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.

Christmas: A Study in Contrasts

It’s fairly evident on any given day how different Son1 and Son2 are. Musical taste, activities, clothing preferences… the list can go on. The way they manage money is an extreme study in contrasts.

Son1 was a rap star in a past life, or maybe a pro basketball player oozing street cred. In his mind, he is a god when it comes to creating hip hop, sweet talking the ladies, and livin’ large. We have a hard time getting through his head that, “Peace homes… chill” is not the appropriate way to sign off the phone with one's grandmother. And you know how many home boys kick it in STX lacrosse T-Shirts or Umbra soccer cleats.

Son2 need only be placed on an island with six fellow castaways and a coconut radio for it to be clear he is the Professor. He also must deck the house out for every occasion with such zeal I call him Marcus Stewart. We are continually stuck in a dizzying array of elaborately engineered seasonal displays. I don’t mean just the biggies like Christmas or Easter. St Patrick’s Day is a festival in the playroom, and I think he’s planning Summer Solstice 2011 décor 6 months ahead.

But of all the times of the year that I marvel at the differences of two children raised under the same set of rules, there is nothing quite like Christmas to spotlight the chasm. Here are but a few conversational highlights to show Son1 and Son2 are about as in synch as Nancy Pelosi and Anne Coulter:

On the subject of presents for their older sisters… Where do you want to go for Christmas shopping?

The highly-frugal, crazy-methodical, and intensely-crafty 10yr old (Son2):
Can I have $20 and go to 5 below? Or maybe a craft fair. I can always find something there and can really stretch my money. Or if you take me to Michael’s, I can spend the money on supplies to make twice as much. I can make them earrings, or a necklace. How much do I have? I’ll need a lot.

Money you mean?

No, time. I’ll need a lot of time in the store to find the perfect item. You may need to take me to the other Michael’s too. We’ll have all afternoon, right?

(You see, Son2 has to look at EVERYthing. Every item in inventory at least twice to be sure he doesn’t miss a thing. Tomorrow is shopping day. Just shoot me now)

The high rolling generous to the brink of insane 12 yr old (Son1):
Well, I want to get them sapphire diamonds. BIG ones.

Um, honey, they are 2 different stones. That’s very generous.

Ok, well one necklace or whatever for them both that has a really big sapphire and some diamonds. Then I want to get T an Xbox360 and for A, a flat screen TV. For (her husband) L, flat screen too.

Again, very generous. Ya know T’s 40 next month, and I think her kids have Xbox already, but very nice. Nice of you too on the flat screen for A&L.

No- one for A and one for L. He should have his own.

Ok, what about D, your sister T’s husband?

Oh yeah, I may have to borrow some money.

NOW? NOW you think you may be over budget?


I really need to start the Christmas baking…

Cake Boss meets Nate Berkus Son2:
Oh can I help? I want to decorate the cookies! Can we get that white icing stuff in the bag to draw those really neat lines? I want to draw snowflakes on cookies. But they all need to be different.

And then we can do some with that sugar in the colors. Maybe like 2 dozen of red, and then green, and then blue. Some chocolate chips would be good, and then some peanut butter ones. And then we can make those rolled up cookies you made last year.

OF COURSE he wants me to make those rolled up cookies. They’re from a Hungarian recipe from my mother in law and take like 16 hours to make, back from the days when peasant women had days and days to cook and bake. And massive arms apparently to obliterate 10lbs of walnuts into dust.

And I always wanted to bake and build a real gingerbread house. Should we make it open on one side so we can decorate all the rooms with candy?

Aim high, kid, aim high.

Attention span of Flea Son1:
Can’t we just use that plastic tub of dough? Or go to Kings?

Of course, even in convenience he picks Kings or Whole Foods where the same cookie dough is five times the price.


At least the schedule isn’t as crazy this year. Last year was a zoo with meetings for Daddy or me each night …

All about a ferstive and cozy home Son2:
I was thinking, we should light a fire every night and you can make real hot cocoa. Do you know how to make marshmallows? That lady on TV did. We can put a different movie on each night.

Sorry kid, your mom’s not the Barefoot Contessa. You notice he’s a little fixated on from scratch?

All I want is PlayStation Son1:
Can we just get pizza one night and watch a movie. Like Transformers?

That’s not a holiday movie.

