Live. Write. Repeat.

Dancing Through an Easy Time

2012-01-08T19:40:00.000-08:00

Perched on the counter, I turned around to check the time on the microwave behind me: 6:29 p.m.

"Only an hour and a half left," I reported to Tony. The two of us were hiding out in the kitchen with Pandora Radio, killing the last 90 minutes of the day before the girls went to bed.

Our brood giggled and squealed their way through another Sunday night round of post-dinner slap happiness in the living room. Back in our kitchen bunker, James Taylor serenaded us with "Fire and Rain."

"Wait...," I scrunched my face and turned my head. "I could never get that lyric. What'd he say?"

"Been walking my mind to an easy time," Tony sang.

"Been walking my mind to an easy time," I repeated. Tony was always good with hearing lyrics. "Ohhhh...I see," I said, nodding my head, finally understanding the words. And this time, really understanding the words.

Crosby, Stills and Nash's "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes" came next. I attempted to impress Tony with my ability to recall all the song's lyrics.

"Ooooh! This is the best part," I prepared him, holding my hands up, before belting out, "...willllll you come see-ee me-e-e? Thursdays and Saturdays...days DAYS DAYS, what have you got to loo-oo-oo-oo-oose?"

He smiled, but more for my benefit I could tell.

The song played on and the girls thumped their way through the dining room and into the kitchen.

We'd been outed.

"Whaddaryou guys dooo-ing in heeee-re?" Anna asked, leading her sisters and shaking with silliness.

"Just listening to music," I sighed, knowing our kitchen quiet time was done. Crosby, Stills and Nash harmonized on in the background, the song's tempo picking up.

Then, it occurred to me that the girls might like the upbeat end of the song. "Hey, you'll like this part," I told them, much in the way I may have tried to convince them that chia seeds are, in fact, tasty. They looked at me with what I swear was a glimpse of teenage skepticism.

Then it came: Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo, doot-doot, doo-doo-doo-doo...

Our trio huddled and started bouncing to the catchy tune. I was right: they liked it.

They liked it so much, they stayed in the kitchen to listen. And never before have Tony and I been so happy to have been ambushed.

For the next half-hour, the five of us danced in our cramped smallish kitchen to a series of songs so perfect that they only could have been hand-selected by a Hollywood music supervisor.

We cha-cha'd and twirled through Billy Joel's "Don't Ask Me Why." I shared an overdue tender moment with Anna, as I carried her, swaying and spinning our way through Kenny Loggins' "Danny's Song." Josie showered me with kisses and gentle nose nudgings during The Beatles' "In My Life." Steve Perry gave us a fitting coda as we air-guitared and air-drummed our way through "Don't Stop Believing."

When the song ended, Tony announced that it was bathtime.

"Just one more!" Olivia pleaded.

I secretly wished for one more, too, but I figured it was better to end it so that our night would end just the way it had: perfectly. I'm a seasoned enough mother now to know that times like tonight are few and far between.

I'm also sentimental enough to know that in another 50 years, when I might be inclined to romanticize or embellish our girls' early years, that this one night really happened. And that will make walking my mind to an easy time all the more enjoyable.

A not-so-good night. Hopefully, a better tomorrow.

2011-12-29T21:16:00.000-08:00

The girls' bedrooms doors were already closed when I decided to return upstairs. I hadn't wished them a "good night" yet.

Less than an hour before, I ensured at least one of them would have anything but. Tomorrow wasn't looking so good, either.

I walked halfway down the hall and paused. All was quiet. Instead of peeking into their rooms, I decided to check in on Tony. He'd just gotten home and was in our bedroom changing clothes.

I tapped on the bathroom door. "Your dinner's ready," I told him, before blurting, "I hate being mean. I wish there was another way, but I can't think of one... ." My voice trailed off.

"No, you're right," he said, sympathetic. Then, "Anna wanted you to say, 'Good night.'"

I exhaled and slumped my shoulders.

Earlier, I was cleaning up the dishes from dinner and found The Little Mermaid DVD on the kitchen table. It wasn't there during the meal, so I knew it had been transported to the dining room by one of our lassies. I picked up the movie and turned it over. The mirrored surface was scratched and smudged with fingerprints.

Seriously? AGAIN? How many times do I have to tell them that we have to take care of the things we have? That we're lucky to have what we have? That we need to TREAT THINGS WITH RESPECT????

I swung around to the living room. All three of them were playing on the couch.

I held up the DVD. "Who was playing with THIS?" My speech was deliberate.

Four eyes locked on mine. Two didn't.

"It wasn't me," Olivia reported.

"Idwaahzuntme eeder,"Josie said, matter-of-factly. Then she widened her eyes, flared her nostrils and with witch-trial theatrics bellowed, "Idwaahz ANNA!"

To our five-year-old's credit, she didn't deny it. But I still glared.

"Were you scratching it on the table?" I wasn't asking. I was accusing.

"Yes..." Anna answered. She flashed a smirk.

And I got hot.

"It's not funny, Anna. If you want to watch The Little Mermaid again, it'll probably skip and it will be because you were playing with it like it was a piece of garbage! I mean, what do I have to do so that you take care of things?"

At that point, I could have walked away. Instead, all those times before that I'd said the same thing pushed me ahead. I'd had enough. I fastened my helmet for a ride down the slippery slope of materialistic guilt. And I was determined to take Anna with me.

I started by asking Anna how she would feel if something that was special to her was ruined. I reminded her that there are plenty of children who aren't showered with nice things and may only have one DVD, if they've seen a movie at all. I threatened to march her upstairs to find something special of hers that she could donate to a little girl who would take care of it.

Anna stopped smiling. Her eyes met mine. You wouldn't...

I did.

And every last second of it was as terrible as I expected. From watching Anna reluctantly opening her clothes-filled drawers to her selecting a princess nightgown once adored by Olivia and now by her to my decision to open the closet door, revealing the cerulean velour hand-me-down dress she so happily wore to Christmas Mass.

She started sobbing.

I bent down and put my hands on her shoulders. I needed to know that she understood.

"Anna, I don't like going through this, either. This makes me sad, too. But I need to know: do you understand what you've done wrong?"

Of course, she did.

"I wasn't being respectful to our things," she muttered, face wet and puffy.

I wanted to go another direction. To let her keep her special nightgown or her special dress. To not somehow make donating something seem like a bad thing.

But seven years into this job and I know that going back on your word usually means more of the same going forward.

Back in our bedroom, I took a deep breath as Tony put his work clothes away. Anna and Josie's room was next to ours. I walked into the hall and nudged open their door.

Anna was sitting up on her top bunk. I climbed the ladder.

"Honey, I'm sorry to do this. I don't enjoy it, but I've had to say this so many times, I don't know what else to do. Now I know that you'll think next time," I said, trying to be gentle.

She was quiet. And cold to me. I couldn't blame her. Then again, I could.

I kissed her, said "I love you" and left the room.

I realize that our girls aren't to blame for all they have. As far as material things go, they are children of wants, not needs. Tony and I recently discussed how we could start exposing the girls to ways we could give our time to help in the community. After this, it's safe to assume that we'll start in 2012.

