?

And so, I am returning your message in a bottle to you. I look forward seeing it again, perhaps filled with Skittles or something more useful than a cork and a note I can't get out of the bottle.

Love,
Mom
Posted by Jen. November 12, 2007 at 12:37 p.m.

Secret to My Sanity
Wanna know the secret to my sanity? Grandparents and the children who love them.

I don't know how we made it well into my older son's eleventh year without his decision that it's no longer cool to visit his grandparents. Maybe I'm just lucky that both of my boys still enjoy visiting them, because if they didn't, they'd be home right now fighting over the Wii or the computer or the soccer ball while I try to hide upstairs until my husband comes home. Instead, they're ice skating with my in-laws and won't be home until Saturday.

Thank you, God.

Ever since my older son was eight-months-old, my in-laws have invited my kids to stay with them for a weekend or a few days every six weeks or so. It's great for the kids, because they get to be a little spoiled. It's great for my in-laws, because they get to spend time with their grandsons. And it's great for my husband and me, because we get to complete full sentences -- sometimes several in a row -- without having to interrupt ourselves to shout "KNOCK IT OFF, RIGHT NOW!" That's right -- for two, sometimes three entire days, we are cured of our parental Tourette's Syndrome. I have my in-laws to thank for that.

Tonight, I will come up with something clever to talk to my husband about, simply because we can. When the kids call to say good-night, I will ask them to put their grandmother on the phone, so I can thank the secret to my sanity.
Posted by Jen. November 8, 2007 at 9:47 a.m.

Want more? Drop by my Good Grief! blog on GoodHousekeeping.com.

Fall Back
As soon as you've spent one "Fall Back" morning -- when we change the clocks back an hour -- explaining to a toddler why Mommy is so very tired and doesn't want to play pull all the tissues out of the box and stuff them in the Tonka truck at 4:30 a.m., you come to hate Fall Back. I know I did.

For years, Fall Back meant gaining an hour I just plain didn't need. If I could spend it sleeping, sure, but most years, I spent it counting the days until Spring Ahead. But not this year.

This was the year -- after 10 long years -- when my children finally, FINALLY, slept in for Fall Back. And so did I. We got up at 8, which felt like 9, and yet, we still had plenty of time to eat breakfast and get ready for church. And today, they didn't get up an hour early as in previous years. They slept until we told them to get out of bed and get ready for school. And then they grunted at us.

Hurray! Fall Back is back!

For nearly a decade, Fall Back just meant that I couldn't wait until my husband got up so I could Fall Back asleep. Even if 4:30 felt like 5:30, that was still to dang early to get up.

Now, though, my kids SLEEP IN. They get the whole point of the, er, holiday. The point is not to make Mommy count down the moments (okay, hours) until some decent children's programming comes on TV while trying to pass off the Home Shopping Network as the new Dora, The Explorer. "Look! Backpack, backpack!" The point is to sleep. That's what we do with an extra hour. My kids have finally figured it out.

But the flip side is that we lose an hour in the spring. And while that used to be a great holiday from motherhood for me -- "Oh look! Bedtime already?" -- it isn't anymore. Not now that Fall Back is finally back for good.
Posted by Jen. November 5, 2007 at 10:22 a.m.

Want more? Drop by my Good Grief! blog on GoodHousekeeping.com.

One Day Only!
"Why am I exhausted?" one of the other class moms asked me yesterday at noon, just as the third grade Halloween class party was getting started.

"Because it's Halloween," I replied. "And you're in charge of the craft."

Of course, after she instructed the class to glue on foam bats onto their foam cauldrons, it was my turn. I was the hostess of Halloween Bingo, a game I created on the computer with clip art and printed out at Staples. As soon as I handed out what I thought were clever, colorful Bingo boards, one kid pointed out, "Hey! There's no Free Space."

