What Will I Wear?

I sometimes lie awake at night, in a near panic wondering, "WTH am I going to wear for such a huge day?" I wonder whether my flights will be on time, if I will have enough batteries for the camera, if I will have packed for hot enough/cold enough weather, and if we'll maybe get an invite to the White House as parents of a distinguished American. Part of the panic and insomnia is caused by just not knowing... I mean, I know the day is coming, I just don't know when. Which year will Son1 be awarded the Nobel Prize for Saving Mankind? Oh God, where's my passport?

You see, I've written repeatedly how intelligent my son is (in his delusions). What you may not realize is that he is a godsend to all of us. He knows everything. Everything. He has that dizzying, awe-inspiring gift that all children develop, 'round about 12-13, that renders them omnipotent. But even among tweens and teens, he is in an echelon of knowledge beyond my wildest dreams. Certainly beyond what my meager Penn State degree can hope to reflect, which is why I have planned its return.

This week's agenda included completion of another Social Studies project. Is it me, or are these kids the most Socially Studious generation? I feel like all my kids ever do is Social Studies projects. But I digress. His current teacher, a 30+year veteran of middle school education must thank his lucky stars after all these years to have a pupil like Son1 sitting in his class, first row, center chair. They say it's because of his IEP, and that it helps them monitor my ADHD boy. Now now, silly teacher. I know it is merely so you can be in closer proximity to the glow of his aura. Does he correct you too at every turn, or challenge your knowledge based upon actual decades of experience instead of what Sean's cousin's girlfriend's neighbor's babysitter's boyfriend's cousin said? While I do hope he does not consider me the only jackass in dire need of his insight, I certainly hope he is polite to you.

He is now 2 months away from 13. We're not even Jewish but I feel like giving him a bar mitzvah to welcome him to adulthood, as a distinguished elder of the tribe. Clearly, he has it all figured out, whether it be the secrets of the universe, reducing the national debt, tackling cancer cures, or how to get all Madden 2010 football players to do victory dances. Even I draw the line at calling him the "second coming of the Messiah"... but- if you have ever heard the passionate fervor of a teen fired up to contradict you, well, you may know why I think he could at least be a harbinger from above that big things are coming. He doesn't actually have to be right, and in fact, rarely is he, but I think that's just trivial. He puts forth all facts with such teen-conviction he can sway anyone to do anything (again, in his mind).

Son1, I truly love you more than life itself. Average student or super genius, you are a large part of my reason for being. And yet, each day, you remind me (over breakfast, homework, dinner, laundry, schlepping to swimming, you name it) just how superior you are in knowledge held. You are always right, whereas I never can be when in your presence. Not since Moses was pulled from a floating basket, or maybe at least not since Faith Hill first began singing has an adoptive parent sat in such awe at the genius God placed in her lap.

Now the Nobel Committee may be a little thrown by how soon to award you the medal, but since they snubbed Ghandi in his lifetime, I think they've learned a lesson about the hazards of delaying the obvious. For this reason, I think they very well may phone any day to tell us you are nominated and the votes will of course be unanimous. I'm sure they will not wait until you have actually accumulated the knowledge you now think you should wield over your little brother. I'm sure they won't wait until you've hit maybe 22 and begin to see how little you really do know about the world. No, no... I'm certain, since you are ALWAYS right, they will pick you, a shining example of know-it-all youth of your generation, and am equally sure it will be soon.

So good Lord, what does one wear to watch such momentous event? I'd better get shopping. And dieting. And where is that passport? Ugh, so much do when one parents an omnipotent child, so very much to do. No wonder I lie awake at night.

I Guess Passing Notes is Passé

You'll recall just a few weeks ago, I was worrying about Son1's entrance into the hormonal Shark Week that is the 7th grade dating scene. I honestly, truly, and naively thought he was driving headlong into his first crush, first romance, and sadly, first heartbreak. What a jackass I was. I forgot. I'm raising a boy. I'm coaching for the other team now, and seeing 7th grade through the head of a 12 yr old boy. You know what? They're goddamn idiots. This only sounds harsh to those of you who have not had a 12 yr old son. To my horror, I'm not watching a replay of my adolescent heart break in my son. Hell no. I'm watching it as a replay BY my son.

