NEW Look Son, No Hands
With a controller in one hand and a spindly book of directions in the other, I’d spent the better part of Saturday morning failing to unlock the secrets of motion-controlled video games. Touted as a great way to infuse aerobic exercise into our daily routine, I’d bought the system for my husband, Nick’s birthday so we could bowl, river raft or score a goal in the comfort of our home.
I'd pushed every button and highlighted every TV screen option. No luck. Nick tried to help, but we both grew up in the generation that thought Pong and Space Invaders were futuristic. As I coached, Nick stood in front of the system’s motion-detector, resembling an amateur airman flagging down planes. He swung his right arm up, then his left arm out. He might have gotten a bit of a workout, but none of his gyrations got the console to perform.
As a last resort, we hollered upstairs for our son Seth’s help. Several minutes later, he joined us in the familyroom and surveyed the situation. “You and dad are going to have to learn how to operate these things by yourselves,” he said. “I’m not going to live here forever you know.” He shrugged, then left to play basketball with his friends.
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NEW Dad’s A Catch!
Earlier today--5 a.m., to be exact--I found myself sitting at our kitchen table, both hands curled around a lukewarm mug of coffee. My sons, Shawn, Jake and Seth had just left with their dad for a day of deep-sea fishing. For some crazy reason, I felt the need to get up early and see them off.
My quartet of fellas--donning jackets, gloves and baseball hats and carrying a tackle box full of fishhooks—looked somewhere between sleepy and joyful as they walked out the front door. An ocean adventure on the horizon. A day on the high seas is not my idea of a great time. The closest I’m willing to get to a body of water is a spa pedicure, like the one I indulged in this afternoon. Thankfully, none of my hobbies involve waking up before the sun rises, taking seasick pills or inhaling the scent of fresh mackerel. Click for more Family Fun.
NEW The Best of Buddies
My family is standing near the avocado trees in a corner of our back yard. There’s whispered conversation, muffled sniffles. Lots of eyes stare at the ground. Occasionally, a finger moves to wipe away tears trailing down a cheek. My husband Nick stands off to the side holding a shovel.
It’s not the first time this solemn-faced group has gathered like this. The seven of us (including family friends, Lisa and Rachel) stood in this same spot two years ago to say good-bye to Max, our soccer-ball chasing terrier-spaniel mix. He’d joined our family 16 years ago after my oldest son, Shawn and then toddler Seth, picked him out as a surprise for their brother Jake’s 7th birthday. My sons fell in love with the dog-who-thought-he-was-a-mid-fielder after watching a four-legged black fur ball toss a soccer ball in the air with his nose, then chase after it. Click for more Family Fun.
NEW Spring Cleaning
Somewhere in the mountains, the frost is melting. The anticipated warmth will bring a bumper crop of bunnies, chicks and baby deer. My daffodil bulbs are in the ground and I’m awaiting early blooms in the next couple weeks. Soon butterflies and ladybugs will skitter through my backyard. I feel invigorated at the prospect of new beginnings, fresh starts, clean slates. I marvel at the outdoors, ready to burst with new life.
For me though it’s the crowded indoors—specifically my cabinets, closets and storage shelves--that are busting out all over. I fear that one more windbreaker, jacket or muffler hooked onto my entryway coat rack will topple it over like a poorly played Jenga game. The hall closet’s sagging wardrobe pole is a hoodie away from snapping, and there’s nowhere to wedge another forgotten golf club, baseball mitt or shin guard into the under-the-staircase closet. Click for more Motherhood Moments.
NEW Y A New Wrinkle
Life isn’t fair. It’s taken me awhile to accept this reality. I’ve always had my suspicions though, starting when I was 6 and my brand new Slinky got a kink in it. But now I have verifiable proof. This morning as I washed my face with anti-aging cleanser, I discovered fresh wrinkles framing the sides of my smile like brackets. No surprises there. What I find really unjust is that right below these newborn laugh lines, nature gifted me with a zit. Guess the joke’s on me since I mistakenly believe that once you become old enough to earn wrinkles, your face should be a pimple-free zone. One or the other, I say, but not both. Acne and crow’s feet shouldn’t live in perfect harmony. Click for more Woman Wise.
NEW Friendships Across the Ages
A plaque hanging above my desk reads: A good friend forgives your faults. A loving friend doesn’t see any.