I forgot the Free Space. But I did remember, however, to make 22 different Bingo boards so they wouldn't all win at the same time. I thought that was amazing enough, but no: Another kid shouted, "Hey! There's no Free Space."

Why am I exhausted?

After Bingo, we helped the kids get into their costumes, and then we all filed outside for the Halloween parade. After school, there was pizza and Trick or Treating and dozens and dozens of kids at my door.

At the end of the day, I was in bed before my kids. My 10-year-old appeared bedside to ask, "How come Halloween is just one day?" I answered, "Because more than one day would kill the parents."
Just 54 days to rest up for Christmas.
Posted by Jen. November 1, 2007 at 9:30 a.m.

Ghosted
On Sunday night, we were "Ghosted." That means that someone (Colin and Vanessa, I'm sure it was you), rang our doorbell at 9:30 p.m. and ran away, leaving behind a bag full of Halloween candy and a note urging us to Ghost someone else.

When I stepped outside on Monday morning, however, I discovered that the Ghosters had also decorated our new front porch, which, due to our construction has been sadly undecorated except for power tools and dirt, with six little pumpkins. At least, I thought the Ghoster had done it, but now I'm not sure. I think maybe my in-laws had put them there on Saturday when they were here helping us put this house back together.

The bottom line is: I have no clue what's going on in my own house anymore. And frankly, that's fine by me.

This was the summer I let go, because I had to -- cancer made sure of that. But now that I'm feeling better, I'm not ready to take charge again, because if I do, I'm going to have to remember where the mop is and whether we're out of jelly and what time we should leave for this and that. I'm going to know where the Ceasar salad dressing is located in the fridge, where my son left his soccer cleats and whether or not we have any Scotch tape around here. I'm going to have to be the boss again, and I don't want to.

Besides, it's fun finding decorations you didn't put out. Thanks to the Ghosters or my in-laws or whomever. It looks very nice.
P.S. In a few weeks, I'll put out a hook for a Christmas wreath...
Posted by Jen. October 30, 2007 at 10:41 a.m.

Happy Anniversary
On Friday, the day of my 16th wedding anniversary, my nine-year-old asked, "How are ya gonna celebrate?" Then he coughed, and I looked at the clock to see if it was time for his antibiotics yet.

How are we gonna celebrate? At home, with a kid with pneumonia, that's how.

Perhaps it's a cautionary tale for future brides: Don't get married during flu season. Also, don't get married near Halloween, because you're never going to go away for a week-long anniversary celebration until the kids are too old for Trick or Treating -- which is right about when they're old enough to invite a bunch of friends over and raid your liquor cabinet while you're in St. John's for the week.

And yet, the autumn leaves in my wedding photos look fantastic.

So, how did we celebrate our anniversary? With "Game Night" in my new home office. We played the appropriately titled game of "Trouble," and I won! Woo Hoo!

Then I gave my son his medicine and put him to bed for the night. Next year, maybe we'll go out for our anniversary. Pack up the games!
Posted by Jen. October 28, 2007 at 11:36 a.m.

16 Candles
Sixteen years ago this morning, I walked down the aisle in my wedding gown. This morning, however, I am taking my nine-year-old's temperature (he has pneumonia), hiding from the painters (today, they're painting our front door) and rushing to get something posted on my web site before my husband, who is working from home today, knocks out my Internet access.

There are no flowers, no shrimp buffet, no music, no one holding up the back of my dress while I walk. No first dance, no champagne, no limo waiting outside for me. No glory.

There's just cough syrup, a thermometer, several painters and my husband of 16 years. It's an ordinary Friday in an extraordinary marriage that has been through a major home remodeling, two children, seven marathons, two books written and even cancer. And that's where the real glory is. You can keep the flowers and the limo...but I wouldn't mind the shrimp buffet.
Posted by Jen. October 26, 2007 at 10:38 a.m.

Most Original
I spent Friday night putting makeup on my 10-year-old son -- and I know it won't be the last time.