To an outsider, Son1 may seem as cold as any boy my friends and I agonized over every school day through sleepover night. That would imply an ounce of forethought, or any thought. But they just don't think. In hindsight, I wish I knew all along that all boys weren't cold, heartless pricks. Nope. Just clueless, emotionally-immature, morons. They're tall children. They're not young men, not fully teens even. I now see them as the children they are, merely strecthed by a couple of good growth spurts under their belts. They weren't methodical adults trying to hurt feelings, if Son1 is any indication. They were just bulls in acne-rich china shops. They'd still whale each other with light sabers in a heartbeat. But these poor girls won't see this for many years to come.

While this makes me feel better about my own past boyfriends, it makes me feel horrible for the girls cast off before they knew what hit them. Boys used to have to call you (on *gasp* your parents' phone), wait for you after school, or send a note through a friend. As bad as it was when we were kids, today's crew is used to an immediacy that it startling. It renders teen heartache with a steely efficiency of a CIA drone over Taliban strongholds. Today's teen boy has a weapon of ice so fast, so decisive, so stinging, it would make Dr. Evil drool. He has texting. And this, my friends, is where all hell broke loose for us this weekend.

It is with head hung low and heavy heart that I report that my beloved Son1 crushed a girl BY TEXT this weekend. I was horrified that I am morally and legally responsible for a person who would do this. Break up by text? In 3-three word phrases? Hello- Paging Mr. Cold Miser. I am in charge of raising one of the clueless baffoons that thinks, "yup" and "kk" are acceptable, well-parsed replies to any query.Yes, I am raising a cold-ass-text-breaker-upper. Go ahead, take my mother of the year tiara, and un-follow me now.

I did not exactly come off as a super supportive mom advocating for him. He seemed a little taken aback by that.  It all goes back to: they just don't think. To the girl in question, if she would like any comfort, she should know I read his text, went off the deep end reading how hurt she was and seeing his quick one-syllable-only bursts. She should know I then laced in to him for her... for me... for my jr high, high school, college, and post grad friends... for female family members... and for any woman who was ever a smitten pre-teen. Fear not, sweetie, when all is said and done, Hell really has no fury like a woman scorned, 30 years removed. I had your back.

While I know this is very much about this girl, who articulately and in language much more PG than I mustered gave him a piece of her mind, this is also about me. I don't mean the heartbreak part. I've come to terms with my childhood breakups and put the voodoo dolls away years ago. Mostly. But there is the thought about how it reflects on me as a mom. It raised that fear as moms that we will be judged by the crappy things our impulsive tall children do. (BTW-If I keep calling him tall child I will not affix every horrid ex-boyrfriend tag on him, so humor me.) Yet, I know my son, and I know the bubble of unseen consequences that he travels in, and I know he wouldn't willfully hurt someone. I'll readily admit to having visions of her parents watching her cry thinking, "What people would raise a boy to do this?"

Son1 is now intertwined in a love triangle spanning the 6th and 7th grade, and has gotten himself into quite the sticky mess. While trying to woo this girl to a dance for his friend who liked her, he truncated and abbreviated one word too many. He kept asking her if she was going to the dance, and in the digital crossfire, she accepted going with him. Not the friend. Oops. It could have been like every Three's Company episode, based on an overheard/misheard/misunderstood snippet. But then he was a little flattered she wanted to go with him, so he double checked (ok, quintupled checked) with his buddy if he really really really liked her. "Ya know bro i mean like like hr." "Uh yeah." (Shakespearean, isn't it?) So then not wanting to hurt his friend (see he really is a good boy), he came up with the hot idea to tell her they had been joking all along. Because each girl wants an older boy to ask her out as a joke. That went over well. Package this all with the incessant need of Son1 to sound like JayZ in text messages, and it did not play out well. The whacky sitcom morphed instead into a "very special Full House."

So now, we've laid out some thorough ground rules for the use of text, like don't ask out OR break up via text. They each deserve a voice. Don't assume the role of gangsta when chatting up girls. You're a lacrosse-playing child in a Lily Pulitzer-laden section of Morris County, NJ. It just looks stupid, like when Ralph Lauren tried selling saggy jeans and puffy jackets. And lastly, keep out of someone else's relationship. Fiascos are assured.

I think for now we've put the kibosh on text break ups. Young ladies (and their protective parents) of NJ, rest assured, one clueless guy habit at a time, I've got your back, and I'm trying to put the kibosh on those too.

