Didi

Ethan named his blanket once he was old enough to give anything a name. He has been a thumb-and-blanket addict since I weaned him at six months, so he’s a great sleeper as a result. Who can complain when a six-year-old still naps and sleeps eleven hours at night?

Our pediatrician agreed. “Kids usually give up these things on their own at about age six.” She gave Eth a reassuring pat on the back and turned to me, “So don’t rush it.”
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Swimming Back to Myself

Whenever my husband, Tim, and I reminisce about activities we used to do B.C. (before children), one of the first to come up is swimming. I don’t mean splashing around in the shallow end playing “motorboat, motorboat,” or sitting on the pool deck and clapping during our kids’ swimming lessons (as much as I relish both of those activities). I mean getting in the water and swimming laps hard enough that you elevate your heart rate and get that longed-for endorphin hit, the one that leaves you a much calmer and happier person than when you started.

I grew up around water, in an old stucco house in New Jersey a block from the Atlantic Ocean. Summers, I spent every day fully immersed, riding waves for so many hours that when I finally emerged late in the afternoon, the tips of my fingers were shriveled and my throat was raw from swallowing so much salt.

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A Symbol’s Deeper Meaning

We are on a road trip and we have stopped at a gas station to fill up the car, use the restrooms and get some drinks.

Harry handles the gas and refreshments. Emma and I go into the soiled restroom that is better than nothing at all. It reeks of urine and the floor is sticky. Every time we take a step, the floor holds onto the soles of our shoes for just a second too long.

After covering the seat with layers of tissue paper, I hold Emma above the toilet seat hoping she won’t splash herself or me. That’s when she says it.

“What’s that?”

I don’t want to turn to look at what she sees until she is finished.
“Just a sec, Em. When you’re all finished I’ll have a look.”

The task is completed but her question remains.

“What’s that Mama?” she asks again.
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Let’s All Whine Together!

My daughter loves to whine. When she does so she accompanies it with jerky body movements that some might think could be a new dance.

One shoulder slumps down, the other back, while her arms flail in front of her. This is accompanied by a chorus of, “I don’t want to. No. I don’t want to. No. I don’t want to. N-o-o-o-!”

Can you feel the beat? The girls got rhythm. And something else – an ability to drive me insane.

When my 8-year old is rockin’ out to her whines and throwing her body in all directions, it causes me to do the same only in an adult manner

“STOP. NOW. I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANYMORE WHINING.”
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Time Warp

In reading all the heartfelt and funny-in-a-stressed-out-way blogs of Mamas raising young children and teenagers, I find myself reminiscing of times gone by when I, too, shared many of the same everyday experiences.

Thinking of how I stretched my patience to the max trying to appease my young children’s wishes for entertaining their many friends, taking on new extracurricular classes and being at their beck and call day and night, leaves me to wonder where that never-ending patience is now. Continue… »

Zombie Attack!

Over my first cup of coffee on Saturday morning, my seven-year-old son Ethan informed me that he is starting his own business. Normally he asks me for waffles, so I was curious.

Ethan plans to call it The Comic Company, and they will create custom comic books for kids at school. On the handwritten order form he created, ten kids signed up for comic books and indicated themes from Pokemon to Star Wars. Ethan said he already has too much work so he is recruiting friends to work as graphic artists at The Comic Company. Overnight, my son became a combination of Stan Lee and Donald Trump. I needed another cup of coffee for this. Continue… »

No Longer Leading Ladies

My friend Ellen and I went to see An Education in Berkeley a couple of weeks ago. It felt odd being back on Shattuck Avenue after being students together at the university twenty-five years ago.  

An Education is about a high school girl in 1960s England who has an affair with an older man. They have a wonderful rendezvous in Paris. The girl ends up dropping out of high school because she thinks the man will marry her. Ellen and I connected with the girl’s parents more than the girl. How come they let her go out with him? What would we do if our daughters wanted to do the same thing?

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My Son is a Genius!

It’s every parent’s wet dream – if mothers had such nocturnal moments – to know that your child is smarter than the average pooh bear. When Alex was two months old, he spoke his first word, “Okay.” That morning I had placed him on the bed, back when he was an agreeable pillbug who hadn’t learned to roll over.

“Mom’s going to be back right away, okay?”

And he chirped right back, “Okay.”

Not just once that day, but two more times. There, I had scientific proof, 100% positive results with no chance of error, that my kid had spoken English back to me. My son was a genius. And being an agreeable little guy, he wasn’t saying “no” like those ornery toddlers. My boy was answering in the affirmative, a “yes” man in the best sense of the word.
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Who’s my favorite?

What exactly is the right answer when one of your children asks: “Who do you love most?” Is there ever a right answer? I love to tell each of my children that of course they are by far my favorite one. That may be the only chance I have that one of them will take care of me in my old age.

But the truth is, I love Daddy best.

There are so many reasons I love my husband more than my children. First of all, I picked my husband. Of course we had to ultimately pick each other but he was the one I wanted. My kids: not so much. With kids you take what you get and hope for the best. While I love my children immensely, I do not always like them. I think of them more as an acquired taste, like anchovies.
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