Nicholas decided to go as a ventriloquist's dummy at the Cub Scouts Halloween costume contest -- and he won, for Most Original. Or Most Creative. Or something like that. It may be the only time he'll win an award for wearing my "Lady Danger" lipstick. At least, I hope so.

His brother didn't win an award, but that's because he wasn't there. He was running a temperature, so I kept him home, where he walked around in his Clone Trooper costume while playing our Nintendo DS. It was like break-time at Universal Studios, minus the cigarettes.

His den won some sort of prize, which seemed like a decent consolation for him. He wasn't jealous of his brother's prize.

I'll get my makeup out for my son one more time -- on Halloween. With no daughters in the house, at least I don't have to worry about someone stealing my good makeup. I hope.
Posted by Jen. October 22, 2007 at 10:09 a.m.

Free Admission! Toys! Sports!
An hour after the school bus pulled away on Monday afternoon, there were still children playing in my yard -- and none of them were mine. Their mothers lingered on the edge of the property, chatting about school and whatnot, while I rushed around my house trying to get my sons ready for their soccer game. I felt like yelling, "Get off my lawn!" Except, they're all friends of ours.

Ever since the K-2 school moved the bus stop to in front of my house, I've seen an increase in the number of first graders on my lawn, and I don't even have any first graders. At least, I didn't before September. Now I have first graders, kindergarteners and their siblings.

On Monday, two kids were climbing on the downed trees in the woods on the side of my property. Two others were playing ball out front, and still more were circling my house and kicking up dirt like a scene from "Lord of the Flies." Meanwhile, I searched for soccer socks upstairs and wondered why I kept seeing a ball pass by the windows when my boys were in the house.

After six months of construction around here, I've become accustomed to having people on my property, but still, it's got me thinking: I should charge a fee so we can pay for landscaping next spring. Perhaps $5 for the kids in the woods, $10 for the boys playing ball out front and $20 for the children circling the house, killing any chance for seedlings to grow in their path. Anyone who rings the doorbell gets a surcharge slapped on. And if it's to announce they're sorry for breaking the outdoor lighting or dinged one of our new shutters, they get fined.

Or maybe I should just charge an annual fee. We'll call it "Club Singer." Food and beverages, served from a front window, will be charged separately and monthly. After all, this is the premier place to hang out in the neighborhood. This afternoon, when the school bus pulls away, you'll see what I mean.
Hot dog, anyone? That'll be a buck-fifty.
Posted by Jen. October 17, 2007 at 10:58 a.m.

Hoo! Woo!
Nine years ago this morning, Christopher was born. He was almost born yesterday, but I managed not to give birth in the car. There was barely enough time to get into the birthing room and no time even for an IV. A nurse asked my husband and me admitting questions and I shouted the answers between contractions.

Nurse: "Pediatrician?"
Me: "Dr. Smith! Can we do this later?"

We had pulled Chris' big brother Nicholas, then 19 months-old, out of bed before midnight to put him in the car and rush to the hospital. During the entire ride there, he pointing to the headlights and said, "Hoooo! Hoooo!" which I guess, is toddler for "light." He'd say, "Hoo!" and I'd hit a contraction and say "Woo!" Over and over: "Hoo!" "Woo!" "Hoo!" "Woo!"

He thought he was having a lovely nighttime ride with Mommy and Daddy. I thought I was going to give birth in front on the Dunkin' Donuts.

We will celebrate his birthday today with a trip to Target for sneakers and a Halloween costume. Then we'll sneak in some ice cream, even though I plan to serve dessert tonight after dinner. Shhhh. Or "Woo!" Whichever you prefer.

Happy birthday, Christopher!
Posted by Jen. October 16, 2007 at 9:49 a.m.