To be fair, our girls aren't spoiled. And they're not ungrateful. But they are growing up in a world that seems to be uncomfortably (for me, at least) repeating a cycle of accumulating the latest and greatest and then chucking it aside for the next latest and greatest. I'm guilty myself at times.

The lessons of moderation, humility and respect are hard to teach and harder to live. And, in Anna's case, it also made for one loaded, hard night.

The best I can do is hope that with a little planning and a lot of motivation, I can turn an otherwise not-so-good night into a better tomorrow for us, and more importantly, for someone else.

Wake the Tiger. Then give it an Ambien.

2011-10-01T07:13:00.000-07:00

First, there was huffing.

Then puffing.

Then came the thoroughest of meltdowns I'd been responsible for in years.

"Mommy, I AM trying!!!," pleaded Anna, her four-year-old eyes shedding downpours of tears. She sat slumped over next to me on the piano bench -- the same bench I sat on 31 years ago when I started taking piano lessons.

I'd been helping her practice one song for all of five minutes, but she kept making the same mistake over and over. The song wasn't as melodic or as easy as other songs, so this one didn't interest her. That was obvious. But the way I saw it, that didn't mean she didn't have to figure out how to play it.

I took a deep breath. Then, to avoid saying anything I'd regret, I took another one.

I closed my eyes, searching the deepest depths of my soul, but I came up empty: the maternal 7-Eleven had sold out of empathy earlier in the day when she asked if she could have a piece of gum 16 times in 9 minutes.

Anna sobbed on. And on.

I spoke slowly and clenched my jaws. "Stop. Crying. Now."

She didn't.

I didn't let up.

"Anna, you AREN'T trying. You have this big, beautiful brain and YOU'RE NOT USING IT!," I snapped. "USE IT AND YOU'LL GET IT RIGHT! Every time you give yourself the time to think, you get it right!!"

It was hardly motivation, but my patience well was dry, so it was the best I could do.

She cried on. I got up, exasperated, and stomped to the kitchen. Tony was there. He gave me a look and I got defensive. I started explaining.

"Look, I know I sound really mean, but she needs my help. I'm happy to help her if I see that she's trying, but she's NOT," I insisted. "She's completely capable of this and yes, she does like it because she'll go off playing her songs. She can read numbers and letters and she knows to go from left to right, but right now, she's JUST BEING LAZY!"

The look on his face was unchanged. I knew what he was thinking: She's finally done it. She's gone Tiger Mother.

He began, "Jen, I know, but you have to remember..."

I closed my eyes and exhaled, shoulders down. I tried to cut him off. "I know I sound condescending ... ." My voice trailed off. I was wincing.

"Yeah, you do," he agreed. Then to make sure I wasn't letting myself off the hook (and rightfully so) he added, "You just have to remember that she's four and she doesn't know as much about piano as you do."

He was right. I needed to back off.

Since Olivia and Anna started taking piano lessons mid-summer, I had probably reminded them one too many times that I'd started taking piano lessons at five (my decision, not my parents') and that I had to figure it out all by myself because between the two of them, my parents wouldn't know a treble clef from a bass clef. By my provincial logic, the girls should be able to do the same.

My feelings were only fueled by my impatience with using piano to teach the girls what I've determined to be important life lessons: Learn something new. Work hard at it. Experience success. Experience failure. Don't give up.

Apparently, I'd wanted them to learn all five of these lessons by the ages of seven and four. And to learn them in a three month period.

Two words came to mind: Patience, grasshopper.

By the time I'd returned to the piano, Anna had stopped crying. Her eyes were still red. I knew I had to take a step back, but I'll admit that I wasn't ready to capitulate.

"Honey, I'll point to the notes. Take your time and let your brain work. Your fingers will know what to do," I said, gently.

She looked at me, unsure whether I'd explode again. My volatility left her shaken and me regretful. We finished practicing (she got it right that time) and I'd started doubting my sanity.

A few days later, we were back at the bench, practicing again. Before she started playing, Anna took two deep breaths. We revisited the song that began the downward spiral. I sat next to her, silent.

She put her hands in c-position. Her fingers tapped each note carefully. Her eyes focused on the page throughout.

She played the song perfectly.

Anna rested her hands in her lap and turned toward me. Before I could say anything, she beamed, face full of pride and said in her best I told you so, "Hey Mommy, I used my big beautiful brain!" Then, she nearly fell off the bench giggling.

I laughed hard with her then held her close. The kid was resilient, that was clear. And that was something I could use a lesson (or twelve) in for sure.

"You're right, kiddo, you did it," I said, still laughing. Then, as more a reminder to myself than to her, I added, "You did it all by yourself."

Seven Years. Eleven Lessons.

2011-08-29T12:02:00.000-07:00

Seven.

It's the day of the month I was born. It's the seat I rowed in my senior year in college. It's the dice combination I'm white-knuckling for and against in a certain game of chance in Vegas.

And next month, it'll be the number of years I've been an unemployed, non-working American. (It also happens to be the number of years that I was an employed hard-working American before I became a stay-at-home mom.)

Yes, yes, I knooooow. Being a stay-at-home mother is the toughest, most important job on the planet. But here's my take: Tell that to a mother who works full-time because she can't afford to stay home. I'll bet you seven to one hers is tougher and that she's got a different perspective on what's important.

That aside, I may not have contributed much in the way of money to our bank account, but I've hit pay dirt when it comes to what I've learned about being a mom, a wife and a highly neurotic human being.

To celebrate the anniversary of my seven years of not contributing to Social Security, I've decided to make a list of lessons I've learned while doing my best June Cleaver. None of it is all that deep. Some of it is personal. But it's all honest.

So in no particular order, here goes:

I've learned that the gene pool has a shallow end, a sloped middle and a deep end. Rest assured none of your children will come from the same location. Which means that you'd better be a good swimmer. Or, at the very least, you'd better have access to a flotation device.
Having one child is hard. Balancing a toddler and a newborn is harder. Having three kids isn't really any different than having two. Having four or more children isn't something I'm all that interested in learning about.
Asking children to do something can be a lot like trying to communicate with someone who doesn't speak English: You can speak slower and you can repeat yourself over and over, just don't expect it to make a damn bit of difference.
Pull-ups aren't really helpful (and yes, we used them) because they just postpone the end goal. But they do enable certain companies to bridge the revenue gap between diapers and Depends.
I'm not sure I'd throw down again for a "mommy and me" music, gymnastics or sports class. Sure, it was fun, but it turns out I was the only one being socialized.
Rolling over and pretending to sleep when your partner isn't interested in sleeping only works once (if that). It's been my experience that letting go and having a go beats the alternative.
Avoiding princesses seems to make girls want them more. Sadly, this psychology doesn't work for, say, eating vegetables. Or potty training. Or anything you might want your child to be interested in, for that matter.
It's true: a minivan isn't a cool car. But if you'd rather not be within arm's reach of your children on a 15-hour drive to your summer vacation or on a 15-minute ride to the grocery store, then it's not a bad way to go. That, and gliding doors means less work for my backside. Which is a good thing because let's face it: even Beyonce's cheeks look awkward as a door prop.
Real anger is best expressed by employing precise eye contact and articulation reserved for a nightly news anchor. It shocks the girls into submission every time.
The process of natural childbirth isn't at all like running a marathon. I've done both. And no matter how you slice it, pushing something the size of a county fair prize-sized watermelon out of something the size of a dime isn't a blasted thing like running 26.2 miles. It should also be telling that I've run five marathons and only had one out of three children naturally - and that wasn't by choice.
Any book that tells you "what to expect" has plenty of valuable information, but never seems to answer to the questions you didn't expect to ask.