Somewhere between Ward Cleaver and Billy Ray Cyrus....

While we do limit TV time, it is watched. Think of me what you will. I grew up on it, and feel as adjusted as my peers who were denied it. My two are past the little kid shows with their mind numbing sing alongs and are now into the “tween/teen” shows heavily rotated on Disney and Nickelodeon. At 10 and 12, Sons1 and 2 have hit the demographic for this huge wave of kids programming out there filled with creative, ingenious, and at times flat out sneaky and obnoxious kids. Primetime TV is overrun with idiotic reality shows. Truly crackling, scripted dialogue appears the domain of 13 year olds now. There must be over a hundred shows. Employment in the youth acting marketing has got to be like 99%.

Mine are big fans of shows like Suite Life, iCarly, I’m in the Band, etc. It’s fairly easy for me to monitor the programs since our laundry room is on the same level as the rec room. (I’ve been told by the 10 yr old they are now too old to have a “play room.”). As if unceasing laundry weren’t penance enough for my desire to parent, I get to do it listening to Alex cast spells on Wizards of Waverly Place, Zach demean his twin Cody on Suite Life, and Carly and her buds create their web show. Um… kids of TV land… where the hell are your parents?

Remember when parents seemed to have brains on TV? While it disturbed me the kids never mentioned their deceased parents, I will say Mike and Carol Brady were bastions of calm logic. Donna Reed and June Cleaver were overly ideal, but seriously Wilma Flintstone had a better grip on Pebbles than these MIA parents. Lucy Ricardo showed crazy judgment, but you got the impression Little Ricky saw her, or at least thought about her, from time to time. The shows my kids watch, though, are filled with absent-minded or totally absentee parents. I know divorce rates are high, but they have a disproportionate number of single moms who are all painted as easily bamboozled morons. By and large, parents are either never mentioned, or shown as complete buffoons. TV Producers- could you cut us a LITTLE slack?

If you’re not up on your programming for 9-14 year olds, let me help:

Zack & Cody lived the “Suite Life” with their on-site hotel manager mother. It was weird enough they never ever mentioned a dad. Then one day, the gurus at Disney TV decided they shouldn’t live in a hotel with just their mom. Right. They should live on a cruise ship WITHOUT their mom. See that right there is better TV.

“I’m in the Band” follows the travails of a 15 year old boy who convinces his single mom to take in an aging, faded trio of heavy metal musicians from the band “Iron Weasel.” I don’t know about you, but I have just a wee bit of a hard time picturing single moms I know opening their home to three washed up musicians as “role models” for their sons. Has this woman never seen VH1’s Behind the Music?

“Hannah Montana” lives with her father, and to their credit they did address more than once that her mom is deceased. The bad news is she’s supervised by her father, Billy Ray Cyrus. Moving right along…

Not to be outdone by their mouse eared colleagues, the fine folks at Nickelodeon bring you their own unchaperoned programming for pre through high school. Good luck scaring up some parents there. And they start their characters off on the solo path at a tender age. Case in point, Dora wanders off with her backpack and inane singing map. They call it “exploring” but she’s a bigger flight risk than a mob kingpin or the dementia patients with whom I volunteer. Perhaps if she stayed with adults, she wouldn’t be perpetually lost? I think los padres de Dora need one of those kid leashes. And can someone please call the cops on the sticky-fingered fox?

Fast forward to teen years, and over on “Zoey 101,” Zoey goes to the boarding school Pacific Coast Academy. In this case, they rarely encounter any adult supervision unless entering a classroom. No one seems to remind them about being respectful, calling their parents, or even that they have parents. What would Mrs. Garrett think? The remaining “Facts of Life” jokes are just too easy, as they were learned by the marginally-supervised teen star, Jamie Lynn Spears. Cancelled, the show lives on in chaperone-less reruns.

And iCarly… where to begin? If you haven’t seen the show, it’s about a teen girl who lives with her brother in a gaping loft apartment creating webisodes of her online show all afternoon. Because each teen girl should be up in her bedroom-turned-web-studio with lights, a mic, a green screen, and way too much free time. And have you noticed the bar? I know we are supposed to suspend reality, and that cartoons in our impressionable youth were violent blah blah blah. Cry me a river. Did any of you actually try to move an anvil off a cliff to squash a neighbor? I’m thinking no. I am thinking there are a lot of kids who think it’s perfectly normally to shoot TV shows from your room. And what says youth safety like web cams in a bedroom?