Alright, what about that one where the kid wants the rifle but he’ll shoot his eye out, and the mom is super stressed and the dad yells and the crazy dogs take the food?

A Christmas Story? Or are we simply talking home movies?

And our final example: It’ll be nice to be home for Christmas, then visit your sisters …

Always up for decorating Son2:
That’ll be so cool! Do you think they’ll each let me decorate some stuff at their houses? You know you have to get ready for the Three Kings. A lot of people don’t realize you should make the place look festive for them too.

What have done for me lately Son1:
Why can’t we all go down to Florida and rent big houses next to each other and hang out and swim all day then go to restaurants at night so you don’t have to cook?

Well for starters, I do like to cook, but more to your point, flying 11 people to Florida and renting homes isn’t in the cards this year. Maybe I can try to get some tickets from points for a trip next year.

Fine. Then we’ll do it next year. But make sure you book at least me in first class.

You aim high too, Son1. Aim for the Christmas you so richly think you deserve.

The Shindig That Almost Wasn't

Every so often, as a wife or mother you have the chance to plan an event so cool, you’re beside yourself with all the possibilities (if you’re a creative control freak like me, anyway). A few years ago, my hubs was set to hit 60, a landmark that clearly deserved a full on surprise bash. Sure, he didn’t want one. Why would that matter? After years of planning superhero parties, I was going to plan a big ole shindig for an adult. There’d be martinis, and oysters, and no goodie bags. Little did I know, it would nearly be foiled by the most unlikely of pairs… Simon and Garfunkel.

The key to a surprise is the ruse. I started before even booking the hotel. His bday was the first Saturday of December, but since we each own our businesses, I couldn’t chalk it up to an office party. It had to be something I had no control over…hhhmmmm… A wedding! But who was engaged? or even serious that we knew? Answer- no one. So I made one up. I called a friend with two daughters and congratulated her on her 21 year old’s impending (albeit imaginary) nuptials this Dec 2 to a phantom boyfriend I created. And she went along with it like any logical mother would. So as early as February, I dropped a “oh, guess who got engaged for Valentine’s Day?!” In March, “yeah, Janet said her daughter’s engagement will be short-- maybe by the end of the year.” In May, I griped routinely that she was getting married the day of his bday and I’d look like a schlub if we didn’t go. He bought it all. The surprise shindig trap was set.


I continued with my imaginary wedding relaying gossip that never happened about the couple that never was. I was so into it, I was almost believing it myself. I designed an invitation and RSVP set and drove to the “bride’s” town for the proper postmark. When I needed time to shop for a dress, I created a shower, with another fake invite. I had a quiet lunch, sorted lists, sketched out the cake, and then stopped at Macy’s to pick up a cheapie, favorish looking candle so I wouldn’t return empty handed. (If you ever need a day, I highly recommend fabricating a shower.)

I followed a martini theme, and planned to make a Kettle One bottle-shaped cake with a Tahitian vanilla recipe I found. I was surprised to see it was actually imported from Tahiti, so you can imagine the cost per bean. But hey, not like I was actually giving a wedding present, right? I baked while he was out, then lit vanilla candles to which I attributed the scent. I decorated the cake and display at my office. I was getting a little carried away by the time fondant pimento-stuffed fondant olives were sculpted. I was teetering on the ledge of overachievement where you can suck your own joy out of the most joyous event. But it would be worth it that night, I knew. Mentally, I was full frontal surprise mode.

It occurred to me by November that I had omitted planning anything he was aware of. He knew I wouldn’t forget, so NO hooplah would have been suspicious. Shit, now I had to plan a pseudo shindig. I told him I was doing a long weekend in MD closer to Christmas with his daughters and sister. I hinted there would be more then, to create a red herring party. Ok, so now we have real-but-secret party, a fake wedding, a fake shower, and now fake-but-supposed-to-be-real party. My head was spinning with where I was supposed to be when. Little cracks of stress (or psyche) were emerging.

I never told the boys what was happening. At 8 and 6, Son1 and Son2 were as discreet as Julian Assange, but I had other cohorts to help on the big day. My stepdaughters would be in town from PA and MD, Dad from MS, and my conspiratorial mom close by. Our church’s Santa Breakfast was announced for that morning which meant hubs would be tied up flipping pancakes all morning (whew!). Mom could whisk the kids away right from there under the guise of watching them overnight while we toasted Michele and her faux beau.