So there's my list.

Who knows: maybe in another seven years, I'll have another 11 or so lessons for sharing on a blog. Or maybe by then, I'll have returned to the ranks of the Social Security-contributing, hard-working Americans.

Either way, I'll still be a mom, a wife and a highly neurotic human being -- not just for the next seven years, but for the rest of my life.

Today Wasn't Treasure

2011-07-18T05:31:00.000-07:00

After today, I'm convinced that any parent who instructs me to "treasure the times when the kids are small" either had a full-time nanny or skipped town for the first five years of his or her child's life.

To be clear, there are moments in each of my daughter's lives I treasure. Happy memories, achievements, firsts and significant milestones I'll not forget.

But the "times" as a whole?

No. Way.

Thing is, two days ago, I thought I'd reached the tipping point. I even managed to take a deep breath and empty "the vessel of my kids' bad behavior", if memory serves me right, vowing to show my children the virtues of humility. I was ready to start anew.

What a crock.

Why was today so terrible? Naturally, it wasn't any one thing. Once again, it was the cumulative nature of parenting.

Today's menu offered a surplus of undesirable annoying behavior that would leave any parent seeking a corner in which to double over into a fetal position. Here's just a sample:

First Course

A whining Josie, 9 a.m., after I walk in the back door, having returned from the gym and a trip to the local bread bakery: "But Mommeeeeee, where are my dooooooo-nuts?"

Second course

A whining Anna, 9:25 a.m., realizing that Tony will be gone most of the day golfing: "Mommmmmeeeee? Are we going to do anything fun today?" (Yesterday, the child attended two parties and had a pizza/movie night with the kids on the street, so clearly, she has no fun.)

Third course

A whining Olivia, 10:52 a.m., upon hearing that we'd head to the pool early so that her sisters can have some time in the baby pool before the big pool opens: "Mommmmeeeee, I don't wannnnna go to the baby pooooool!"

I left her at home with Tony.

Palate cleanser

Tony's departure from our house at approximately 1:30 p.m. to play golf at a course that might as well be in Pennsylvania. He texted me four minutes ago (it's now 10:19 p.m.) to let me know he'd be home in five. Geez, so soon?

Entree

A low-volume-but-still-audibly whining Josie, 3:02 p.m., who refused to walk anywhere on a sunbaked golf course driving range where her sisters were taking their weekly Pee-Wee golf lesson. My shirt and shorts are soaked as I attempt to keep her from wandering into the first hole fairway while playing caddie to my older two. After the lesson is over, a fellow parent says, "You have the patience of a saint."

I don't think it was intended as a compliment.

Side

Again, a screaming Josie, 4:35 p.m., refusing to sit in the car shopping cart when I make a stop at the grocery store after dropping off Olivia at a birthday party: "Noooooo, Moommmmeeeee, I doooonnn't!!!"

I've never abandoned a trip to the grocery store, but today was an exception (the upside was that at least I didn't have anything in my cart). I scooped up my limp noodle child, took Anna by the hand and hustled them out. I may have been digging the tips of my fingers into Josie's thighs.

Dessert

Me, pulling a Linda Blair a la The Exorcist from the driver's seat, to a still screaming Josie, at 4:41 p.m., having returned from the abandoned trip to the grocery: "STOP SCREAMING!!! IT'S MORE THAN ANYONE CAN HANDLE!!!"

That stunner didn't help. Anna started to cry. Josie continued to cry. I took them out of the car and marched myself upstairs to my room, where I sat for 10 minutes cooling off in 90-degree heat. I watched our ceiling fan circle around and around.

Josie cried for another 20 minutes.

I considered going back to work.

Finale

After dinner, 6:12 p.m., I instruct Anna and Josie to put on their shoes. We drive 8 miles to a Dairy Queen located on a hellish stretch of urban sprawl. I order a small twist cone with sprinkles because I am a person who seeks comfort in food. The cone isn't a cure, but it treats the symptoms temporarily and leads me to my one moment of lucidity for the day: I'm going to take that girls' weekend my friend and I have been talking about for the past two years. And I'm going to take it soon.

So now, it's nearly bedtime and I'm grasping for a way to have a better outlook for tomorrow and, more importantly, for the family vacation we're taking in a week (which, by the way, requires a 13 hour drive).

The best I can do is to tell myself that days like today are part of the experience of parenting. There will be more like it (and probably worse), but there will be just as many (and hopefully more) that are exponentially better. At least I know I can come away from a day like today and still have that perspective.

And that, for sure, is worth treasuring.

I've Had it. And I've Let it Go.

2011-07-15T12:30:00.000-07:00

"The nature of parenting is cumulative, Jen. You can only take so much."

That's what Tony tells me when I'm in the middle of a good self-flogging for being a certain five-letter-word-that-rhymes-with-"ditch" kind of mom.

More often than not, he'll add, "Besides, I'm sure the kids deserved it."

That gem alone is kiss worthy for sure. Sometimes worth even more.

Lucky me, it seems as though today (and it's only 1:46 p.m. as I write this) is the 2011 Parenting Tipping Point Day for the Kuhel family. The downside is that the kids' less-than-ideal behavior and my ensuing punishment has upset plans for an otherwise fun, happy day. The upsides (yes, upsides plural) are that I am the victor, I have made my point and I am being avoided like a jumbo-size side of raw chicken livers.

Which is why I am able to write this blog post.

The beautiful thing is that I don't feel the least bit guilty about sitting down in front of the computer in the middle of the day to tappita-tappita-tappita away on my keyboard. Right now, it feels cathartic, a little necessary and blissfully self-indulgent.

It's right up there with eating a large slice of chocolate cake topped with golf ball-sized piped dollops of chocolate fudge frosting.

So, what have our children done to deserve my inattention?

They haven't broken any windows. Or any bones of siblings. Or expensive toys. The girls are all safe, intact and unscathed by any person or object.

But they have, however, broken me with a few days' worth of poor listening, persistent limit-testing and questionable decision-making. It's the lone trifecta that doesn't pay.

In fact, around 11:30 a.m. it cost them:

a trip downtown (no waaaaay!),
on the train (say it ain't so!),
to have lunch with Daddy (make a fist and bite down on index finger).

Oh yes, I did. And then, just to make sure it all sat right, I positioned myself in front of my shocked and now submissive children and returned a call to a friend who asked if we'd like to join her this afternoon on a trip to a local kiddie amusement park.

An excerpt from my conversation:

"Hi Adrienne? It's Jen. Sorry I couldn't get to the phone when you called. I got your message and you know what? Any other day, I would LOVE to go with you guys to MEMPHIS KIDDIE PARK, but I can't today. I'm in the middle of PUNISHING the kids and well, sorry, but we JUST CAN'T GO."

