Happy Bar Mitzvah!
First, it was a song that sounded like something from a PBS concert special or a "60 Minutes" profile of a classical pianist. Then it was a tune apparently influenced by our Russian neighbor and perhaps, the bitter cold outside. Last night, though, it was Bar Mitvah time. And we're not even Jewish.

My 10-year-old has been making up songs on the piano, most of which sound pretty good. (Practicing what his teacher told him to practice also sounds good, but I don't hear that as often.) I don't know where he gets his ideas, but he seems to be popping around the world, as though he's performing at a UN cocktail party.

One song could have been in a soundtrack to a documentary on the Russian Revolution. He plays his song and the cossacks march by.

One belonged in the soundtrack for an Andy Warhol film.

Last night's creation made me feel like dancing the Hora.

Who knows what the next song will be, but I'm hoping it's reggae. I feel like going to the Caribbean tonight.
Posted by Jen. February 28, 2008 at 9:28 a.m.

My Grandma's Better Than Your Grandma
My mom was one of two grandmothers to watch my son's fourth grade class present their biography speeches. Each kid had to pick someone famous, write a report about him or her and then deliver a speech dressed like that person. Then the kids had to guess who that person was.

My kid's Andy Warhol outfit included a dark turtleneck sweater, sunglasses and a blonde mullet wig, which I cut to look as much like Warhol's crazy hair as I could.

One of his classmates, however, wore an elaborate NASA space suit his grandmother had fashioned from a karate outfit, complete with a plastic helmet and NASA logo, so he could deliver his speech on Neil Armstrong.

"What a great outfit, Grandma!" the teacher beamed.

Yeah, it was nice. Very nice. My mother doesn't sew or design NASA outfits in any size, but that's okay, because she provided something even more valuable.

After a boy in Army fatigues gave his speech about D-Day and his subsequent presidency, none of the kids knew who he was. But my son raised his hand and offered, "Eisenhower?" And he was right, because my mom had taken him on the Eisenhower tour in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, where the former general and president had retired.

Take that, grandma with the sewing super powers! My kid's grandma may not make him Broadway quality costumes, but she may just help him pass history class. Thanks to his grandma, he may even be smarter than a fifth grader if Eisenhower is ever the answer to a question on that show. And that's one small step for my son, one giant leap for grandmas who don't sew.
Posted by Jen. February 26, 2008 at 10:12 a.m.

15 Minutes of Fame
Thanks to my son's fourth grade class, I spent my evening styling what was a blonde mullet wig into something that looks a little like Andy Warhol's head of hair. Perhaps I could get a job in props on Broadway or at Disney.

My son's class will present their biographies of famous people today while wearing costumes designed to look like that person. Each kid's biography is top secret; they're all supposed to figure out who the famous person is from each speech.

Among what I supposed will be a group of Myley Cyruses and Derek Jeters, my son will wear a blonde wig, sunglasses and a turtleneck. His speech begins with a quote: "In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes."

No doubt the adults will laugh, and the kids will be baffled. And I will save a copy of the speech for his future application to the Rhode Island School of Design or maybe, a fraternity at the University of Miami. In the mean time, I'll be busy vacuuming up mullet hairs.
Posted by Jen. February 25, 2008 at 10:43 a.m.

Buried
Dear Mother Nature,
Thanks for cutting this mom some slack by first freezing the giant mud puddle in the backyard and then dumping 10 inches of snow on top of it. Thanks also for snowing my husband in on Friday along with us so he could share in my chorus of "Don't put that wet stuff on the wood floors!" and "I don't care who started it, stop it right now!"

I realize the snow covered outdoors will actually create more trips to the washer machine for me when it all melts a month from now, but I do appreciate your efforts to give me a little vacation from the post-construction mud puddle that is my backyard. Also, from the "Pull your boot out of the mud -- not your foot out of your boot!"
Sincerely,
Snowed-in in New Jersey
Posted by Jen. February 24, 2008 at 9:50 a.m.

Life Lessons from the Little Rascals Read Jen's Good Grief! blog for parenting tweens at Good Housekeeping.com.

Trapped
I love to observe corporate types on a snow day. It's like watching a dog who wants to go out, only no one will let them. They stare out the window a lot, pace and then alternate between sucking up to you and growling. Finally, they give up and go make a mess in the other room.