It was all going so smoothly. That morning he even offered to take Son1 to church for set up help. The kids were divided. (whew!) The second he left, I loaded the car with 57 bags of clothes sorted in the days preceding. Ok, maybe it was only 3. I had outfits for the trip to Picture People the girls were taking with the boys for the first ever formal portrait of all 4 of the hub’s kids. I had their suits for the party. I had the cover-story overnight backpacks for their trip to grandma’s that wasn’t happening. She would take the boys to hotel to meet up with their sisters, they would all take pics, and then my dad would get them into suits that night by preset schedule.

I loaded Son2 and stopped by my office to load boxes filled with centerpieces I made while at the school committee meetings I also fabricated to give myself free nights to assemble the cake and décor. I would drop them at the hotel on the way home from church, then head to back to my office for the cake which I would drop off on a 2nd trip. I would then head home with the wedding card I picked up for the check I would write in route to the “wedding” the way I always do at the last minute much to his chagrin. In route that evening, I’d get a call from another friend and wedding guest suggesting we meet at the bar for a drink, to get him unsuspectingly to the lounge where the party was is rather than the banquet rooms the wedding would be in... you know, were there a wedding. A few more stress cracks in the psyche, but if I stayed close to timing, a year’s planning would be golden.

But then, I went one step too far. For reasons still beyond me, I caved to Son2’s prodding for balloons so he could surprise Daddy when we showed up at church. We picked the big 3ft tall “6” and “0” but of course the credit card machine froze, then a fender bender blocked traffic. Every second on B-Day was critical, and I was just screwed out of 30! I needed to make up time. Enter Route 287, NJ’s Autobahn. I was now hyper-stressed, so figured, ok, let’s crank some tunes. My mood lifted; Son2 sang along with me. The bulbous 6 and 0 glinted in the sunlight (and obscured the view I’d later take note). When the theme from The Graduate came on, I was getting stress-giddy. And so as Son2 and I belted out our longing for Joltin’ Joe, I did not notice the NJ State Trooper in the rearview. So distracted replicating Simon and Garfunkel's harmonies with my then 6 yr old, I was oblivious to the officer. A good two verses later, he caught my eye coming up next to me, waving me over. Uh oh. Ok, speeding, right? Turn down Paul and Art, plead mea culpa, shed a tear or two and drive off. Um, no. For when the trooper approached, he proceeded to rattle off all of my offenses from excessive speed, to reckless driving, (3 foot metallic balloons are frowned upon in cars, FYI), and failure to yield to his request to pull over for 3 miles. Really? 3 miles? How long is that song?

Knowing I had one hell of a ticket coming and insurance surcharges tripping through my head, I was then informed my registration was not one, two, or even three months expired. It was SIX months late. I later sorted out that I sent our boat reg in twice rather than my car, but it mattered little then. I was recklessly operating a non-registered vehicle with a minor within… and I was told it was being impounded. I was to call for a ride, and prepare to be relieved of my car momentarily.

And that my good friends, is where I lost it. Simon and Garfunkel got me into this mess of driving with distraction, but could not bring me back. All the drugs of their generation could not have calmed me from my implosion. I begged. I pleaded. I. lost. it. I wailed about the party stuff in the car, the cake I needed to transport with Tahitian vanilla—FROM TAHITI. Good God, man! Ta-F’IN-HITI!!!! I was sobbing-RANTING, and blaming it all on Mrs. Robinson and the hypnotic effect of singing along with my son. Son2, heretofore unaware of the party was panicking and yelling “What party? We’re under-arrested?? I’m too little to be under-arrested! What party? You’re having a party?! You didn't invite me?! Oh who cares?!! We’re going to jail!”

I can only imagine that may have made the cop feel like hell. Maybe he was confounded by my Simon and Garfunkel defense. Who wouldn’t be? Or maybe he was afraid to be trapped in his own car with me ranting about Tahiti, because the next thing I knew, he was back telling me to calm down (easy for him to say), and please to proceed with caution. He handed me a court summons. I was still blubbering and kind of clueless what was happening really, until Son2 shouted, “no see Mom, he’s letting us off! We’re free! We’re not under-arrested! GO- but don’t speed! What party?!”