I’m sure to my kids, I will sound lame; so be it. I simply think there has to be some happy medium between Father Knows Best and Bill Ray Cyrus. There has to be. If not as a civilization, we’re screwed. Until such scripted examples for the kids, I guess I’ll steer them toward Wizards of Waverly Place, where the parents are only half-moronic and shown as hardworking in the restaurant they own. A mom tired from managing a family business that lets her kids out of sight maybe five minutes longer than she should, but sends thunderbolts when crossed? Yeah, there’s one who’s real to me.

Hell Days... Down to the The Home Stretch

Eleven days until the kiddos go back to school. E-lev-en. Almost there... almost to the end. In the home stretch. Steady as she goes. And of those eleven, today is the real watershed moment. Today is the final "in the office day" cranking through tasks before we head out on family vacation. (Insert "Holiday Road" melody courtesy of National Lampoon.) Today is the last office day of this Summer's "Hell Days." These are the hellish days you see on the calendar every year between school dismissal and day camp start, then between day camp end and school return. There are usually a few peppered in the middle of Summer somewhere too. But these long blocks of days, "these are the times that try men's souls." And women's. Even if you don't have kids, trust me, it's a stress bomb rippling through facets of your life too.

"Hell Days" know no time zone, school district, or part of the country. It doesn't matter if your school lets out in May or June. Rest assured, it will conveniently fall 1-2 weeks before your town or local Y can ramp up enough college kids to watch your kids while not texting their own friends their drinking plans for the night. Provided my own sons are safe, I don't begrudge them their good time. In truth, I'm jealously nostalgic about it. I just wish they'd assemble a little earlier. Then, regardless of what college these counselors all attend, the day care option will slam shut 2 weeks before you can safely drop your newly-backpacked kid at the school's door. In all good conscience, you know you can't send them to the school bus stop with lawn chairs and tents to camp out for days like American Idol tryouts. (Sigh) If only.

For working parents, it's more than a basic cost issue, though that is a factor. Beyond hiring and paying for some short-term childcare (assuming you don't have 4+weeks of vacation time), there's the air-traffic control job of knowing who's where, with whom, until what time, with how much spending money. My husband works from home for the most part, so the main juggle falls on him. I know I've got a good thing going there. I delude myself that he is just hyper-happy to see me for the sake of me at the end of the day... as opposed to thrilled to be able to retreat to his office without 50 gillion interruptions of, "Can I/Can we/When are we/ Why can't we? etc etc etc" We save on a babysitter, but he's paying his proofreader through the nose.

I used to think this was only a gripe of working moms, until I started Facebook and saw stay at home moms complaining about trying to entertain way-bored kids for these two week clips. You can only do so many arts and crafts projects at your table, spend so many hours at the community pool it seems before insanity sets in. I get that. I can barely get through Easter egg dying or pumpkin carving without ER visits. Looks like one more area in the mom-debates in which the grass that always seemed greener is now coming into true focus. You want your kids out of your house just as badly as I do.


I said above this affects all, whether you have kids or not. I really feel for anyone working with the general public during his or her region's Hell Days. Imagine the throngs of frazzled moms, bored kids, and dads just internally begging for a cell phone call without screaming in the background. We can't be the easiest consumers to serve. It's just got to suck for you all. I'm sorry. We're just stretched to the ends of our ropes. But, there is light at the end of the tunnel. The Old Navy and Staples sales tell me so daily.

So now, instead of standing around with my kids texting their buddies for drinking plans, all the college students have returned "to classes" (cough, cough) -- to discuss those plans in person. While they've flown off like swallows to San Juan Capistrano, we're dealing with a 10 and a 12 year old crawling the walls expecting constant stimulation and our respective sets of clients expecting their work. Ya know, the work for which we get paid, to afford the constant stimulation? And so, the vicious cycle rolls on.

