Why My Husband Should Adore Me

This you must see. Really: don't read one more word until you check it out.

The note was found on the same NYC to CT train route that I took for one very sweet, very hot (and I don't mean sexy) summer. It would mark the only time I ever worked in Manhattan, which makes me both happy and sad, but no matter: I know this MetroNorth line well.

It's the route my father took morning and night over the course of a few decades, and it's the one that many of my friends take today. It is also the train I rode as a teenager when I would wander through Greenwich Village with my posse, all of us so incredibly cool -- in our LL Bean boots and ribboned pony tails. Oh lord: Chloe Sevigny, we were not.

I never found a list like that on the train (though I did once find a six pack in a brown paper bag and I was all, woot! woot!), and I doubt my dad ever did. Granted, this was in the olden days before cool computer links could instantly deliver your boyfriend to the thousand dollar pair of shoes you love, but still.

I sort of thought this world, people with "wish lists" like this, didn't really exist... at least I didn't think they rode the fucking train!

If I wrote a Christmas list for my husband, which I haven't (mostly because he's been out of the country for most of the month, including right now thanks to a little snow storm in Europe which has stranded him YET AGAIN), I can assure you it would not look like this note.

For one, I would embed pictures of the things I most covet.

Things like this:

Because my feet hurt. Lots.

And not from my Luhbootins (which I am not even going to try to spell correctly) but from the thump-thump-thump I do all day in clogs made by Scandinavian masochists.

Or this.

Because it's hard to whip up cupcakes or healthy whole-grain muffins (wink, wink) when the baking section of my kitchen looks more pock-marked than most meth addicts.

And this?

Because, um? Does this even require explanation? Oprah sayeth and I believeth: a good bra doth make me look skinnieth-er.

I can't ever seem to find these when I need them.

Or these:

I would like some. Please.

I haven't done the math, and I'd probably mess up the calculations anyway, but I'm pretty sure I didn't come close to the $20K tab my train riding girlfriend did. This, and the Delicious Miller Lite? I think I just might be the cheapest date EVER. Add it to my countless other amazing qualities, and I'm sure I have endeared my husband to me for life. (Can you endear someone to you? Have I just bastardized re-invented language again?)

But just in case he might read this, and is kind of wanting to, well, spoil me -- this is what I really, really want:

She? Priceless.

PS: Truth: I'd really just like him to make it home to enjoy Christmas. That'd be good enough for me. And also: I already bought the coat I needed. It's wrapped and under the tree: "Stay Warm Mom! Heart, the Kids"

Twelve Days of.... OMG? WHA?

On the first day of Christmas,

My true love gave to me –

A kiss as he left the country.

On the second day of Christmas,

Bad luck gave to me --

Two kids moaning

And a kiss as he left the country.

On the third day of Christmas

Bad luck gave to me

Three sick kids!

Two kids moaning,

And a kiss as he left the country.

(You know how this goes, right? Let’s skip forward to the grand finale…)

On the twelfth day of Christmas

Bad luck gave to me –

Twelve loads of laundry

Eleven buckets emptied

Ten ruined towels

Nine blown-off meetings

Eight shouts for “MOMMY!”

Seven gifts un-shopped for

Six chores a-waiting

Five…. Hours…. Of…. Sleep!

Four tummies rumbling

Three sick kids!

Two kids moaning

And a kiss as he left the country.

That’s right.

While solo-parenting three children during both a busy professional and personal time of year -- which is an understatement of epic proportions, the Grinch visited my Who(wouldathunk)ville and left the kind of gift that keeps on giving. And giving. And oh, yes, giving again.

In the interest of sparing most of the goriest details, let me simply say that it might have been better if each of my kids became sick all at once rather than in progressive order -- in the middle of the night. And it was not sugar plum fairies dancing in any our sleeps! It was sort of like the March of the Nutcracker but instead of ballerinas, I got a stinky parade of the flu- and fever-ridden.