I had to come clean to hubs why I was so upset when I got to church, without ever letting on WHY it would have been so disastrous. I also had to keep Son2's mouth jammed with pancakes non stop lest he spill the beans. The day did improve, and all got back on track. The party was awesome, and hubs was truly surprised. The ticket (THANK GOD) was pled down with some counsel by a trooper-friend. Son2 is still vigilant on speed, and to this day, I can break out in hives when I hear Mrs. Robinson while behind the wheel. The hubs admitted my acting troubled him because I lied over and over again for a year. Well.

But the whole near-fiasco taught me the valuable (expensive) lesson of what happens when you get so fixated on one item in your life. In the drive for the perfect shindig, I nearly drove myself into an accident by reckless behavior, with my son in tow. It taught me to mellow some, take things with a grain of salt and take off the blinders. Slow down (literally), and chill. As wives and moms, we sometimes try and make things so perfect we can easily go beyond reason. While I still may cross the line of logic, I do try to keep some perspective. I should be a much calmer planner by the time 2016 rolls around and it’s time to gear up for the hub's big 7-0 shindig. (Shhhh) Simon and Garfunkel~ please keep your distance. I'll need my focus.

If I organized parent teacher conferences

Every fall, parents across the country wait to be assigned some mutually inconvenient time for parent and teacher to conference regarding the academic progress (all 8 weeks of it) for each child. Now I'm sure for the parents of the gifted & talented students, there is a certain joy of expectation. For the parents of kids with IEP’s (Individual Education Plans for those not in the know), these autumn-fests are not the highlight of the social calendar. I will admit to a certain "oy vey" feeling in my stomach heading off to hear how my ADHD Son1 likes to shout out in class (MY Son?), talks in class-- a lot (no WAY?!), and needs to work to curb his impulses. (REALLY? Wow- I hadn't noticed he was impulsive, seriously?). I will hear that Son2 has issues transitioning from one task to another (GET OUT) and may, at times, simply close his books, push them to the side and have a good long day dream. That is the inevitable point at which I, year after year, suppress what would be a very poorly-timed giggle and try to rein in my own attention.

I don't mean to diminish in any way what the teachers do with my kids. But they're in 5th and 7th grades now. I want to hear something new. Since that would mean going to some other kid's conference which is frowned upon, I think we need to rethink the way we have parents and teachers meet. How 'bout we just cut the pedantic pleasantries and we cut to the heart of the matter. You would like, in no particular order, for me to enforce with my sons that they need to:

1) Give homework at least a passing glance
2) Stop shouting out every answer, every time, every day
3) Attempt to walk a semi-straight line to transition to class on time
4) Remember books, at least every so often
5) Chain the homework planner to their persons to ensure ready access when it counts, like say, when planning homework.

Ok? We're good to go? Pedantic pleasantries and filial formalities resolved, here's what I think we should be doing. We should be having wine. Yes, I know it's not allowed on school property, but maybe just this once we'll sort that out. What we have here are stilted interviews with parents wanting so badly to hear good news, while conditioned to one teacher after another telling them what the issues are. I can barely get through a holiday dinner without valium so I am well aware that their behaviors can be disruptive in group settings. I'm not being negative. I'm being honest. I'm their mom. I know Son1 & Son2 are scatter-brained, talk a lot, and lose important stuff. No sense wasting tax payer time telling me again. The mood's all wrong. We need to work as partners; we need to break the first marking period ice. We need... to toast.

The wrong mood all started back just a few weeks into the year, with Back to School Night. I know you need to run down the budget crisis, the NJ ASK (or whatever standardized state test du jour you respectively have), and shock and awe us with your enthusiasm for our kids. But I'm a middle school parent, and looking around the not so crowded gym, I'd say the bloom is off the rose in the parent interest level by middle school. Our kids don't leave us cute pictures on their desks and nice letters to Mommy. The novelty of sitting in their little desks is gone. The "fun" has passed. Hell, Son1 won't even tell me his locker# and combo for fear of snooping. But yes, parents should be more engaged in the education. I whole heartedly agree when I hear that. So draw us back in, with wine.

Trust me, if you uncork it- they will come. If I ran back to school nights, they would have been open house style cocktail parties to kick off the year ahead, rather than stilted, marginally attended PowerPoint displays that the teachers clearly put a lot of work in to for no where near the parent showing that they should get. We could have had punch in Phys-Ed, Oktoberfest in Social Studies (it's kind of cultural), and studied fermentation in Science. A little intro by the 6th grade Jazz band would have been nice. Can ya dig it? I knew thatcha would.