Four-and-a-Half Foot Tornadoes
For a few hours, I could see the floor of my son's room. I had helped him clean up the mess that had been strewn across his bedroom floor for some time now, a mess I couldn't miss whenever I walked up the stairs. I don't know how he got into his bed, because he'd have to step over the crumpled papers, rolled up dirty socks, pencils, erasers, sea shells, books, pirate costume and tipped over garbage can to get there. He could live with it, but I couldn't.

So, yesterday after school, we cleaned up the mess "together." This meant that he cleaned the pastel pencils off his desk with Windex and carefully placed his shells into a jar while I cleaned up everything else. When we finished, he seemed surprised.

"How long was that -- 5 minutes?" he asked. It was more like 15, but I wasn't going to tell him that.
"See?" I replied. "It doesn't take as long as you think. Now, keep it clean."

And it was clean -- while he was sleeping. When I walked by his room this morning he said, "It just looks messy now, but I'll clean it up when I'm done with this project."

There, strewn across his bedroom floor, were numerous little white pieces of paper he was using to create a 3-D house from an architecture kit he got for Christmas. That's fine, except I noticed that there were also crumpled apers, rolled up dirty socks, pencils, erasers, sea shells and books on the floor, too. Hurricane Nicholas had struck again.

If he doesn't keep his promise to clean up this time, I'm getting him a job at FEMA.
Posted by Jen. October 13, 2007 at 10:53 a.m.

I Can See the Finish Line
I was eating lunch -- in the dining room, where the refrigerator and the kitchen table have been for months -- when I heard it: running water in the kitchen. I rushed in to find the plumber -- are you ready for this? -- hooking up our kitchen sink!

Dear God of Snacking and Thanksgiving Dinner, the kitchen is almost done!

The last time I heard running water coming from the kitchen, it was followed by cursing and then a contractor running downstairs to turn off the water to the house. I managed to save MommaSaid's server just in time as the water poured into the basement from above. But this time, the water was supposed to be in the kitchen, and, this time, it poured from the faucet into our brand new jumbo sink.

Then I turned around to find another surprise: our new refrigerator, plugged in and working. It's chilling styrofoam right now, but soon enough, we'll clear it out and put food in it. Dare I imagine that we'll actually be able to cook this food? Oh, I dare. I dare. Because the oven is in, too. Not hooked up, mind you, and the stovetop is missing. But it actually looks like you could cook something besides microwave popcorn in our kitchen.

The contractor said he'll be back tomorrow and that the electrician will be here next week, along with the painter. Maybe we can all stand around the sink together and watch the water flow...where it's supposed to.
Posted by Jen. October 12, 2007 at 2:47 p.m.

The Garden Gnomes
When I played soccer as a kid, the name of my team was dictated to me by the Recreation Department or the school. How else can you explain why I'd be playing soccer on a team called "The Morning Glories." These Morning Glories would slide tackle your legs from out of you.

Morning Glories? More like the Venus Fly Traps.

But my kids play on teams that get to choose their names. That's how I can explain why I am coaching a team of third and fourth grade boys called "The Garden Gnomes."

You'd think they'd want to be named after something tough and mean, like "The Tigers" or even "The Zombies." Or after a force of nature, such as "The Tornadoes" or "The Tidal Waves." Instead, I've got to yell, "Go Garden Gnomes!" It almost makes me miss the "Morning Glories." They sound tougher.

I don't know where this generation of children got their skewed sense of irony, but they're not the only team that enjoys a strange name. Last year, I coached a team that wanted to call themselves "The Intoxicated Babies," which is a great name for a punk band, but not a boys' soccer team. One kid even suggested, "The Lemon Merangue Pies" before I persuaded them to be "The Killer Bees," secure in the knowledge that they aren't "Saturday Night Live" fans.

I've got half the season left coaching a team named after the mascot for a travel website. So far, we lost a few, won one and tied another. We may not have a great record, but at least we have a name. Just ask my Garden Gnomes.
Posted by Jen. October 9, 2007 at 1:25 p.m.