As the snow piles up outside, I can hear the symphony of snowblowers revving up throughout the neighborhood. It's as though some folks believe that if they can just get their cars to the end of their driveways, they can propel themselves all the way to the office. But the storm is expected to last until tomorrow with snow turning to sleet and freezing rain later today before turning back to snow again tonight. So, even if they make it to work, they'll have to ice skate their way home later today. At least their driveways will be sorta clear.

Children, however, know exactly what to do with a snow day. Mine went outside for an hour already before dumping their wet snow clothes on the kitchen floor. Soon, they'll start campaigning to invite all the other kids in the neighborhood over for a giant snowball fight.

Until then, my husband will shout at them to "cut it out!" while they shout back, "He started it!" and I start staring out the window and pacing. I hope there's gas in the snowblower.
Posted by Jen. February 22, 2008 at 10:13 a.m.

Dinner and a Show
My husband got dinner and a show for his birthday. No, not a Broadway show and a meal at a fine restaurant. We only get that kind of deal when my mother feels sorry for us and gives us tickets for Christmas. Rather, this dinner and show was one-of-a-kind.

When my husband got home from work last night, we showered him with gift. Not giftS, just one gift. He was standing in his real gift -- our brand new kitchen. He's the chef around here. I just like the pretty cabinets to hide our mis-matched glasses and Tupperware. The kids and I got him a book and some cards.

For dinner, I served tacos....leftover from when he had cooked them on Saturday night. Then we raided various cookie containers for dessert.

After dinner, we adjourned to the living room where the kids put on a show, which largely consisted of the two of them in hats, lip-synching Sinatra and dancing in circles. You just don't see that sort of thing on Broadway, though I did see something like it Off-Broadway, but it didn't run for very long.

We didn't have to trudge into the city, pay for parking or get a sitter. I didn't have to cook (hurray!), The show was entertaining and brief, and we all got to be together. Now that's the best kind of dinner and a show.
Posted by Jen. February 19, 2008 at 9:44 a.m.

Laundry
"Don't go outside in your socks!" I shouted at my son, who was already outside in his socks. When he came back in, I asked if his socks were wet. "No," he replied, and then proceeded to show me how his socks were, in fact, wet.

I made him take off the wet socks and go upstairs to change them. When he returned, he WENT OUTSIDE IN HIS SOCKS.

Sigh.

And in that moment, several questions were answered: 1. How do the socks get ruined?
2. Why can we never find a matching pair of socks?
3. Why do I do so much dang laundry?

I told him to, once again, change his socks, when I noticed his brother taking off his shoes in the garage and stepping onto the soaked mat outside the door, thus answering another question:
4. Why do I have a sharp pain over my right eye?

Sigh.
Posted by Jen. February 18, 2008 at 2:25 p.m.

Trotters
The grown-ups looked like a bunch of excited kids as they stood in line to get his autograph. Fred "Curly" Neal was the guest of honor at yesterday's Harlem Globetrotter game at the Meadowlands, and, frankly, the kids didn't really understand what that meant. But for us former kids who saw Curly play for the Globetrotters anytime between 1963 until 1985, it was pretty darn exciting.

There was Curly, the same guy had appeared not only on the basketball court season after season for 22 years, but also in TV commercials and even a Scooby-Doo episode when we were all kids, right there at the Meadowlands. Curly's jersey had been retired the night before at Madison Square Garden, where I saw him several times for my brother's February birthday 30 years ago. (Hmmm. My mom bought the tickets this time, too.)

But my kids didn't see Curly play. They saw the new generation's version of the now 82-year-old Globetrotter franchise: High Tower, Flight Time and Showbiz and the gang. Someday they'll take their kids to see the Harlem Globetrotters and say, "See Showbiz? When I was a kid, he was something else." And then they'll line up for his autograph like a bunch of excited kids. Maybe I'll even buy the tickets.
Posted by Jen. February 17, 2008 at 10:59 a.m.

V-Day
"Happy Valentine's Day, Mom!" my 10-year-old announced when I came downstairs this morning. "I didn't get you anything," he added.

Oh, but he did.