I glanced at the girls, sitting on the bench in the kitchen. Do, Re and Mi weren't feeling any drops of golden sun. It was more like a dog bite. Or a bee sting.

When I got off the phone, I turned to them and said, "Girls, get your shoes on. We're going out the walk the dog."

Most days, taking the dog to do his business outranks a shot at the doctor's office in terms of likability. But today, the kids put on their shoes, went outside and waited for me. By the time I got outside, they were following me at my heels.

There was no straying. There was no talking. There was no misbehaving.

Awesome.

Then when we returned, the 15 minutes or so it took me to get lunch ready followed by the actual eating of lunch was equally subdued.

Awesomer.

And the hour that they've been playing happily upstairs by themselves, not even asking me to watch them or provide any type of assistance?

Awesomest.

As I sit finishing up this post, I feel energized and rejuvenated. I've flushed the filthy contents in the kids' vessel of bad behavior and am ready to start over. The girls are reminded that I have expectations and when they're not met, there are consequences.

So now I'm going to break my stoney glares, close up the laptop and check to see if the girls want a snack. It's a good way to break the ice for all of us. After all, I can't hold this over their heads forever.

Because the nature of parenting is cumulative for sure, but it's also humbling. And showing our daughters that might be just as valuable as any punishment.

Watch Me!

2011-06-21T15:49:00.000-07:00

I was sitting under our new patio awning, catching up on some emails when a soaked Anna whizzed by en route to the purple dinosaur pool I'd just filled up on the driveway. The bottoms of her white and green batik-print tankini were hiked up on one side, exposing half of a tanless cheek.

"Mommy, don't watch us. You can keep doing that," she said, pointing to the laptop. She flashed me an exaggerated grin, eyes shut tight.

Excuse me?

I stopped typing and shook my head in disbelief.

Yes I had, in fact, heard correctly. School has been out for only 12 days and the command, "Mommy, WATCH ME!" has been uttered no fewer than 12 times. Per quarter hour. Even when they're sleeping. I can't even begin to do the math on it.

Telling me not to watch was a first. And, predictably, it was a fleeting sentiment.

Consider that in the time it took me to write three sentences (including this one), I heard the following:

From Anna (still wet, hula hoop wrapped around her waist): "Mommy, watch! See how many times I can hula hoop!"

From Olivia (pretending to tight-rope walk around the perimeter of the dinosaur pool): "Mommy, watch me! I'm the 'Man Who Walked Between the Towers!'"

Back to Anna (hips still thrusting around and around): "Mommy, look! Still going! Still going! Still going!"

Then, back to Olivia (now with a stick perched high above her head, still standing on the side of the pool): "Watch, Mommy, WATCH! I'm conducting!"

Finally, from Anna (holding two sand pails): "Mommy, look! [Now singing] Two buck-ets. Two buck-ets. Twoooooo buuuhhhh-kkketttttsssss... ."

Even after telling me not to watch, they can't help but tell me to watch. It's the sneeze they can't hold back.

Now, of course I love watching my kids. I love watching them do (most) everything from the mundane (holding two buckets and singing about them) to the exciting (riding a two-wheeler for the first time). But when my sole purpose as a stay-at-home mom is to, in fact, watch them, I don't always take too kindly to being reminded to do my job. After all, no one tells a fireman to aim the hose at the burning house.

On any given day, at any given time, rest assured, I'm going to watch.

Thing is, I used to beat myself up wondering why they always wanted me to watch.

Was it because I didn't? Was it because I seemed genuinely interested in doing something other than watching them? Was it because I really didn't want to be a stay-at-home mom?

The truth is I do watch. And yes, sometimes I am interested in doing something other than watching them. But that doesn't mean I want to be something other than what I am right now.

It just means I'm a human mother.

In the past seven years of doing this job, I've realized that whether parents stay at home or work, none of us is required to be our children's constant playmate or audience. And if and when we (heaven forbid) prefer to do something else, it also doesn't mean that we're taking these years for granted or that the job has grown stale.

It just means that kids are kids - most of them want their parents to see them do something that they think is exciting. Which is just about everything. And it also means that I'm just like most parents - I give praise when praise is due and most other times, I nod my head and toss out a half-interested, "That's great, honey... ."

What's important is that kids know we're watching. And that we care. Besides, in another ten years in this house, the tables will turn and the girls won't want me to watch at all.

And then, like now, I'll be watching. For sure.

Comparing apples to Apples

2011-05-27T12:00:00.000-07:00

Eve and I share something in common: we're both suckers for apples.

When the world was in its infancy, she fell for the Garden of Eden variety. Three weeks ago, I succumbed to a Macintosh from Cupertino.

Yep, them Apples.

Eve hoped her apple would give her wisdom and God-like abilities. I set the bar a lot lower: I was happy enough with my limited smarts and I only wanted portability.

This desire for portability stemmed entirely from a growing jealousy I felt as I tapped away writing blog posts on our desktop PC keyboard at night while taking occasional glances at Tony.

He was always comfortably nestled on the couch. His nighttime hobby of reading or watching television looked relaxing. Seated at a desk with a wooden chair, mine looked like work. The portability of a laptop would make writing easier and, I thought, more frequent.

"I think I'd write more if I could just do it near you on the couch," I recall explaining to Tony.

At first, I wanted no more than a PC laptop. It possessed the functionality I needed at a price point I could live with.

Then Santa brought Olivia an Apple iPod Touch for Christmas (hold your stones, folks, please - there's a story behind that one, too). And well, that changed everything. The Apple seed was planted and I quickly found that Steve Jobs does to adults what Disney Princess does to little girls: he convinces us that we can make something magical happen with his products.

For me, the portability I discovered in Olivia's Touch was, indeed, magical. While she was at school, I found myself hijacking her Touch for random Internet searches. And then I used it to check emails. And then at night, before I went to bed, I'd check on the next morning's weather and choose my running clothes accordingly. Even Tony would spend up to hour at night attempting to earn three stars on each level of Angry Birds, first, then Angry Birds Rio.

The fruity handheld may have been in our palm, but it was clear we didn't have the upper hand.

In a matter of weeks, I was a good two-thirds of the way down Apple's slippery slope. I still wasn't willing to make the expense of buying an Apple computer, but I sure did think they were cool, cool, cool.

Then the commercials happened.

As rarely as Tony and I watch television, it seemed that every time I turned it on, there was Apple. I found myself la-la-la-ing with the Touch commercials, tapping my fingers to a snappy iPad jingle and finally feeling left out when I was told point blank by the iPhone voice-over man: If you don't have an iPhone, well, you don't have an iPhone.

Not only did I not have an iPhone, I was shackled to a hard-wired desktop.

So I began my search for a laptop. A PC one. Sure, the Apple was sexy, but like most sexy things, it wasn't all that practical. Especially from a cost perspective.

Then, I asked Tony what he thought.

"Well, I think our next computer's going to be an Apple, so why don't you look at those?"

I gasped.

"We're not throwing down for one of those," I said.

"Just look," he encouraged.

So, I did.

The next day.

And that day, I walked out of the Apple store empty handed. Buying one that day would be too impulsive and I wanted to talk to Tony before returning again.