If I ran Parent-Teacher conferences, they would be very intimate little tête-à-têtes. We'd discuss test scores over brie. Perhaps some crostini would be shared as you encouraged me and I encouraged you. As these are small gatherings, one more one on one, I'd suggest we serve by the glass. Those little airline bottles may be ideal too. Ooooh I know! Set up a mini bar in the corner. While I cracked it open for some Famous Amos Chocolate Chip cookies that seem to invade all mini-bars, I'd grab a Chivas or two. By mini-bar rates that would be about $52. Doesn't seem so hard to raise the moolah to send the 8th grade to Washington DC now, does it? Think about it.

These are just my humble suggestions, for you to find some ways to build parent interest during these tween years when our own kids drive us to drink. I may submit this to the Superintendent. It's too late for this year, but maybe they could take some action for next year. I wish I thought of this sooner. This afternoon, we have Son1's Social Studies, Science, and Math teachers all in a 45 minute span. Without advance warning, they'd probably think it a little odd if I showed up with a baguette and Bordeaux. Ah well, it’s their loss.

  

Why I'm elated for Prince William

Why do I care about Prince William's engagement? Well, apart from the fact that I feel the world could just use some happy news right now, it gives me hope. Sure, there's all the joy and hope surrounding any newly engaged couple. But that's not what I mean. It gives me hope because in this world filled with trashy reality stars and crazy drunk celebs, he opted for... a lady. I know, I know. Don't jump on my apparent lapse of royal protocol.. Technically, she's not a "Lady," but a commoner. What I mean is, she's not a skank. PRAISE GOD.

I watch TV, check out magazines, catch some YouTube clips, and each and every time I am left with this skin-crawling feeling of what my sons may bring home one day. It starts at a frightening age, this skankamorphosis of young girls. Our house is adjacent to an elementary and middle school. Those cute little outfits of first grade become a little too sparse by sixth grade. It's well reported that sixth grade girls are more highly developed than previous generations. (It's absolutely true. Dr. Oz even said so.) Couple that with the shrinking clothes and the role models of Rihanna with her F*** You necklace and Snooki with her... well, her entire self- I'd freeze blogger embedding all the links... and girls are being shown that skank is the new black.

In this day and age, it seems like every young woman in the public eye must have fake boobs, fake tan, fake hair extensions, and be, in the immortal words of Bill to Russell on Fat Albert, "like summer vacation... no class." Along comes Prince William, son of one of the most glamorous women ever, with his bride to be. And she's n-o-r-m-a-l looking. She's beautiful, yes. She is gifted with a tall, slender figure and yet she looks, dare I say, "human." Don't think they don't have skanks in the UK. They brought us Big Brother after all. He just didn't pick one of them! Kate Middleton has already been photographed for years, and always appears very tastefully dressed. Good God, how I hope she'll be plastered on every magazine for that alone. Team her with a young man who wears suits, while we've deluded ourselves into thinking argyle sweater vests are "boys formal dress wear" and pajamas (on adults) in restaurants are ok, and it gives me hope.

I remember getting up really, really early in the morning to watch his parents' wedding while out in California that summer. All of us, even the non-Anglophiles, feel like we've watched him grow up from hyper, mischievous little boy to the now betrothed 6'3" man. So then, I look at my Son1 and Son2 (my own heir and the spare) and I think, "ok, there's hope." There's hope that boys settle down in to articulate gentlemen. There's hope that young men may learn once again how to dress well, and not look they are always heading off to play basketball. There's hope that my prospective daughters-in-law need not be hoochies.

So this evening, I'm tucking in to some cozy time with  the TV, getting my WASP on with all the media fanfare and contemplating where I can find a kick ass hat to wear to the church service to which I will assuredly be invited. William, on behalf of your beloved late mother, and on behalf of all mothers everywhere~ thank you for picking a nice young lady. Not a skank.

The Day My Name Changed to Mom

Today is one of the most specials day of the year in our house. It's "Family Day." Family Day is what we call the day our adoption papers were finalized in the Russian court, and we became parents to Son1 and Son2. For the rest of my days, my name would be changed to Mom. In honor of the day upon which my descent into madness kicked off, I've been reflecting upon the things I wish I knew then. For all the Home Studies and parenting classes, there's a lot that falls through the cracks.