Metal Detector
I need to get a metal detector. Yesterday, a friend of my sons arrived at our house with his pocket knives. This seemed like a wonderful idea to him and to the other three boys attempting to make a fort in our woods. These are Cub Scouts, after all. They are trained in these sorts of things. But they're also nine-years-old. And considering this boy managed to cut his hand with these knives while standing right next to his father, I didn't want to have to draw straws with the other mom on the deck with me to see who'd have to take a child or two to the Emergency Room.

I told this child to give me his pocket knives. And then it hit me: When did I have to start asking children to turn in their weapons before a playdate? Um, yesterday. As far as I know, this was the first time any kid had brought weaponry to our house. If it's not, I don't want to know. But it makes me wonder... do I need to pat down kids when they set foot on my yard? Should I ask my contractor to install a metal detector? Bomb-sniffing dogs, perhaps?

When the playdate was over, I returned his pocket knives and sent him home. I told his father about it, and he agreed that the knives should stay home. If not, then his son stays home.

Meanwhile, I'll consider hiring security guards for our playdates. These Cub Scouts need a pat down.
Posted by Jen. October 4, 2007 at 11:33 a.m.

Testosterone for Breakfast
My neighbor asked me if he could drop off his son this morning at eight so he could get to the city today. "Sure. No problem," I told him. And usually it is no problem. But sometimes, when you add testosterone to two rooms full of fun things to play with and add a good night's sleep, well, there is a problem. And it's me.

How is it that when grown-ups see their friends in the morning, they can barely utter a "hi" without first drinking two cups of coffee, but when kids see their friends in the morning, they feed off each other's bursting energy like a tropical storm over warm waters?

It's not that the three boys behaved excessively poorly. It's that it was too early for me to handle a boy in a pirate outfit, another rooting through his money box and shouting, "Where's my 30 bucks?" and another adding three of our LiveStrong bracelets to the dozen or so other support bracelets already on his wrist.

I'm not on top of my parenting game until at least noon.

I told the boy in the pirate outfit to get changed before the school bus arrived. I told the junior accountant I'd pay him back the $30 I had borrowed yesterday (but forgot to tell him). As for the kid in the bracelets, well, he's not mine, and he wasn't making a mess or excessive noise, so I let it go.

They'll all be home in a few hours, and I'll be better prepared to deal with them then. I just hope the kid in the pirate costume doesn't realize I borrowed 20 bucks from him until after I can get to the bank.

Posted by Jen. October 3, 2007 at 1:31 p.m.

Back to School Night
Somehow, I managed to get out of my son's chair at school at Back to School night last night without too much agony. Those things are loooooow, and my muscles are gone. Besides, I was exhausted from all the work his teacher gave us. First we had to answer a questionnaire based on a video we watched. The kids will be correcting them this morning. Then, we had to listen to a story and provide feedback. Finally, we had to made a pyramid out of marshmallows and toothpicks.

My pyramid was three-sided. In my Egypt, that's how they're built. Also, then I had a leftover marshmallow to eat. I needed the sustenance after all that work. It's a wonder my kid isn't more tired when he comes home from school. I was exhausted.

I have another Back to School Night tonight. I think I'll pack trail mix and a sharp pencil, just in case. Or maybe I'll send my husband. He's a runner; he's in good enough shape for those silly little chairs.

Posted by Jen. October 2, 2007 at 10:08 a.m.

God of Soccer
Dear Pele, God of Soccer:
Thank you.

Thank you for making sure that after one son scored a goal in Friday night's game, the other one scored, too. Never mind that most of the team scored in the 6-1 trounce. All that matters in my house is that both brothers scored goals in the same game. It just makes life easier around here.

If one brother had scored and the other had not, they would not be playing soccer together in the backyard right now. Or at least, they wouldn't be playing so nicely, because one brother would have to remind the other brother, "This is how I scored my goal!" And then the scoring brother would belt the ball past the non-scoring brother and there would be arguing and fighting. And then one brother would storm into the house, tracking dirt from what's left of our yard into the house, causing my husband to yell about the dirt and his new kitchen floor. And soon, everyone would be cranky.