"Just get it," he said.

"But it's expensive," I whined.

He rolled his eyes.

"Wellll," I said, taking in his advice,"they are, really cool. And if you'd like to get an Apple eventually, there's no sense in getting a PC laptop."

Tony shook his head. "Really, do what you want. Just stop thinking about it."

So I did. And I returned to the Apple store. The day after my first trip to the Apple store.

And that time, I pranced out of the store with a four-pound box filled with a shiny new silver MacBook Pro. I raced home to plunge into my newfound portability and write one magical blog post after another -- all from the comfort of our couch.

The couch part happened, but the writing part didn't.

It seemed that while the Apple could make a magical experience, the actual magic of writing anything in a blog was entirely up to me. And over the better part of the past month, all I've managed to do is sit on the couch with the MacBook, completely unable to focus on writing because I'm too distracted doing other things like surfing the Internet while watching TV, or attempting to string a sentence together while answering emails from an all-too-comfortable couch that's lulling me to sleep.

So much for portability. How about them apples.

Valuing Value

2011-04-24T18:59:00.000-07:00

I stood in the middle of the seafood section at the local Costco last Friday, holding a Styrofoam package that contained no fewer than a dozen tilapia fillets.

I ran my fingers across the package. All those beautiful fillets for the bargain price of $14.76.

"Holy smokes!," my voice so awe-filled that I should have been standing in front of the Grand Canyon. "That's like what I paid at Heinen's for half as many fillets! Wow!"

My mom, who was up for a visit and whose membership got us in the door, raised her eyebrows, turned down the corners of her mouth and said matter-of-factly, "Get it then."

Maternal approval earned, I put the package in the cart. It rested neatly beside the four pounds of strawberries I'd picked up within five feet of the store's entrance and the two pounds of sliced Havarti cheese. Seven bucks each for the strawberries and the cheese. I'd pay $12 alone for the four pounds of strawberries at Heinen's.

Hoooo-lee values! My emotional state bordered on giddy. And still, I hadn't even gotten to my favorite Costco indulgence: the three-pound, eight-ounce bag of Kirkland Fruit and Nut Medley.

I looked around at the tubs of Korean barbecue, the $16 sheet cakes, the crinkly bags bulging with two one-pound baguettes. The prices were all so good. And I wanted it all.

Then I turned around to see Josie in the jumbo two-seater cart, mouth open wide, licking a dollop of butter the size of a sugar cube off of a bread sample the size of popsicle stick.

One word came to mind: excessive. I shook my head. What the hell am I doing?

Sure, I could load up my cart with values that cost half what I would pay in the neighborhood grocery store, but it was all going to take up twice the space in my circa 1927 kitchen. And if I let Josie loose on the bread sample lady, she might end up taking up more space than she should, too.

I picked up the package of tilapia and held it for a good ten seconds.

Did I want the tilapia?

Yes.

Did I need the tilapia?

Uh...yes... .

More to the point, did I need a dozen fillets of tilapia?

Unless the pope and his entourage planned to visit Shaker Heights for a Good Friday fast-breaking smorgasbord of tilapia, the answer was unequivocal: no.

I put the tilapia back with all of its bulk-packaged tilapia brethren. The only reason I wanted it was because it was a good deal. Heck, it was a great deal. Just not for me. Especially since I'd planned to go out with Tony for dinner at a sushi restaurant that night.

So on we continued through Costco's warehouse racks. The kids ate yogurt samples, fish samples, sweet bread samples, peanut butter-filled pretzel samples and buckeye samples. I did my best to figure out what we needed. Some needs I identified were more justifiable than others, like the $11 Speedo swimsuits for the kids fit versus the $13 box filled with 1,500 packets of Kirkland's answer to Splenda.

Now to be clear, I don't want to begrudge anyone her Costco membership. I'm the first to say that I love love love values. Love them. So much that when I see one, I've been known to call or text friends just so I can score the value on their behalf. And believe you me, we'll eat every last bit of those strawberries and the Havarti and the Kirk-lenda. Sooner than you'd expect. A lot sooner.

But my guess is that if I had a Costco membership, I'd turn up on TLC's "Hoarders" come December 2011. So that's a strike. The space issue is another. And then, there's that part of me that wants my local Heinen's and all the nice folks I know who work there to continue selling me my groceries. Strike three.

Before we left Costco, my mom bought the $1.50 tower of frozen yogurt at the Costco Cafe as a treat for the kids to split. As we sat and spooned yogurt, my mom tried to convince me that having a membership might not be such a bad idea. I told her that I didn't need or want one, but my mind was still noodling for a definitive answer.

Turns out I got my answer only a few hours later after my sushi dinner with Tony. We had just paid our bill and as we walked out of the restaurant, I cracked open the fortune cookie I'd picked up at the hostess stand. I laughed out loud when I read the tiny slip of paper.

It read: Buy something because you need it, not because it's on sale.

That's probably the first and only time I'll ever take advice from a fortune cookie. But I doubt it's the last time I'll pine for the missed value of all those fish fillets.

Same Time Next Year, But Not the Same Place

2011-04-03T18:30:00.000-07:00

Poor me.

Around this time last week, those two words repeated over and over in my head. It was the eve of Spring Break and everyone seemed to be going somewhere else. Somewhere better. Somewhere that required planning, all-inclusive resorts, airplanes, near-tropical climes or, at the very least, help from grandparents.

But not the Kuhels of Shaker Heights. With Tony swamped at work and unable to get away, Spring Break was merely a one-week stoppage of the daily get-'em-up-get-'em-to-school-get'-em-home-get-'em-fed-get-'em-to-bed routine.

Oh yes. Poooooor meeeeeee.

After searching for last-minute travel deals that were, in fact, last minute but not at all deals, I decided I would swap my brooding for something more constructive.

I was going to plan a trip. A trip south. A trip that would expose the kids to something new. A trip that, if executed properly, would offer me redemption from my grumpy mom status and lead me to the promised land of cool momdom.

There would be ice cream. There would be museums. There would be scenic views. There would be consecutive movie nights.

But most importantly, there would be free room and board.

There was only one place on the planet that could offer such salvation: Cincinnati.

My folks were out of town with my sister and nephew (vacationing somewhere warmer, much warmer) and we were free to stay at their place. It wasn't the beach, but it also wasn't home. And that was all I needed.

I promptly began selling the trip to the girls:

"We'll see sharks at the aquarium!"

"We'll go to a grocery store with a singing Elvis gorilla!"

"We'll eat lunch in an oven!"

Their eyes were wide, but Anna, never one to keep thoughts to herself asked skeptically, "We'll be staying at Bobby and Pou-Pou's?"

"Yes."

"And they won't be there?" She clearly had doubts about the success of the trip.

"Yes."

She paused a few seconds, then a revelation. Her face brightened. "Can we play Wii there?"

Not the epiphany I'd hoped for. My shoulders dropped.

"Yes."

We hadn't even left Cleveland and my plans were already defeated by the lure of a hard drive connected to a couple of white wands and nunchuks. Terrific.