Carole, my best friend since ninth grade, gave it to me after we graduated from college. Even though we were both high school freshmen, Carole was a year and seven months older. (Mom snuck this mid-December birthday baby into kindergarten a tad early.) We shared a first-floor locker, worried about who’d ask us to the prom and found our first job at the same self-serve shoe store. Years later, we were in each other’s weddings. Click for more Woman Wise.
NEW Bumping Into the Message
My college-age son, Jake, home for spring break, took his truck in for routine maintenance, leaving him without wheels for the afternoon. So I offered him the use of my car for the day. I was surprised when he opted to walk to his destination instead of grabbing the keys and hopping into my 1997 Mercury Villager.
Sure, it’s not a chick magnet, but it would get him safely from point A to point B. I’ll admit to its tattered history as a part-time meal wagon. The smudges, spots and grease stains imbedded in the fabric seats and carpet are remnants of Taco Tuesdays, sugar donuts and bags of burgers and fries. It doesn’t rack up the style points. There’s no sunroof. The dashboard houses a cassette, not a CD player, the rear air conditioning doesn’t work and sometimes the auto door lock gets confused and unlocks itself. This minivan isn’t sleek, shiny or fast, but for the past 14 years, it’s been reliable, faithful and functional -- just like me. Click for more Motherhood Moments.
Stuck on Sticky Notes
People often ask: Where do you get ideas for your columns? Well, this one came to me during the cool down after my step class. In between calling out commands to stretch our calf muscles, our young instructor, Sabra, lamented that she’s starting to forget things. “I’m now dependent on sticky notes to keep my life in order,” she groaned as we relaxed the biceps in our upper arms. She feared her gray matter was having too many gray moments.
Nervous laughter swept through the class of 20, all over the age of 30-something. In between exhales, I smiled and gave her a knowing nod. I’ve survived for years thanks to sticky notes, to-do lists and e-mail reminders. My motto: The shortest pencil is better than the longest memory. Click for more Woman Wise.
Make Mine Diamonds
We were out to dinner with friends the other night when the topic of wedding anniversaries came up. Actually, in between appetizers and the main course, I brought it up. I knew Paul and Sue’s 40th was next month and wondered how these two would mark the milestone occasion. They traded knowing glances. “We haven’t decided yet,” Paul volunteered.
Always the helpful soul, I piped up with my trademark suggestion: “You know that’s a diamond anniversary!” My husband Nick rolled his eyes, frowned and then added: “She says that about every anniversary.” Click for more Woman Wise.
Friendless on Facebook
With the jubilance of Queen’s We Are the Champions playing in my mind, I dipped my hosted onion ring into a tasty pool of ranch dressing. This was a moment to savor – collecting on a lunch bet from my long-time friend Tony. During our nine-year history of pitting our baseball or football teams against one another, this was one of my few victories. My triumphant mood, though, was quickly erased like yesterday’s box scores. Replacing it was the awkward feelings of a skinny fifth grade girl standing on the volleyball court anxiously waiting to be picked.
The waitress had just refilled our ice teas when Tony said, “I looked you up on Facebook.” In between bites of his cheeseburger he added, “You have one friend.” Click for more Woman Wise.
Cookies for Conversation
A cozy circle of about 20 friends crowds into my living room, each selecting a small wrapped gift from a nearby pile before finding a seat. We’ve spent most of the last hour in my kitchen chatting and sampling the potluck offerings. The taste of orange chicken, artichoke-spinach dip and grape leaves, still a recent memory. Cups of sherbet punch and a few glasses of something a bit stronger dot the end tables. The coffee is brewing.
The reason for this gathering is the annual recitation of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. This holiday ritual, the highlight of my cookie & ornament exchange, requires each woman to read a page from the Dr. Seuss classic, then pass the book to her left. The rest of us listen attentively, waiting for the word Grinch to be said aloud. That’s our signal to send the present balanced on our lap to the gal seated to the right. Click for more Seasonal Celebrations.
Messing With Tradition
I haven’t told my kids yet, but I’m adding a new side dish to our Thanksgiving Day feast. I’m hoping to slip this small change through without any notice. It’s risky, I know. “Leave well enough alone,” my mom would have advised. Don’t fix something that’s not broken.” “Why mess with tradition?” Click for more Seasonal Celebrations.