Instead, both of my sons are both scoring machines, the Beckhams or Rinaldos (or Peles) of the backyard. At least, until the next game.

Please, God of Soccer. Watch down over our game, and if one brother scores, please let the other one score, too.

Amen.

Posted by Jen. September 30, 2007 at 11:15 a.m.

Shhh!
I hope my husband doesn't call. If he does, he's going to ask me to tell the contractor about the crack in the front step and the sanding that needs to be done to our new hardwood floor. Then I'll have to tell him what he doesn't want to hear: The contractor isn't here.

Hurray!

I know I should be unhappy that no one is here finishing up our kitchen so we can stop eating off of plasticware and move our fridge out of the dining room. But it's so quiet here today, so peaceful, I don't want to ruin my good moood -- or the silence.

Yesterday, three guys installed a hardwood floor, one guy (and his radio) painted all day in various corners of the house, two guys were on ladders out front doing I-don't- know-what and one guy told them all what to do. Meanwhile, I looked for the Excedrin.

Today, however, it's so quiet here, I may be able to put the headache medicine away and think.

It's still early though. The painter could show up, and then I'll be listening to the radio again all day. In the mean time, I'll listen to the birds chirping outside my window while I still can. Tomorrow, I'll be busy talking about the crack in the front step. Again.

Got a house under seige, too? Or are you just happy I'm not you? Read "They're Living There?" on my Good Grief! blog at GoodHousekeeping.com.

Posted by Jen. September 25, 2007 at 9:14 a.m.

Picture Day Redux
When my boys came home last night from a weekend at my in-laws' house wearing brand new polo shirts they'd worn to church, I could think just one thing: Picture Day! My mother-in-law's trip to the Gap has saved me the trouble of finding clothes for tomorrow's Picture Day! Hallelujah!

Now I do not have to try to scrub caked-in, baked-in stains out of year-old shirts! Now I do not have to tell my boys to hold their hands over the spots on their shirts during the photo! Now I do not have to sit outside the brand new Target 5 miles from my house, sulking, because it doesn't open for three more weeks. We've got shirts for Picture Day!

As we settled down to dinner, I thought about how lucky I am to have a mother-in-law who buys my boys new clothes when they need them -- when I need them. Then I listened to my son say the prayer...and I kept on praying. As he lifted his fork full of baked ziti to his mouth I could think of just one thing: Spray & Wash!

I hope my mother-in-law bought some of that, too.

Posted by Jen. September 24, 2007 at 9:16 a.m.

Say "Cheese," but Don't Spill it
I have five days to find and keep clean two decent shirts for school picture day and two pairs of nice khaki pants that don't make my boys look like they're either expecting rising water or that they've been tiling the kitchen floor in them.

Good luck.

Presumably, September is a time to have fresh new school clothes at the ready. But all the new long-sleeved size 10 shirts I bought for my sons are too long on my third grader. He has given up on rolling them up, preferring instead to wear last year's ratty long sleeved shirts. That's fine for art class, but not for the school photos.

And so, I can do just one thing: Pray for warm weather. That way, he can wear short sleeves. Lucky for me, the forecast for Picture Day is sunny and a high of 77 degrees. Now I just have to go upstairs and hide nice short-sleeved shirts for Tuesday. Then I have to remember where I put them come Monday night.

I could put them in shorts, I suppose, but then I'd have to make sure they have decent matching socks -- a near impossible task in this house. So, I'm going to find pants today and make them try them on after school. If I'm lucky enough to find to pairs that have no stains on their knees, I will hide those, too. If there are stains, I'll hope they get put in the back row for the photos. Hopefully, the rest of the class is shorter than they are.