Lest you think I will do anything to avoid spending quality time with my kids, Sunday starts vacation. I'll go on record now that as two self-employed parents, our vacation does come with iPhones and laptops. WiFi is as much a resort consideration as on-site dining. But, I'm determined to make lasting memories for Son1 & Son2 next week, and focus more on the "mom" part of "working mom."  I'm looking forward to some time away and adore VA where we're heading. We'll toast each other to celebrate the end of Summer reading assignments, enjoy the fleeting weeks of late evening sunlight, and rest up for the impending school projects knowing we have made it through another year of childcare-free Hell Days. And if we barely keep our grip on sanity during vacation with our rambunctious two-some... well, I am happy to report VA has a bustling region of wineries.

No WE don't have homework, YOU do

Months back I talked about how being a parent causes psychosis. We begin to speak about ourselves in third person, in out-of-Mommy-body references. While watching the news this morning, I saw a story about getting kids ready for college. Now mine are just middle school-aged, but there was one item that caught my ear. It scared me, because I thought, yet again, I was going down the personality disorder path. The reporter called me out on that fact that I have, at some point, become more than one person in my head. Or I've taken to the royal "we." So am I crazy? Pretentious? No, worse... Oh my God I think I am becoming a helicopter parent.

Points #1 and 2 of this rocket-science list of tips covered buying used textbooks to save money and not encouraging your college student to use credit cards to their max. It's true my first reaction was, "Really? Someone got paid to write this list? And they had to find an 'expert' to interview for these pearls of wisdom." But then I heard, "Stop saying we." And I froze. "You make them less independent. You make their work appear to be yours too." I DO do that. Ugh. "Then you get upset they do nothing for themselves." Hmmm. Maybe this guy was on to something.

This week, I was trying to desperately to put a dent in the Summer reading assignments. Wait, I  take that back. I was trying to make sure a dent was put in the Summer reading work- THEIR Summer reading. So why was I was chasing around Son2 two days ago for his identified theme in "Hank the Cowdog?" And why did Son1's "Tuck Everlasting" journal entries seem an everlasting nightmare? They read, they actually enjoyed the books, and each are reading a second without accompanying essay (praise God). So my work as parent was done, right? I made sure they had what they needed by way of books and URL of their assignment summaries. Beyond that, why did I stress more than they did? Why was this a "we" situation? Why do we do this to ourselves? And BTW at this moment I'm speaking about you and I as the "we," in the hope a reader or two does this also so I'm not alone in liberally-used royal we-land.

Summer reading is fine. Summer reading assignments, however, are just really sick jokes by teachers. They know working mothers are daydreaming of back to school time. They're reminding us that we should be careful what we wish for, given that school projects will come with blissfully-routine school schedules. But these vacation assignments become albatrosses over our heads. I mean, how the Hell am I supposed to have time to do anything the rest of the summer like clean the garage, read, or, well, blog about how much I hate sumer reading assignments if YOU, not we, YOU two don't finish these (bleep)ing things. Do you two little morons think I can just sit down and crank this blog out like a madwoman on a rant? Ok, bad rhetorical question.

School is just around the corner. For some of you, it may have started. Then all "We Hell" breaks loose. I start slipping in to plural like crazy. "We need to get poster board... We need to study for the Math test... We need to check the online homework page." WHAT? No WE don't. You do! I've got enough going on to lose my mind without some societal pressure to co-construct every shoe box diorama.

Because that's it, isn't it? We feel like we'll be looked upon as some inadequate non-caring parent if the stuff is not done, and done well. If we stopped "we"ing every responsibility our kids have, they may not care. (No way!) They may not do it. (Ruh 'ro Raggy) They may fail. (Gulp) But are we trying to prevent them failing, or trying to be sure they know we think it's important?... and trying to make sure everyone else, from teacher to soccer coach, knows we really do care?

So I kept on going back in my head today to the college-student check list guy, and his "Stop saying we" comment. Tonight, when Son1 sat at the laptop he has literally tried to break instead of finishing his essay while down the Shore, the hubs and I nudged, coerced, reminded. (OK, let's be serious, we screamed & carried on until he sat there.) But then, once he was there, I decided it was now my time. I wanted to write. I wanted to read some blogs, then fire up the Kindle. I had a Skinny Girl Margarita with my name on it.

So sorry Son1, I'm picking tonight to push you out of the essay-nest. "We" aren't doing anything as a "we" other than sharing oxygen. "You" will be left to do your work. Make it good, because it's your grade. It's a reflection on you, not on me (as I still need to remind myself).  Me? I've got a Girl with the Dragon Tattoo waiting for me for two weeks now. She and I have a long-overdue date, so "we" will be spending some bonding time tonight.

Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we shall fly

The perils and joys of travelling with children are only truly experienced with airline travel. Cruise ships make even the boarding aspect fun since you are usually standing close enough to see the ship and gawk. Car travel is like any other nightmare ride to a soccer tournament 45 minutes away, just longer and more nerve-grating. But airline travel, with it’s own thrills of TSA checkpoints, what exactly fits into a 3.5 ounce bottle, interminable terminal waits, and the ever-dreaded runway respite… ahhhhh… now that spells migraine like no other travel mode.

Tomorrow morning, bright and early, we are heading to the airport so I can fly with the boys to go see PopPop. I’ll drop them off in MS, and fly home. This journey is in exchange for our freedom for a one week. Next weekend, I will fly down to retrieve them. Probably. I feel like one of the Air Marshalls escorting the Russian spies leaving today out of JFK.

Now, through the beauty of online check in, I have boarding passes in hand to avoid at least one airport delay. I will do everything short of packing one child within another to avoid checked bags and the delays they can bring. Most of my time in airports and on planes with sons in tow is spent apologizing profusely for something they did while wrapped up in their own little bubbles. Now, with advance seat numbers in hand, I can actually speed up the trip and get the most uncomfortable parts out of the way.

Before I go any further and morph into my “Do you not see I am at the end of my rope?” mode tomorrow morning… Fine professionals and fellow travelers in Newark Liberty Airport, I would like to apologize in advance to:

• The patient staff and patrons of AuBon Pain/ McDonald’s/ Starbucks who will listen to me tell Son1 at least twenty times he is not getting a sausage biscuit, with extra sausage, and a bacon side. I also may need a minute to get an order out of Son2, the least decisive person on the planet.

• The gate agent who will be approached (three times) by 12yr old Son1 for a First Class upgrade since he seems to think he’s entitled to the lap of luxury my airline miles occasionally afford. He’ll be the boy saying, “no, just one seat, not for my brother.”

• The man who approaches me when he spots me lingering outside the men’s room exit. (Really, were I a man doing so outside the ladies’ room I’d be arrested.) I appreciate your return to the bathroom to make sure there are two dapper boys somewhere in sight not crawling through the duct work to escape.

• The kind sirs who will emerge from said mens’ room with water splashes all over them from an impromptu yet epic soak-fest-fight at the sink. Even if I weren’t frazzled, I couldn’t acknowledge you because you would then know I was the parent, and expect some restitution. Oh who says water stains don’t come out of pure silk ties? Please.

• The flight attendant welcoming all aboard, and body blocking the cockpit. Sorry, they’re just very curious. And flexible. Really, no harm, no foul.

• The fine gentlemen/ladies in seats 13A and B for the seat whaling that will take place.

• 13C for the lethal force to be used grabbing your seatback (and maybe some hair- may want to consider a hat) when Son1 storms through to the bathroom. Five times in a three hour flight.

• The flight attendant with the beverage cart who will want to throw a soda at Son2 when he pitches a fit that you have Sprite, but not Sprite Zero. They're both sweet, both clear. Lie to him, he'll never know. It's just easier, trust me.

• 26C, seated near the lavatories. Sorry about the Bloody Mary incident. You’re right, children should not be unattended on planes in the galley area. It was totally accidental. Ditto, 26D.

• The helpful gentlemen who always seem to be seated across and one row back. Yes, you sir in 15D. Thank you for trying to help Son1 take his stuff from the overhead. Really, once the bleeding stops I really think that broken nose will give character to your face.

• Rows 15 through 26 (except for 15D and his wife E who are being tended to by the paramedic). You all will ever so patiently wait while Son1 AND Son2 take turns stepping into the aisle to pick up and close their backpacks. Lord forbid this were done upon approach, descent, landing, or the 20 minutes we inexplicably sat mere inches from the gate.

• The elderly woman in the jet way behind me, who upon de-boarding will have to listen to my, “just shut it shut it shut it shut I said shut it what is the problem did you not hear me say shut it” to each son regarding Nintendo game cases, backpacks, and mouths.

• The guy driving the vehicle-thingy they use to transport disabled people or large items to the gate. Really, I have no idea how he got a skateboard into his backpack. Nice slalom manuever! Have you thought of Formula One? Were you as scared as I was when that oxygen tank flew right off the back? Whew.