This morning, he found his hat before it was time to leave for school. He remembered to pack up his Valentines for today's party in his classroom without my nagging or nudging him. He brought his dishes up to the sink, and, when he went upstairs to find socks, he didn't stop to play the piano on the way, thus forgetting about the socks, leaving me to shout, "Go get socks!" as we rushed out the door. He even found gloves without declaring, "I can't find gloves!" while staring at a closet full of gloves.

He says he didn't get me anything, but he did. And I love him for it. Also, his hat, his Valentines, his dishes, his socks and his gloves. Happy Valentine's Day, indeed.
Posted by Jen. February 14, 2008 at 10:34 a.m.

Gooooooo Team!
We cheer a little too loudly when my son's basketball team scores. We can't help ourselves: We're just so happy when they even get points on the board.

Although the season is half-over, they have not won a single game. Not one. Nada. Zippo. Nuthin'. The coach is great and the kids try so hard, but even in the close games, they can't seem to pull out a win.

At last night's game, they didn't even score until the second quarter. Meanwhile, the other team did lay-ups right around them. It was like watching Michael Jordan play ball with a junior high school team -- painful, if you're rooting for the smaller people.

But they didn't give up. They kept on scrambling for the ball, reaching for rebounds and shooting, shooting, shooting. Whenever they scored -- and they did -- we cheered as though it was the final seconds of the championship game and they were one point behind. In the end, though, they lost. I didn't even check the score. I don't want to know.

How come the other teams have been able to defeat our little team of kids, who have such big hearts? Beats me, but they keep showing up game after game and trying really, really hard, which is more than I can say for most grown-ups about many things. Perhaps that's really why we cheer a little too loudly for my son's basketball team. The number on the scoreboard just doesn't matter.
Posted by Jen. February 12, 2008 at 2:03 p.m.

Fish Tales
My sons, my sister-in-law and I were talking yesterday when the conversation turned to things of or having to do with the bathroom. That's what happens when you have boys and a scientist in your house. It's inevitable.

Soon, my sister-in-law asked, "Do fish fart?" which would make a fantastic title for a children's book. Sort of a cross between "How Things Work" and "Oh, Yuck! The Encyclopedia of Everything Nasty." Maybe more like that last one.

Anyhow, I had made it a full 41 years before I ever pondered whether fish pass gas. Thanks to two curious boys and one professional scientist, however, I Googled the words "Do fish fart" and found this:

According to the Physics forums, "a study has revealed that in the world of fish, farting is an important social tool... researchers have discovered that herring create underwater fart noises, suggesting they communicate by breaking wind."

Sounds like an underwater Cub Scouts pack meeting.

The web site provides way more detail about the workings of a fish's digestive system than I am interested in, but, thanks to my sons and to my sister-in-law, at least we've cleared up the all important question, "Do fish fart?"

Posted by Jen. February 10, 2008 at 12:54 p.m.

Mud Puppies
Everyone just steps over it. A pile of muddy clothes -- two days worth -- has accumulated on the step from the garage to the kitchen like a junk yard after a heavy wind advisory. From what I can tell, there are two pairs of mud-encrusted boots, mud-splattered pants, shirts and coats, four pairs of formerly white or tan and now brown socks and several mud stained items, including a shovel, a hockey stick and a lacrosse stick.

I'm waiting for winter to return to freeze the mud enough so I can transport them from the step to the washer. But then I think about how many times I'll have to run that load before I get all that mud off, and I forget about it and just step over the muddy mess.

Meanwhile, I'm praying for snow. It would cover up the mud puddle in the backyard, created by months of construction, followed by unusually warm weather for winter and worsened by several boys and their boots, shovel, hockey stick and lacrosse stick.

So much for our new picture windows, which were supposed to overlook the bucolic backyard. Instead, I've got front row seats for what could turn out to be the 2008 Junior Mud Wrestling Competition. Only, my washer just isn't big enough.
Posted by Jen. February 8, 2008 at 10:43 a.m.

Got Tweens? Good Grief! Drop by my Good Housekeeping blog on parenting tweens for more of what's going on in your living room, too.

Expedited Shipping
Dear Amazon:

Listen, you and I have had a love affair for years. I click on the BUY button next to a book, which you send to me. And considering I collect books like other women buy shoes, well, let's just say I appreciate your quick response to my addiction.

Until today, that is.