And it wasn’t twelve days – I’ve taken some liberties in the interest of “musical genius” – but it felt like it was. (Come to think of it, maybe it was twelve days: I’m so sleep-deprived, most of the details are lost on me.)

I am pleased to report that the worst seems behind us. Like always, good will (and an industrial-sized can of Lysol) have beaten that nasty Grinch from our door. The tummy rumbling has subsided, the fevers are gone, and soon enough an airplane will deliver my True Love back from a continent far, far away.

In the meantime, I’ll be scrambling to finish all the things left undone this week, which are so many that there are some I will surely overlook. But come Christmas Eve, I know I won’t forget to set out a special plate of milk and cookies for the one who has done so very much for me this Christmas season.

My washing machine.

To Phone or Not To Phone: A Christmas Dilemma

I like to think of myself as a Christmas magician. Not the kind who makes the greens and holly and holiday lights appear in a poof – ask my neighbors and you'll know this is not where my magic skills lay -- but the kind who makes sure that that one very special, very much wished for gift gets dropped down the chimney. I think that's the kind of magician we all want to be.

Usually, it's pretty easy. I'll twist racetracks into gravity-defying loops or score the long-wished for Lego set. The Big Man with the Beard will bring earrings, even when the Mom has said "no pierced ears," and with a snap of the wand, another Christmas morning will become the best one ever. But this year, I'm struggling.

This year I'm not sure I can make the magic happen. To get my daughter a phone or not to get her a phone, that is the question.

If my daughter were writing here, she would tell you that she's the only kid IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD with a mother so strict. She would be partly right because while I know that she is not the only sixth grader without a cell phone, I also know she's in a very small minority. I've held my no phone ground for so long, that sometimes I'm not even sure where my reluctance comes from.

I suppose it's fear. I've read so much about what can and does happen with technology like that and it scares me, but yet, I allowed her to set up an email account, which is just as frightening. Maybe I'm more afraid that with a cell phone in her pocket, she will be even more grown up -- and maybe growing away from me?

Lately, my daughter's charts and lists and arguments trying to sway my decision have become more persuasive. She's started babysitting, has managed her homework and chores and practice schedules, and by all accounts, appears to be able to handle the responsibility. Plus, she's a pretty great kid and I still want to be that Christmas magic-maker for her.

And I don't think a Barbie Dream House is a going to cut it this year.

My friend Jessica, who has a daughter one year older than mine, and who has always been a trusted source, is helping my daughter's case. Like me, Jess was resisting the phone but finally relented last Christmas. She's set some solid boundaries and rules -- no cell phones (or computers) upstairs, mom owns the phone and therefore has access to whatever's on it and/or can cut it off at any time.

Jess said she's actually glad she finally allowed the coveted phone, especially because she's been able to successfully set a precedent for the teenage future when boundaries and rules will matter even more.

I guess the future is here. I am getting my daughter a cell phone.

I am going into it with the kind of optimism that has sustained a lot of my parenting decisions: which is basically that if I shore myself up with enough information and set and stand by some unflinching regulations then all will be okay. If I have to, I'll revise my strategy should something pop up -- which it will.

But for now, I'm hoping it's just the chime of a funny text sent by a daughter to her mom, who, as it turns out, will get to be a Christmas magician once more.

(This was first published here.)

Also personal to Laggin: I adore you.

This is my Bieber

My daughter was hugged by Justin Bieber tonight.

This is because I have a friend, who was once my roommate in high school and then a bridesmaid in my wedding and then a confidant and trusted source throughout everything that came after, who decided my little kid was worthy of her magic.

And then she put her wand to it and poof! My kid is now the happiest kid on the planet.

My daughter was not lucky tonight. Instead, she was the recipient of what happens when you nurture what you love. Or in this case, who you love.

There is so much talk in the giant, noisy world about the social network. Blogs and tweets and Facebook and geolocation and oh holy hell, it worries me. In just writing these words, I feel my heart beating the wrong way.

Instead my heart should beat like my daughter's did tonight and how mine does in grateful thanks for my friend -- with a passion.

How does your heart beat?