Alrighty then, I feel more prepared for the morning. Getting those awkward looks, confessions, and remorseful pleas off my chest now makes me feel a lot more optimistic for tomorrow’s surprises! Looks like it’ll be a nice dinner tonight, a fortifying yet calming glass of wine, and the kids let lose to “make merry” (read as run around out side to burn energy)… for tomorrow we fly!

Volunteer Wrangling Ninjas

If you've read any of my posts, you know my sons are "energetically challenged." By this I mean their energy is an immense challenge to anyone in charge of controlling them. Cutting to the chase, it's meant many a nerve racking phone call waiting to be told that "perhaps" my son(s) may not be the "best fit" for that school, camp, team, etc. They have ADHD. It is what it is. We work through it as best we can, and life goes on. Any of you that have or know a child with ADHD knows it's not always smooth sailing.

Now while I sound all calm, cool, and collected, clearly in the heat of the heartstopping calls I never am. I feel badly for my son. I truly do. We are also left scrambling with what to do for work. Every new place used to send shivers down my spine as I dreaded the locale's name on caller ID. I hated to schedule anything for work the first 10 days the boys were in any new setting, even in my own office. More than once, I had to quickstep from a client for one of "the calls." Ugh, "the calls."

But then, my Eureka moment! If I became indispensable, they couldn't kick out my kids. Well, they could, but they'd have to think twice. I had been in enough business groups and volunteer orgs to know you never wanted to piss off anyone volunteering for anything. Do so, and risk having to do it yourself. They'd lose fees for one boy with adHd (they're all about the H)... but they'd have to say goodbye to the recess monitor and the go-to-gal for color copies. It would be, "Sayonara!" to the willing field trip monitor. Need 600 phone #'s entered into an XL file? Sure! New website?  Right on it! But, boot the kids, and you boot your volunteer. It was evil genius.

Only the thing is, now, this key strategy is beginning to backfire. My sons are beginning to control themselves slightly, so there are fewer phone calls. BUT-- The things I'm now getting hit up to do are taking up as much time as my business, leaving critically low time for exercise, reading, organic gardening, or TMZ. I can't set foot near the place without a request. If it's not a fellow parent/ committee head, it's the principal. If it's not the principal, it's a teacher my kids have never even had who has bought into the urban legend I can cure all paper reproduction needs, bake 48 cupcakes, and run networking cable through a two story building simultaneously. It's gotten to the point that as soon as I hear "Oh, Mrs. L....." I'm actually praying son 1 or son 2 has thrown a book.  I mean, not AT someone. God no- then I'd have to sign on to paint the building every August.

The joy I feel when my husband says he's picking up the kids at school is frighteningly immense. One less time to get caught in the crosshairs. At pick up time, I enter the building and move toward the playground, sweat starting, eyes darting side to side, heart racing like I'm ready to rob the Louvre. I see my 10 yr old. I wave him over; I dare not raise my voice and be heard. I know he will scream, "Mommy!" leaving me only precious seconds before detection. Where's the older one? I can't spot him. Don't you know I have no time or they'll see me? I'll get asked for SOME committee slot? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD where are you, 12 yr old?

They're very good, these volunteer-wrangling ninjas. They're like waiters who approach after food is in your mouth. They know when you can't object. They pounce when I'm at my weakest. If even the slightest signal is shown that I'm in a rush to go, requests are fired at me. In my stressed state I am not thinking and therefore the words, "Sure, no problem," tumble out of my mouth. When it is clear I am trying to keep it in check because my 12yr old has forgotten his Science book in a now-locked classroom this final night before his final (and every night preceding), I get peppered with enough would you, can you, and could you to keep me busy through the End of Days.

And so, around the corner strolls my older son, looking relaxed and carefree. Bully for him. In those fleeting moments came request 122, this time to join committee 10. And since the request came with the parallel statement that highly inappropriate words were used today by the prodigal 12 yr old, they know fear over "the calls" is renewed, and therefore my consent is sealed.

Anatomy of a School Project

It starts innocently enough. Your child is given the task of picking a place, a person, a mammal, etc. to write about. Said “writing assignment” is undoubtedly teamed with a “creative portion.” By project’s end, one of these two elements will become the bane of your existence. Behold this NJ mom’s descent into madness.