When I 1-Click on, say, "Death by Chick-Lit," it's because I saw it on Facebook and thought it would be fun to read. You really don't have to send it to me the next day or even the day after that. It's going to sit on my nightstand on top of a pile of yet-to-be-read books that I 1-Clicked last week and the week before. Also, in December. I've even pre-ordered books that won't be out until July. I am that addicted.

And yet, you get my books here faster than I can get down the highway to Borders, and so I go along with it.

But when I purchase two children's book on a famous artist, it's because my son is doing a book report, and the library's system was down, so they couldn't get any from neighboring libraries when we found out they had none. My son has to use one web site and two books for his February 25th speech on this artist. I was desperate, and so I bought the books. I even skipped buying used books, because I figured they'd take longer to get here. And now, this...

You told me today that one of my son's books won't even get here until the 12th. It's already in the mail, so I can't do anything about it except pray for good weather between your shipping department and my post office.

The other book hasn't even been shipped, and you have no clue when it'll go out. At least I think that's what "Not Yet Shipped" means. It could also mean "Trying to find book from a publisher that went out of business six months ago, and we won't discover this until February 12th or so, at which time we will deliver the bad news to you. You will then go back to the library, where you'll find out that no library in a 30-mile radius has any books on this artist available. You will even consider for a moment writing your own biography on the artist before you realize that Amazon has driven you insane."

I changed delivery to "rush," just in case. I hope you have something to rush to me soon -- and I don't mean "Death by Chick-Lit."

Sincerely,
Jen Singer
Posted by Jen. February 6, 2008 at 10:02 a.m.

Cleaning 101
How to clean a room when you're a middle schooler:

Step 1: Remove everything from your desk and nightstand and pile it all on top of the sea of junk on your bedroom floor.

Step 2: "Dust" these two surface areas using a dirty shirt from the floor.

Step 3: Carefully place display items, such as a toy car collection, Pokémon action figures and four year's worth of Cub Scouts Pinewood Derby cars on the nightstand. (Note: If the clock is in your way, stick it under the bed.)

Step 4: Crumble unwanted papers from desk and place in and around the garbage can. Well, mostly around.

Step 5: Play with toy found in pile on the floor for 20 minutes.

Step 6: Take unwanted junk and dump on floor in brother's room.

Step 7: Step over junk on floor so you can go draw on paper using nice, clean desk.

Step 8: Fall asleep in clothes in top of bed, surrounded by dirty clothes from the floor.
Posted by Jen. February 5, 2008 at 11:16 a.m.

Grandparents Interrupted
The guest of honor has a runny nose. Also, a slight temp and a headache, not to mention a Nintendo DS seemingly attached to his hands. And so, we had to cancel the Grandparents' Pre-Game Dinner. Maybe next week.

It's my nine-year-old's turn to catch the rotten cold bug that's been going around, and so we had to sideline him from tonight's basketball game. As a result, we had to cancel the first ever Grandparents' Pre-Game Dinner, when all four grandparents were to descend upon our house for lasagna and general kid spoiling before we'd head over to the gym for my son's basketball game. If they lived in Florida, though, they'd be coming anyway.

All four of my kids' grandparents live within an hour's driving distance from our house. This means that I never have to set out fresh towels or change the guest bed sheets. I don't have to come up with weeks-long entertainment plans, keep up the de-cluttering for days at a stretch or make sure I've got grapefruit juice (or whatever they'd like) in the fridge. They're coming, and then they're leaving. And I like it that way.

It's not that I don't like the grandparents. In fact, to quote the kids, the grandparents rock. They swoop in, help out and leave. Some clean, others fix and a few purchase. Last week, my mother-in-law left a hand-made wreath for our front door, and my mother dropped off an antique table. The in-laws take my kids for a weekend-long visit every six weeks or so, my dad got them a tricked-out keyboard and my mom treats them to shows. (Next up: The Harlem Globetrotters.)

I feel guilty cancelling our Grandparents Pre-Game Dinner. I know that a little lasagna doesn't come close to repaying them for all they do for us, but I have a feeling they don't need to be repaid. I also have a feeling they'll be coming by -- and leaving -- another time. I'll de-clutter then. Until then, I've got to find some more tissues for the guest of honor.
Posted by Jen. February 4, 2008 at 1:04 p.m.