The other two seemed only slightly more excited, so I embraced what enthusiasm I could find and on Monday afternoon, we said farewell to Tony and the dog and began the drive down I-71 to Cincinnati. And for the next 76 hours, the four of us Kuhel women chatted, giggled, ate, ooohed, aaahed, cried, whined and successfully avoided all but one colossal meltdown.

We visited COSI in Columbus where we snickered at our changed voices in a sound exhibit.

We walked beneath swimming sharks at the Newport Aquarium.

We pretended the minivan was a roller coaster and tackled the steep hills of Mount Adams, screaming and holding our arms up high.

We comprised an audience of four, holding our breath for what used to be a high-energy-guitar-playing-Elvis-impersonating bear (I could have sworn it was a gorilla) at Jungle Jim's grocery store, only to see that the aging bear's hips no longer wiggled and eyes no longer blinked. (When his hand moved an inch up and down the guitar strings, Liv shouted, "He moved, Mommy! He mooooved!!!")

We spent an afternoon visiting with a dear friend and her daughters, eating my favorite hometown pizza for dinner.

We had two consecutive movie nights.

We explored the Cincinnati Children's Museum treehouse for nearly two hours. And I forced them to leave the water tables after only two minutes.

And, of course, we played Wii.

To be clear, the trip wasn't all sunshine and happiness. I did my best to be patient (and had a significantly higher success rate that I would have at home, I'm pleased to say) but with three kids who are three different ages, I can't say that I always embraced the challenge of keeping at least two of them happy at any given time. Heck, not even Wii could accomplish that (there were only two remotes, after all).

When the girls are older, I'm sure our trip will be remembered. Not in the, "Gee, wasn't that trip to Cincinnati the greatest?" way, but more in the, "Remember when Mom tried to convince us that spending Spring Break in Cincinnati was just as cool as going to the beach?" way.

So now as Spring Break winds down its last few hours, I can honestly say that I don't feel the same sense of despair that I did this time last week. Maybe it's because tomorrow is back to the same routine. Or maybe it's because I know that warmer weather will finally make its way to Cleveland in the next four weeks. Or maybe it's because Tony delivered this news to me when we returned from our trip: Next year, we're going somewhere for Spring Break.

And he didn't mean Cincinnati.

Lucky me.

What Could Have Been and Thankfully, Wasn't

2011-03-14T20:39:00.000-07:00

Before today, I wasn't one to consider what could have happened, given a particular scenario.

But this afternoon, Olivia got into a stranger's car. Yes, a complete stranger.

And, well, that changed everything.

A combination of bad timing, colossal miscommunication and poor judgment by yours truly alone resulted in my six-year-old standing on the corner outside her elementary school wondering whether her mother was going to pick her up just like she always does.

Ten minutes passed and everyone else went home. Everyone except Olivia. Who, as best I can gather, grew more worried as each second passed.

A mother driving a white sedan saw her standing on the corner. Something wasn't right.

"Are you lost?" she asked Olivia, who pretended to rub sore eyes to hide the moisture.

"No," she answered.

"Is your mom coming?"

Clearly, I wasn't, and the woman could tell that my daughter was growing increasingly upset. So she did what I probably would have done: she invited Olivia into her car to get her off the sidewalk and told her she would call her mom.

Olivia looked at the woman, a kindly, attractive mother with her own third-grade daughter seated in the back and got into the front seat.

Seconds later, my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number.

"Hi...um...is this Olivia's mom?"

"Yes..."

The woman gave me her name, told me Olivia was fine, but that she was worried about her. She had her in the car and did I want to talk to her? She would bring her home straight away.

I was confused, thanked her, mumbled as best I could how it came to be that I left my daughter stranded at school, and a minute later, Olivia was home.

When the car pulled up to the driveway, I thanked the woman again, explained how embarrassed I was, how it was all my fault and asked again for her name. She gave it to me, was wonderfully gracious and drove home.

Then, I turned to Olivia, who said, "Boy am I glad to be home," before forcing a smile that gave way to a limp body and then, tears.

My apology felt worthless as we walked and hugged up the driveway. When we got inside the house, I held her for a good minute.

"I just didn't know if you were coming," she tried to explain.

"I know, honey, I know. I'm so sorry. This was all my fault. I'm so sorry. It won't happen again," I told her.

As I rubbed her back, my chin resting on her shoulder, it hit me: what if someone with far sinister motives saw my daughter, standing alone, looking weak and scared?

I felt sick. So I stopped thinking about it until Olivia brought it up at dinner.

Not wanting to look like I was trying to shift blame for the incident, I reiterated that none of this would have happened if I had just done the pickup myself rather than make hasty, poorly communicated, eleventh hour arrangements for her pickup.

Still, I couldn't get what could have happened out of my mind.

"Liv, I know that the mom who picked you up seemed nice, but please remember don't ever get into the car of a stranger, no matter what," I reminded her, gently.

Her eyes got wide. "But Mommy, I could tell she was nice," she said, tone so earnest.

Olivia took a bite of her salad, explained that the woman's daughter was in the car, that she sounded so nice, that she just knew she was a nice mom.

To be clear, I am so thankful that the woman gave Olivia the comfort she needed right then. But what was so completely uncomfortable to me was that my daughter was in such a state of fear that she unwittingly may also have gotten into the car of a beautiful monster.

So I tried to tell her how sometimes, people look nice but really aren't. Olivia pushed back, "I know, Mommy, but I could tell she was nice."

Again, I tried to explain. By now, Olivia was pushing around her chicken, losing interest in what I had to say. After all, in her mind, I was the one who made the mistake, not her.

But that wasn't completely true anymore and I needed to make myself clear.

I asked her to look at me.

"Liv, I don't know how else to say this, but there are some terrible people in this world who do terrible things to good people. And sometimes, those people look really nice, just like that lady today did," I said.

Then, I took a deep breath and delivered news that I now know Olivia won't forget.

"Honey, there are thousands of children each year that are taken by people who might look just like that lady today, but who are killed by those same people and they never, ever come home to their families. It's sad and it's terrible, but this is why you can never, ever get into a stranger's car. No matter what."

Olivia's face was frozen. Silence for a moment, then she clutched her stomach, bent over, scrunched up her face and sputtered, "Mommy, that made my tummy feel funny..." before she crumbled, sobbing into my arms.

I hated myself for telling her, but I knew she understood: the boogie man is real and you just can't afford to be naive, even at six.

But you can always be smart. So Olivia and I made a plan.

From now on, she will always stay outside the front doors of school, rather than come down to the corner to meet me. And I promised that I will always arrive early to pick her up and if I can't make it, I'll make sure that she knows who exactly will be there to pick her up. Our backup plan, if something fails, is that she is to go back inside the school to the office where someone will contact me.

Tonight, after I tucked Olivia in, she asked for another hug. I happily obliged her.

"Mommy, I feel so much better now that I know you'll always be there," she said, squeezing my shoulders.

For that moment, I put all of what could have been aside. "Me too, Liv. Me too."

Overcoming Old Fears in a New Room

2011-03-06T18:43:00.000-08:00

I tried hard to ignore the pathetic sniffling and whimpering I heard coming from the bedroom at the top of the stairs. It had only been a minute, and while the sounds hadn't gotten any louder, as best I could tell, they weren't going to get any quieter, either.