My heart does not flutter over twitter follows or Facebook "friends" or blog commenters.

My heart beats when I write. My heart beats when I feel magnetically moved to, when I can not do anything but... write. My heart beats when writing becomes the best puzzle and the best solve all at once. My heart beats when writing reflects the best part of me, or the ugliest part, or the nastiest part, or the sweetest.

Writing is my Bieber.

It's my meet and greet.

I am trying to nurture what I love.

My Wikkid Smaht Kids: Still Wikkid Smaht

The GFYO has very fine penmanship for a 1st grader.

He also writes bad guys this way: badgis.

***

Rory reminds me (on the eve of a teacher/parent conference) that she is a "good kid." I know, I say. I'm not surprised I say. But how do you think you are as a "student," I ask?

Um, mom? she drags out in the way that 4th grade kids like her do:

Do you not remember my award for studentness?

I do, I say. (I resist every impulse to correct that non-word...)

And I say, I'm still not sure you know what I mean ---

"MOM! omigod! I have studentness! Back off! Geez...."

****

Bridget, who is 11, wants a cell phone for Christmas. Her pitch to me?

I'll call you alllll the time, even when you don't want me to!

****

There will come a day when my wikkid smaht kids will be way smarter than me. Until then, and because of that? I'm making proof of how delightfully awesome they've been in the meantime.

Also: shoring up lots of material for the rehearsal dinner toasts. Yo.

Obligatory Thinky Thanksgiving Post

It’s ironic, but true: the season of thanks always finds me griping the most.

It’s darker earlier, which is an annual buzz kill. It’s chillier and the older I get, the colder I seem to feel. The kids have officially lost their back-to-school excitement and have moved into the dreaded homework-is-a-chore phase. The house we spend more and more time huddled inside creaks and moans and shows its age: the railings split, another shingle blows off the roof, a threatening crack appears in the plaster. Soon enough, the Christmas decorating, partying, and shopping will come due in bills that seem higher every year.

And I gripe about it all.

Meanwhile, my son will perform a sweet play about families and feasts, which will, as it has twice before, make me feel teary and nostalgic but also pressed for time. Television commercials and magazine articles will remind me to slow down and I will whiz by each in a flash. The whole world will attempt to lecture me on the values of the season, while I sit in the back of the class, doodling.

I really need to get on that spiritual gravy train! I know I should be riding it all the time, and I try.

On my kitchen wall hangs a folk-artsy sign reminding me to count my blessings. I probably look at it one hundred times a day, but like so many other parts of my life, sometimes it too blends into the background. So I gripe when I should count and complain when I should celebrate, but I realize now it’s time to shine a light up there and really have a good look at those three words.

Truth is, no one in my immediate and extended family is sick (after a few scary years of the opposite being true). We are all employed (after a few scary months of that too). Babies have been safely born, cousins have been blissfully wed, and nieces have survived the first few months of college. We are all chugging through lives that are essentially good. Even great.

So, I’m making an early resolution this year: enough with the griping!

Complaining has its place, in an activist, squeaky wheel kind of way, but this is different. This is about making a concerted effort to roll my eyes less, to stomp my feet less, to see more forest and fewer trees. This is less about giving thanks next Thursday but about living thankfully -- consciously thankful -- all the other days. If I tear up a little more, so be it: I’ll gladly replace my frustrated irritation for a few happy sobs. My aim is to shrug off the leak in the ceiling for a while and listen more to the laughter above it.

I realize this might sound kind of hokey or metaphysical or as if I’ve been hanging out with Oprah too much (and admittedly, I kind of wish I were), but I realize that when I gripe about my kids, my family, my house, or my work, it’s a privilege really. See, I have all those things to gripe about, and it’s not lost on me that there are those among us who do not.

With good fortune comes responsibility and I think I know what mine is. The griping? I’m quitting -- or at least cutting back -- and I’m going to tell all the lucky others out there what I have just told myself: enough already. Put down the plastic knives and the sour milk jugs! Dig into the good stuff.