The Candidates
Yesterday, my nine-year-old asked me to cut out a picture of Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama from the newspaper, so he could take it to school.

He asked me, "Who are you voting for?" When I explained that I'm an Independent and therefore can't vote in Tuesday's primary, he nodded. So I expounded about the candidates and who I think will be good presidents. I told him what I liked about Huckabee, Obama and McCain. I explained why I wished Guiliani hadn't dropped out of the race, and how Mayor Bloomberg might jump in as an Independent. I talked about Clinton's health care policy and Romney's position on taxes. When I was done, I said, "Does that make sense?"

He looked very serious, as though he was considering all I had said. Finally, he asked me a question.

"Who's your favorite chimpmunk?" he asked.

"Simon," I answered simply.

"I like Alvin," he offered. "But girls like Theodore because he's cute."

Then he put his photo from the newspaper in his backpack and disappeared into the other room.

Clearly, a favorite chipmunk is easier to choose than a presidential candidate.
Posted by Jen. February 2, 2008 at 1:06 p.m.

The Snoogies are Coming!
We were 10 feet away, and yet, I could feel the full effects of the sneeze that came from a four-year-old's nose at the pizza place yesterday afternoon. While his mother frantically tried to wipe the snoogies off his face, I braced myself for what would undoubtedly be the beginning of the next round of bugs to race through the town's children, including mine.

In short, it was the Snot Heard Round the World.

We have managed (knock, knock) not to get sick around here for the entire month of January, or darn near it. So, when I witnessed that sneeze yesterday, I knew our run was about to end. And it sure did -- at two o'clock this morning. That's when my son woke up with a bad cold and the attitude to match. This morning, he is home, drawing with his computer software, a box of tissues at the ready and a sad, sad look in his eye whenever I pass by.

I'm not saying that he caught the cold from that kid in the pizza place. It takes two to three days for cold symptoms to show up, so it's likely my son caught it at church or at the supermarket on Sunday. But that sneeze trumpeted the return of the Snoogie Season here in our house after a month-long haitus. We are hunkering down for the long fight ahead of us.

Take arms, moms and dads. The Snoogies are Coming!
Posted by Jen. January 30, 2008 at 9:40 a.m.

Bloggers unite to help author with cancer
I'm one of 300 bloggers who are uniting today to talk about THE LIAR'S DIARY by Patry Francis Patry found out recently that she has an aggressive form of cancer, writing about her experience on her blog. Her book will be published today, and it looks like the kind of novel you can get lost in, forgetting about the permission slips and the runny noses for a while. Here's a description: What would you do if your best friend was murdered—and your teenaged son was accused of the crime? How far would you go to protect him? How many lies would you tell? Would you dare to admit the darkest truths—even to yourself?

I ordered my copy this morning.

As an author and a cancer survivor, I wish Patry nothing but the best.

Jen Singer, January 29, 2008

• Their suitcases are sitting in the kitchen, waiting for you, the household bellhop, to bring them to their rooms.
• The scissors are not where you left them -- in the drawer where they belong.
• There is a piano duel going on between Beethoven and Sinatra.
• Somebody left the lights on and the door open again, causing that pained look on your husband's face.
• There's about a swig left of milk.
• The dirty laundry doubled in just 24 hours.
• Suddenly, it seems like a great idea to take the kids to a mediocre movie you watched last week.

• A red foam ball inside a tissue box.
• Several plastic dinosaurs in the dirt of an indoor plant looking a lot like an commercial for "Land of the Lost."
• Numerous Hot Wheels cars in my coat pockets, car seats, shoes and the soap dish in my bathroom (although it wasn't there when I got in the shower.)
• The vacuum hose in one child's bed. (He slept with the attachments.)
• A Darth Vader helmet on my desk.

• My son's winter coat, which said SINGER in large black letters on its 4 x 4 inch white label.
• Numerous lunch boxes, although I'd find the lunch, uneaten.
• Shoes. I'll find one, but not the other, or we'll lose them altogether. Swim goggles, however, mysteriously appear in our mailbox all summer long.
• Too many socks to count.
• My camera, which is still lost after five weeks of searching and will, no doubt, appear on Christmas, as soon as I get my new camera.