The Leader of the Pack
I stood in our backyard holding the chewed wires of what had been our automatic sprinkler system. Looking up at me was Bandit, our excited, 12-pound rat terrier. Her docked tail wagging to beat the band, she was ready to chase a tennis ball or
anything else I cared to throw her way. Her soulful eyes seemed to say: “What? What’s the problem?” She didn’t know
how much trouble she (and I) were about to be in with my husband, Nick.
This wasn’t the first time our newly adopted pet had left her (teeth) mark on something of value. Bandit had only been a member of the family for a few weeks and already the damage was piling up. My son Seth’s football jersey, the buttons on Nick’s dress shirt and my pink cashmere slippers were the most recent casualties. We were learning fast that this 18-month-old pup secretly possessed a 3-foot vertical leap. Nothing was safe. Click for more Family Fun.
YLines of Communication
It’s Seth’s turn to take out the trash. Being 16, he often needs reminding. I thought about waiting until he notices that the can is overflowing and hope he’ll take it out on his own. But I’m a realist. The price of gas will dip below $3 before that happens. I could write a note and tape it on the refrigerator door. He’ll get hungry, eventually. Or I could walk up stairs to his room where he’s on his computer and ask him face-to-face, but that’s so 1970s.
I’m sure I’d get a quicker response if I used one of the electronic innovations he’s familiar with. But I’m slow to change. Not that I’m against progress or anything. I cheered when the NBC peacock appeared in living color instead of black-and-white. I switched to music recorded on CDs instead of cassettes. I happily turned in my rotary dial phone for one with a keypad. Still, I’m leery when it comes to using cyberspace gizmos to communicate with my Generation Y children. If it weren’t for Shawn, Jake and Seth, I could pretty much avoid these instantaneous transmitters of information altogether.
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YThat’s A Twist
Standing on my yoga mat, I step my legs about three feet apart and point my right foot forward. My arms form a T and I rotate from my waist sending my left hand in the air and my right hand sliding down my left leg toward my foot. Patricia, our yoga teacher, encourages us to “Breathe deeply.”
Some 20 minutes earlier, I’d unrolled my mat in line next to Virginia, Marisol and Beatriz, my yoga pals. There’s a bunch of us who weave this bit of “me-time” into our routine. About 30 men and women relying on these bends, twists and stretches to help unite mind, body and spirit.
As I take a slow inhalation and hold this twisted triangle pose, my thoughts page back to eighth grade. My classmate Maggie’s 13th birthday party. If I had been practicing yoga then, I would have won that game of Twister, instead of toppling over after her mom called out: “Right hand on blue. Left foot on green.” Click for more Woman Wise.
Y1,000 Things to Teach before They Graduate
Seth, the youngest of my trio of sons, graduates from high school this month.
Mixed in with the pride of his accomplishments comes the reality that I’m being demoted. The title that I’ve coveted for so many years – through measles and bowl haircuts, Little League and Halloween carnivals -- will change.
For the third time in my mommyhood career, I’ll graciously accept the reclassification from Mom the Manager to Mom the Consultant. Yes, I’ve been through this before. First with Shawn, and then four years later with Jake. I know the routine. I’m familiar with the drill, but that doesn’t make accepting the bittersweet reassignment any easier.
YProject Help
We watched as Seth attached the last piece of a strawberry splash fruit chew to his shoestring licorice and marshmallow replica of a DNA molecule. My husband Nick and I smiled at the finished product.
Three weeks earlier, Ms. Scott, Seth's high school biology teacher, challenged her class to be creative with this major homework assignment. "Think of new ways to display the double-helix structure of human DNA," she suggested. "Have some fun with it." Click for more School Days.
Birthdays On the Bubble
It was not until I saw my husband Nick, standing ankle deep in a wading pool of homemade bubbles that I realized I’d made a mistake. My son Jake, the birthday boy, and several of his 8-year-old pals wouldn’t have agreed. They were running amuck – bubble wands, hoops and blower guns in hand -- puffing, popping and shooting bubble ammo at each other. They stopped occasionally at this plastic oasis to refuel their bubble-making implements.
With garden hose in hand, a barefoot Nick was working hard to keep the supply plentiful. Occasionally he shot a grimace my way. Our backyard, sloshed in homespun bubble sauce, had turned in to a slip-and-slide soapy mess. I surveyed the good, clean fun springing up around me and made a mental note: Do not repeat when younger son Seth, turns 8.
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