It's a lot to think about, but I've got five days to prepare. Hmmmm. How fast can Target deliver?

Are you glad your tweens don't need you so much? Me too: Read my Good Grief! blog for moms of tweens at GoodHousekeeping.com.

Posted by Jen. September 20, 2007 at 10:02 a.m.

Lost and Found, 4th Grade
It's started already. My son has already left two items, one at school and one at the neighbors, and we're only a few weeks into the school year.

He left his jacket at the neighbor's house before school on Monday. Luckily, she returned it the next day, so I'm still ahead on jackets. So far.

Then he left his lunchbox at school yesterday. Considering it's large and has his name embroidered on it (Thank you, Lands End), there's a chance someone might have found it and will return it to him today. If not, he's going to continue to bring lunch in a gallon sized Hefty bag if and until it comes home with him. (Hey, why did we get the lunchbox when I don't care about the Hefty bag returning?)

If it doesn't return, I'll be sorting through the Lost & Found bin at school again very soon. If only they would make his own box.

Well, there's one consolation in all of this. His saxophone -- the one my father gave him...the one his parents gave him 60 years ago -- came home from school yesterday. Phew! Just nine more months of hoping that one makes it home again.

To read more about my adventures with the saxophone, drop by my Good Grief! blog at GoodHousekeeping.com
Posted by Jen. September 19, 2007 at 9:27 a.m.

Closet Dreams
Soon, I will have a closet. A new closet that is twice the size of the old closet off the garage door that was so small, we had to stuff our coats in it and then push the door shut with our bodies. But the new closet is wider, deeper, better than the last closet. And I dream of the day that I can put all of the coats and, more importantly, the cleats, sneakers and sandals that are currently strewn across the floor in the kitchen, front hall and dining room in it.

On that day, I will no longer trip over soccer cleats and shin guards when I'm headed to the breakfast table. I will no longer kick sneakers out of my way when I am carrying large objects toward the stairs. I will no longer wonder why I'm still seeing sandals when it is 62 degrees outside. It feels like Nordstroms after their big semi-annual shoe sale around here. Can I hire someone to do inventory and put it all away?

We've got about two more weeks until the kitchen floor, and, therefore, the closet floor is done. By then, hopefully its door will be placed in its hinges and painted. After that, I will hold a ceremony for all of the stray shoes, wishing them well in their new home, our new closet.

And then I'll spend the winter reminding the kids to put away their shoes.
Posted by Jen. September 16, 2007 at 9:27 a.m.

Goodnight Moon
I don't miss "Goodnight Moon." Or "Pat the Bunny." Or, especially "You Can Name 100 Trucks!" I don't miss reading to my kids, because I like reading next to them so much better.

Last night, I was reading in bed when my third grader climbed into bed next to me to read his Pokémon book. He likes to read next to his father's digital clock, because it's easier for him to keep track of the minutes read he has to report to his teacher. Then his brother climbed into bed between us and told me his plans to write a three-to-five book series about a sea monster.

As one kid read and the other told me about plot and character, I thought, This is way better than reading "Planes at the Airport" over and over and over. Sure, some of their pre-school books had beautiful drawings and great story lines. But mostly, my boys wanted me to read books like, "I Love Trucks," which had no plot, just agonizingly boring lists of truck equipment. I know enough about firetrucks that I could probably pass the firefighter exam.

When he was done reading his Pokémon book, he told me what happened in the chapter he had read before he left to go to sleep in his room. His brother planned out the first of his sea monster book series before he went to sleep. And I finished up a chapter and went to sleep, too.

Goodnight Moon. Goodnight, Big Frank's Fire Truck. Goodnight, kids. See you and your books tomorrow night.
Posted by Jen. September 13, 2007 at 9:45 a.m.

The International Silver String Submarine Band
"Look! I can play it with my nose!"