Don't go upstairs. Stay down here. She'll get herself to sleep.

Six and a half years ago, I would have waited at least another 10 minutes before I even considered the possibility of going in to soothe our newborn Olivia. I was convinced then that all infants preyed upon the fragile emotional states of rookie moms, using their cries to lure us into neverending cycles of co-sleeping and more-frequent-than-necessary feedings. Give an inch, they'll take a mile, or so I thought.

But last Thursday night, I barely made it 90 seconds before I bounded up the stairs and into Olivia's room.

I gently opened the door and found my oldest laying on her side, knees curled to her chest. Her face was buried in the brand new full-sized quilt we'd picked out last weekend in preparation for her move to her own room.

She suddenly looked so small in her new bed. And she looked very very alone.

"Liv, honey?"

She pulled away from the quilt so that I could see her swollen, tear-streaked face. She tried to speak but could only manage the hiccupy breaths that come with having a good cry.

"Hey, kiddo, it's OK..." my voice trailed off. I knew for her, it wasn't. I motioned for her to scooch over and lifted up the baby blue flannel sheets and snuggled in with her.

"Wow...this bed's warm and comfy," I said, doing my best to keep it light. More hiccupy breaths.

"Muh-muh-om-meee? I-I juh-juh-ust c-c-can't suh-uh-uh-leeeeep," she said, big exhale on the last part of "sleep."

I hugged her and kissed the top of her head.

For the past three years, Olivia has shared a room with Anna and the two have been fabulous roommates. Some nights, they would crawl into bed together, Anna always sleeping on the inside because she begged Olivia for the security of the wall. Other nights, Tony and I would hear them giggling and singing in their bunk beds long after they were supposed to be studying the insides of their eyelids. And when one would wake in the middle of the night crying from a bad dream, the other would rarely, if ever, wake up -- a Godsend for Tony and me.

But with Josie being two and a half and outgrowing the crib, we decided last month that she would move to the room with Anna and Olivia would get the former nursery all to herself, complete with a brand new full-sized bed.

Olivia was excited, but I could tell she'd buried some reservations in a shallow grave. It seemed they had found their way to the surface Thursday night.

I wanted to give her time to catch her breath before asking what was wrong. "Honey, I know it's hard to sleep in a room all by yourself. It's a big change. I know that," I told her. "I remember when I was little that I had my own room, but I still went into Sissy's room to sleep with her. Maybe some Saturday nights, the three of you can all sleep together?"

Olivia looked up at me and nodded her head. "Yuh-yuh-eaah," she agreed, smiling.

"OK, we'll do that," I said. "Is that all that's bothering you?"

She shook her head, still laying on her side. I noticed she hadn't moved since I'd been in the room.

"Mommy, I know it sounds silly, but I'm scared of something," she apologized.

"Oh Liv, it's not silly at all," I said, looking behind her at the closet door and knowing instantly what bothered her.

"It's the closet. I just keep thinking that something's hiding in there and it's going to come out," she explained. "Mommy, I can't even turn around I'm so scared. I just wish that it wasn't even there, like it was boarded up."

I sat up and went over to the closet and opened the door. "Liv, I used to think the same thing," I said, turning on the closet light. "But I'd just tell myself over and over that there wasn't anything in the closet and I'd try to think about something else. Something happy."

I got back into bed and she took a deep breath. "I know, Mommy. I tried, but right now, I just can't. I'm too scared."

I looked in Olivia's eyes and saw the pleading. She wasn't a newborn trying to manipulate her way into being held or fed -- in fact, she never was that at all. She was a first grader trying desperately to be a big girl who was saddled with a completely reasonable childhood fear.

"How about if I sleep with you for a while?"

She beamed at the suggestion then put her head down and snuggled in deeper against me. I wrapped my arms tight around her and after a few minutes of chit-chat, we both fell off to sleep.

In the two nights since, Olivia hasn't asked me to return. She's still scared of the closet, but she's managing it on her own.

And I'm the one left wishing, strangely, that she might sometime soon need me to give another inch.

Lies, Damned Lies

2011-02-16T11:38:00.000-08:00

On Monday after school, Olivia sat on Anna's bed, back against the wall, slouched down, looking up at me with guilty eyes.

I stood in the middle of the room, hands on my hips.

"This week, no playing on the Touch, you'll have to do all four writing assignments for homework, not just two of them, and you'll have to read every night from now on."

Considering the punishment, Olivia's cheeks remained remarkably dry. Then I dropped the bomb.

"And you're going to have to tell Ms. Brown yourself what you've done."

Her cheeks weren't dry anymore. They were flushed and topped with a pair of shameful eyes. Still, shockingly, no tears.

"Understand?"

With her mouth closed and eyes fixed on mine, she nodded. Slowly.

To explain:

Ms. Brown is Olivia's teacher. And what Olivia had done was lie to her. Big time.

The back story:

Since the first week of school, part of Olivia's weekly homework has been to read five times a week for at least 20 minutes. Read five times and get an Arthur stamp on your reading log. Read less than five and you get time docked from your Monday recess.

This week, Olivia only read four times.

Gasp!

But Jen, how could you let this happen?, you ask.

I didn't let anything happen. I got sick of nagging her weekly to do something she knows she is supposed to do and was hopeful that she would do it because, well, it's the right thing to do.

She didn't.

So, Sunday night, Tony and I talked to her about her reading log and explained to her that she was going to have to face the consequences of not reading. We were very clear to her that she was on the hook for not reading. Not us.

She understood.

Maybe a little too well, it turned out.

Monday on the walk back from school, I asked her what Ms. Brown said about her reading log.

"Nothing," she said, followed by an all-too-speedy subject change.

So I let it go. But I knew I'd pick it up later.

When we got home, I opened her take-home folder to find a reading log with exactly five entries and the coveted Arthur reading stamp.

"Um, Olivia, there are five entries on your log," I reported with the objectivity of a newscaster during the after-school snack in the dining room.

She stopped chewing. Her face was still. Only her eyes turned to me. She didn't speak.

"When did you do this?"

No answer.

"Olivia, when did you do this?"

Again, no answer.

"You'd better start talking, young lady." The newscaster was getting hot.

"Last night," she said, lips barely moving.

"I'm so disappointed, Olivia. After everything Daddy and I talked about. You lied. You lied to us and you lied to Ms. Brown," I said.

Not wanting to say anything more to give myself time to think, I told her to go upstairs and start reading.

Which brings us back to the beginning with Olivia sitting on Anna's bed. After explaining her punishment, I reminded her that everyone makes mistakes but that it's never OK to lie about them. I also told her that lying about her log isn't fair to the kids who actually did the reading just as much as it isn't fair to the kids who didn't and had to pay the recess price.

Tony spoke to Olivia when he came home from work, too. I overheard him explaining that Ms. Brown thinks very highly of her and that Olivia risked damaging her own reputation by lying to Ms. Brown. He told her that people make mistakes all the time, but then you learn from them and move on. Covering them up isn't an option.

Again, she understood, but still, no emotion. At least not one I could read.

I decided to email Ms. Brown to give her a heads up of what happened, hoping that I could march Olivia over to school first thing the following morning to have her apologize and fess up.