I don't think many of these are exclusive to adoption, really. Deep down, I think we all could have used some practical guidance on the following:

Parenting ages you at a rate once reserved for US Presidents.
Did you every notice how fast the President ages over a four year term? Did you ever stop and look at your old DMV photo when the license expires and the new one is taken? Eight years ago I looked like Janet Leigh, now, Mrs. Bates. Knowing this in advance would have enabled me to stockpile face creams, massages... maybe a vial or ten of botox.

Washable red markers are, alas, not fully washable.
Just as new red tshirts wreak laundry havoc and Hawaiian Punch will ruin any garment, the red markers will stay with you.My advice- remove them at once from all Crayola boxes. Lose them, toss them, crush them, shred them... whatever it takes.

Your parents really did live to embarass you.
How do I know? Because I DO live some days to make Son1 squirm into a near-teen sweat. Treat me like a jerk in front of your friends just because you think it's more cool, and I assure you, every girl you date will learn I call you Cocoa Bear, be tipped off you will be 30 and still playing video games with a Dath Vader helmet on, and hear about your incessant need to run around naked as a jaybird still. So don't push me, Cocoa Bear. ; )

Kids smell.
Really, they do. They start out with that powdery baby smell and any stray odors are blamed on the diapers. This is only so you can bond with them. And then when they realize they smell, the overcompensate with toxic fumes like Axe. Had they smelled at 2 and 4 the way my laundry does now, I would have gagged and done a rethink.

And lastly... You will suck as a mom, and that's ok.
Whenever I come clean on some massive parenting fail point, I'm always amazed at the kind responses. I'm assured (ok, sometimes astounded) by the volume of equally bad flashes of judgment confessed by you all. It does my heart good to know we all suck at this at times, and that life goes on.

Boys, we love you and adore you more than you could ever know. You make my heart soar. My blood pressure could use a break. But even with all the madness, noise and mayhem, I am so thankful to God for each day you're in my life, for each day I am blessed to call you "sons."

It's Speak Up or Shut Up Time

There are so many reasons to vote, and so few really good excuses not to. Here are some of my favorite things about going full frontal 19th Amendment!

You’ll have every right to bitch
If you vote, you have a certain ownership stake. You can gripe. Non voters should not pass judgment, much in the same way we as parents are entitled to bitch and moan about things our kids do, but would never want a stranger saying a peep.

Cool flag stickers
Even in my 40’s, I can still rock an “I Voted!” flag sticker like all get out.

On site bake sales
Sure, I should avoid muffins, brownies or(and) cupcakes at 8:00am. But these lovely treats are on display outside the middle school polling place each election to raise money to send our 8th graders on their DC trip. I am not giving in to sugar lust, I am helping send our borough’s youth to the epicenter of democracy.

Privacy
I’ve seen other states that have these lame little tables w/ stations for privacy. In my town, we still get the magic curtain. Aside from trips into the lockable ATM alcove, how many other times is total privacy mandated? You want no one scoping your actions, and your actions can change the world. I’m thing of putting a voting curtain around my shower to see if my kids will leave me alone then.

The silence of the booth
Under the guise of re-reading the public questions 27 times, I’ve been known to linger in some cases to enjoy the peace of the booth. Heaven. They must think I’m the least decisive person on the planet.

Use of something I learned in school(house rock)
A few times each year (if I count primaries, school board and budget votes), I go through the motions of something we learned in history and civics. Do they even still teach these things in school? I kind of feel like my kids can rattle off gobs about other cultures but would trip over the term lengths of a senator vs. congressional rep. Maybe I’ll plop them down in front of some School House Rock, which, let’s be honest, can be credited as much as our schools for teaching us about adverbs, conjunctions, lonely old bills here on Capitol Hill, nouns (you know- a person, place, or thing), and the preamble to the Constitution.

This election day, I say thanks to all the amazing service people who have given years of their lives, and sadly, in some cases, life itself, all to protect my freedoms. I’d also like to thank faithful fan Jenifer in LA for reminding me of the suffragettes, who traipsed around for hours in those crazy big hats and bustles in wind, rain, and searing heat protesting to win me this right… all I do is haul my ass out of a Lexus in the parking lot. Suffragettes, I tip my parasol to you historic divas!