My 10 year-old was playing his recorder, the one the school suggested I buy for him, with his nostrils. Lucky me. Even luckier, his little brother was accompanying him on the harmonica. I don't want to know which oriface was playing the harmonica. I want nothing to do with their band.

I have spent hundreds, no thousands, of dollars on piano lessons, and this is how they start their day? It was like the Little Rascals' International Silver String Submarine Band, minus the drums. Thankfully.

Then the contractors added their harmony with nail guns and saws, and before I knew it, I wished I had ear plugs.

The school bus pulled up, and so, my kids had to put away their instruments until after school. Phew. The contractors, however, are still playing their music. Allllll daaaaaaay. At least they're finishing up the house. And that's music to my ears.
Posted by Jen. September 12, 2007 at 9:08 a.m.

Proper Footwear
I have no idea what my 10 year-old is wearing on his feet at school today. I know he put socks on, but considering that one pair of his sneakers is in the hallway upstairs and the other pair had spent the night in our neighbor's mini-van, I'm not sure what, if anything else, he has on his feet. And that makes me happy.

If he wants to go to school in a pair of sneakers that are too small, he can go ahead. If he wants to wear sandals over his socks like a German student, he can do that. If he wants to wear his soccer cleats, fine. I am hereby no longer in charge of his feet.

After years of agonizing over which light-up sneakers to buy him -- the Bob the Builders or the baseball ones -- I am officially retiring from worrying about what's on his feet. I will make sure he has the proper footwear; there's a box of soccer cleats heading this way today from Sports Authority.com and a slew of socks headed here from Target.com, but that's it. (Besides, we need the boxes for book reports and such.)

No longer will I shout, "Put your shoes on!" before he heads out the door for the day. He's old enough to know he needs footwear, even if he often leaves shoes and sandals elsewhere. (I'm still not sure how he got home from soccer practice last night without the shoes he wore during soccer practice.)

I am heady with liberation. The tyranny of children's footwear has been let go. Now, if I could just feel the same way about their jackets. Maybe next year.
Posted by Jen. September 11, 2007 at 9:33 a.m.

The Boys in the Woods
My driveway is a magnet to the neighborhood boys. When they get off the school bus in the afternoon, it pulls them and their backpacks until I wind up with half a dozen boys creeping toward my garage, begging me to let them play at our house. "We'll stay in the woods," they promise. "Pleeeeeeeease, Mrs. Singer?"

As long as they actually stay in the woods, I don't mind. Even with construction and cancer, this is the Frat House for Fourth Graders. So, yesterday, I let them run loose in our woods while their backpacks sat in the driveway. The bears are probably still hiding.

I could hear them all even over the saws and hammering inside the house. They shouted about "territory" and "weapons," and they called each other "men." They discussed the reconstruction of their fort, which had nearly been ruined this summer by a falling tree (courtesy of my husband's chainsaw and poor aim.) And they made their after school plans with their fort in our woods.

But then two of the boys had to leave for soccer practice, and two others had school errands to run. The school year is going to get in the way of their playing. They left us, but I'm sure they'll all be back again today. The driveway is probably already calling them.
Posted by Jen. September 7, 2007 at 11:45 a.m.

And We're Off...
My fourth grader appeared at the bathroom door this morning with an offer: "I'll give you twenty bucks to extend summer one more week." Looks like someone didn't want it to be the first day of school today. That someone was me.

Blasphemy! I know, I know, mothers are supposed to revel the first day of school the same way that prisoners look forward to furloughs. It's a nice break from incarceration.

But I really wouldn't mind a few more days of not knowing -- or caring -- where their backpacks are. Not packing lunches. Not keeping track of enough paperwork to clearcut a small Amazon forest. Not shouting, "Don't forget your snack/homework/permission slip/ book report/brother!" while running behind my sons to the school bus stop.

Twenty bucks? I'd do it for five if I had the power to extend summer. That would give me more time to find the backpacks.
Posted by Jen. September 5, 2007 at 9:06 a.m.