Fall 2008 Return to Momma Blog 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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