Step One: Selection Process
4th Grade state report:   He could have selected my beloved-NJ, MS perhaps where PopPop lives, Maryland where his sister lives. But why pick someplace we (I) may actually have knowledge of? That’s just silly. Let’s pick a state where we have no friends, so we can enjoy this learning opportunity. And the winner is… Oklahoma?

I now present to you the dialogue over the course of 10 days…

Step Two: “Independent” Research
Did you read your state book yet? “No.” Did you read your state book yet? “No.” Did you read your state book yet? “What book?” Sit down, read the OK book, and get ready to do the answers. “I have a book?” PLEASE PLEASE just read… the… darn (alright, damn) book… NOW. “why do you have to yell at me?”

Day 11 of my captivity…

Step Three: How’s It Going In There?
(Mutter this section’s title 4 times, before walking over, neck tightening) What are you doing? “What? Oh, my report.” Really? Is your report on Oklahoma or on Canada’s Labrador province since that's what's occupying you now? Let me just finish folding this laundry and I’ll help you. (insert “du du dunnnnn” noise)

Step Four: Um, Maybe This Would Be Good Idea?
I really think these answers should be complete sentences. “Nu-UH.” Ok, fine. “Don’t say ‘fine’ because whenever you say it doesn’t mean it’s really ‘fine.’”

Two days elapse during the arc of this phase alone:
Um, you seem to be struggling on this part. I mean, drawing postcards for someplace you’ve never been is hard. You’re maybe about ½ way done and it’s due day after tomorrow. “Ok Mom but you can’t give me the answers.” OH- I know THAT. I'll give you some choices, but you have to decide. What would YOU put on OK postcards: A horse, an octopus, or a polar bear? Next question: What souvenir would you bring back from OK? (and you need to draw it, honey): a jet propelled rocket ship, a manatee in a Hawaiian shirt, or a lasso?— Good, moving right along. Zip it- you can color it later let’s keep moving.

Step Five: Hey- I Know What We (I Mean You) Can Do!
Basically just the same as Step Four, only a day later. Tensions are running high, with increasing urgency, decreasing patience, and depleted Chardonnay. Desperation sets in as you watch your child struggle over sticker selection, the finer nuances of plagiarism, and an intense need to watch everything else in room. Compulsively, you are now shifting chair to 3” from the child, asking for the pen, and turning paper toward you. You may not even realize it. You are heading into the next and final phase, and you are now on the Due Date Eve.

Step Six: Well maybe I DO know what I'm talking about
Oh for the LOVE of GOD JUST LISTEN TO ME! Just trust me. Really, it’s due tomorrow. 11 hours from now. I know you don’t want to do it this way but I did 4th grade already and I was good at it. Now—please---hand---me---the—crayon. Mommy is just going to help you color this section. What do you mean you left your crayons at school? Whatever- grab one of the extra boxes. Your brother did what with them? But why would he melt six boxes of crayons in the backyard? Forget it, I don’t want to know. Faster idea—I mean better idea. Of course a computer print collage is fine. No prob. (Agitation brewing. Eyes wild) Ok, now please step away so I can glue stick this please. I said please. I said move. I said glue stick. Don’t let the glue stick dropppp….. Damn it! Eric!!! Get the glue stick out of the dog’s mouth-- He’s coming your way!

Look, I know you’re tired. “no, I’m NOT!” I am and you are. “NO I AM NOT! I JUST HATE OKLAHOMA!” Well who told you to pick Oklahoma? Huh!? You think I’m loving Oklahoma now? I don’t care if we never set foot there—as long as you set foot in your classroom tomorrow with this, we never even have to think about Oklahoma! Now wipe the dog’s slobber off the glue stick and give it to me. Good. Perfect. Done. Voila! Now roll it up so the dog doesn’t get it. “It will be fine.” No, wrap it. “No, I want to look at it.” Do you remember what happened to your brother’s clay, toothpick covered hedgehog for his book report in 2nd grade when we left the room and forgot the dog was in there. “Oh, yeah.”


Two hours later: Cherubs in bed. Glue dry on paper. Glue off of dog. Project packed up by back pack—elevated. Kids in bed. Ahhhh.
Ps. I’m so excited. We got an A. Fabulous. Now on to the 6th grade Mongolia report.