Why I Love My Sister: A Short Lesson in Chaos Appreciation

My sister is the person you want with you when you accidentally (?) get bitten by a snake or set on fire. I'm not sure where she keeps her supplies -- she's a tiny person so you'd think you might see 'em bulging out from under her sweaters and tees -- but that doesn't matter. What does: she has what you need when you need it.

(Especially Benadryl. Benadryl is to her what Windex was to that dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding.)

While I spent this whole day convinced that it was November 21st (and even argued that fact to Bridget) (oh yes I did), my sister has probably already packed her bags and set the oven (in another state) to start pre-heating at noon three days from now. (I seriously would not be surprised if she had some awesome remote control or super telepathic powers to actually do that...)

She's a lot like my mom, another equally organized, creator of happy. For example: my mom created an Excel spreadsheet (or something like it) to make sure we all know our assigned Thanksgiving tasks, as well as a PowerPoint (or something like it) of all the various activities and events during our weekend -- when they will begin and end (to the minute). Do not mess with broads like these!

I'm not complaining. Without them (and Bridget), I'd show up in a crappy pilgrim hat on Friday! With a sack of greasy cheeseburgers and a Yankee Candle.

So the following email? Well, it was exactly the laugh I needed this November 21st...eek, 22nd, dammit.

TO: Picket, Mom, Other Sister, Neighbor

FR: Sister

Ingredients bought - done

Wine and beer secured - done

Outfit for Daughter - done

Making pumpkin bread - done

Warm clothes at the ready for football and hike - done

5 pound bag of flour on floor - shit

Wait...the sugar too! - #!&$@!

Daughter helping with baking - DONE

Freakin' awesome.

***

(OH! PS: Not getting me in your inbox? So sad. Please re-enter your email address over there ----> and if the google gods be willing, I might be inspired to write enough here to make you wish you hadn't.)

Considering Going Luddite: Kids, Social Mayhem and Me

My son's favorite country is China.

His favorite number is 11.

Color? Food? Subject in school?

I could tell you all those things -- but only because, with the assistance of his big sister, my six year old made a quiz I could take on-line.

I took it.

Turns out, thanks to that dumb quiz, I know the GFYO not as well as I thought. I know the child I bred and birthed and who owes me who sleeps in my bed most nights, something like 66% which doesn't even put me in the so-called category of "peeps who know me good" -- which is absurd because the freaking dog does not count as a "brother" and also: CHINA?

This is why I hate technology. Technology is getting in the way of my role as the undefeated know-it-all of All Knowledge. Which, as many of you know, is the right of all mothers.

Damn you internet! Damn you quizzes with trick questions!

6th grader B does not have a mobile phone yet but she does have an email account -- which I realize seems only normal in some alternate universe of "normal." I hold the phone off like a freaking golden carrot but allow her access now to conversations online with friends (I approve) who lead us to these stupid quizzes. I allow her to talk one way and not the other? It doesn't even make sense to me.

I had Shaun Cassidy posters on my wall (like her Bieber ones) and when my parents signed up for "total phone," which was built (I think) for dads at the train station to get past the busy signal, me and my friends figured out how to game it and "group chatted" like -- well, like tween and teenage girls did then and -- do now.

Truth is, not much has changed.

Truth is, I have no idea what I am doing.

I'm weighing my friends experiences (especially those with older kids), but mostly, I'm winging it. There has not been a time when I have felt so utterly out on my own in parenting. Where's the book for this?

Soon enough, the day will come where the questions on the quiz will neither be as simple or as funny as my son's were. Soon enough, my sixth grader won't even want my answers. She'll probably want to text her BFF.

(This makes me want to deny her a phone FOREVER and delete her email account right this very second. Which I could but won't.)

At some point, most kids sneak away from our grip and become who they will be; it's part of the process. But right now, while I have 'em in my hands -- I run their social and their media.

But I also know the future is coming in more ways than one.

Will my withholding of a mobile phone, my monitoring of internet access, my insistence that phone calls be made where I can (mostly) hear them even matter?

I have no idea. Do you?