Tuesday morning, I got a response. Ms. Brown was sick so she wouldn't be at school. She appreciated the note, said she was "quite surprised" (I admittedly winced when I read it) and told me to tell Olivia that she was aware of what had happened because it would get her thinking about consequences.

I read the email out loud to Olivia. She was visibly shaken, but again, no tears. After all, she had one more day.

But so did I.

So on Tuesday afternoon, after Olivia finished her reading and homework writing assignments, I told her that I thought it would be a good idea to write Ms. Brown a letter so that she could explain to her exactly what she did and what she was going to do about it. I added that she would have to read the letter out loud to Ms. Brown.

Here's what she wrote:

Dear Ms. Brown,

I am sorry that I lied to you. I hope you still like me. I am not going to lie to you anymore. I think I should have to stay in for recess like everyone else who did not read.

Olivia

I gulped down the lump in my throat and gently told Olivia that her letter was sufficient. Then I asked her to read it out loud.

Olivia put her head in her hands and stared at her paper.

"Go ahead, Honey," I coaxed, tenderly. "Read it. It's OK."

Only right then, I saw that it wasn't. She tried to mouth the word "dear" through trembling lips. The sound wouldn't come.

But tears did. Lots of them. From her eyes and from mine.

I took her and held her as much for her sake as for my own. I hated punishing Olivia, my people-pleasing, do-gooding first born. But it was the right thing to do.

My shoulder soaked, Olivia finally managed to speak.

"Mom-my," she sputtered, eyes red, nose swollen. "I just don't think I'm brave enough to do it."

I knew how she felt. We all do. Still, there was only one thing I could say.

"Honey, I know it's going to be hard. But you are brave enough and you will be brave enough because you have to do this," I explained. "You'll do it tomorrow and then you'll move forward, OK?"

In less than one hour, I'll have a look for myself just how well she's moving forward when I pick her up from school. I've already heard back from Ms. Brown, who had a heart-to-heart with Olivia, explained to her that she was more bothered by the lying than her not reading and that Olivia gave her part of her recess.

We're both confident that she's learned her lesson. And I'm confident that I need at least another month before I'm ready to endure teaching another one.

Saved by the Bowl

2011-02-04T19:24:00.000-08:00

"That's disgusting." Tony shook his head in disbelief. "You mean she wants us to use the bowls we use for cooking to catch puke?"

Precisely.

The "she" was my sister, whose stomach bug easy clean up suggestion was as revolting as it was monumentally clever. And when she mentioned it a little over a year ago during a hard-fought stomach bug battle that had already claimed myself and one of the girls as casualties, I was committed to putting it to use.

Back then, Tony disagreed.

"I mean, seriously? That's just wrong. And gross." The Ewwww Factor simply exceeded his capacity. But not mine.

"What, you want me to go out and buy designated stainless steel puke bowls? It's not like I'm not going to scrub and sterilize them and then put them in the dishwasher," I explained. "On like the hottest hottest setting."

"Jesus, no. I'm not spending money on that," he fired back. "It's just, what's wrong with a garbage can lined with a Heinen's bag?"

Before you give the man, his "Amen", consider the following: holes and ease of disposal.

Those grocery bags are rife, RIFE, with holes. And then once the deed has been done, what to do with the mess?

With the bowl, there's no hole. And it's fully (and neatly, I might add) dumpable straight into the commode. I'll even go so far to say that it's an environmentally sound practice. What with not having to send that bag along to a landfill.

I tried to explain this, but my otherwise agnostic husband just wouldn't even entertain the possibility that the bowl could be our savior.

Then, night fell. And so did the bug's next victim.

Our middle one awoke and, as most children are prone to do, didn't make it to a "safe" zone. She didn't even make it out of her bed.

So we stripped the bed, broke out the gloves, cleaned up with Lysol, remade the bed and put her back in.

"I'm going to lay with her. I'm sure she'll get sick again in the next half hour," I said.

"What, do you want to get sick?" Tony was annoyed.

"No, but do you want to keep washing the sheets?"

He didn't. So, I popped the question.

"Can you bring me a bowl?"

Tony rolled his eyes, but dutifully went to the kitchen and brought me a shiny steel bowl. He went back to bed.

And in the next hour, I managed to save both of us the nasty task of stripping the bed.

Twice.

Fast forward to last night when Josie caught what he sister had last week and made a mess of her room at 2:30 a.m. As usual, Tony was in charge of cleaning up the hard goods and I was in charge of cleaning up the human, who needed a complete shower and hair wash.

"I'm going to sit up with her. I know she'll get sick again soon," I said, words too familiar. Then, I added, "Can you bring me a bowl?"

He did. And by the time he cleaned up, tossed the sheets into the washer and returned upstairs, the bowl had already served its purpose.

I didn't even have to explain the value. Josie took care of that for me.

"See Daddy?" Josie said, pointing to her masterpiece, before proudly adding, "That's mine. Cranberries! I like cranberries!"

See he did. Not only the cranberries, but finally, the genius of the bowl.

And even now, nearly 24 hours after the incident, he freely admits that the bowl works. But not without acknowledging the obvious.

"It's still gross."

Don't Forget to Miss Me

2011-01-27T12:23:00.000-08:00

I was getting ready to dry Olivia's hair after her shower on Tuesday night when she paused before flipping over her mane.

"Mommy? How long are you going to be in Chicago?"

How sweet, she's already anticipating missing me this weekend, I thought.

"Well, I'm leaving Friday morning and I'll be gone all day Saturday and then back on Sunday before dinner, OK?"

She scrunched up her face.

"Awww," her shoulders collapsed and her back curled. "I thought you could stay until Monday or maybe come back Tuesday."

And I thought I had kids who couldn't stand to be without me.

Clearly, I'm not so naive or deluded to think my eldest loves every waking minute she spends with me, but I also didn't expect her to so fully embrace my impending absence. And if that wasn't enough of a wake-up call, she cheerfully added, "Guess what? Daddy said I'm going to be his helper! I'm going to help him set the table and clean up and make the beds!"

Oh, goody!

Who knew that Daddy's mere presence could make an everyday task that's typically received with a repulsion reserved for the Evil Stepmother herself so enticing? My hope is that Prince Charming asks his helper to clean the toilets, too.

"Well, gosh, Liv," I said, clearly humiliated, "I guess I wish I could stay longer, too, but Daddy has to go back to work on Monday."

Accepting defeat, she said, "Oh, all right, then."

All right, then.

"Now flip over your hair," I managed to mumble and turned on the dryer.

Childish as it sounds, as I fanned the dryer back and forth over her longish brown locks, pulling the hair straight with the paddle brush, I couldn't help but feel a little hurt.

This, from the same woman who, two days prior, felt near-zero remorse for leaving her screaming two-year-old on her first day at preschool.

Oh the hypocrisy. Oh the dichotomy. Oh the nature of parenting.

Fast forward to just two hours ago, as I shuffled the youngest two upstairs for their naps.

"Mommy, how long are you going to be in Chicago?" Anna asked, near the top of the steps. Josie was already in the hallway.

Oh brother. I exhaled.

"Well, honey, I'm leaving tomorrow morning and then I'll be gone Saturday and back before dinner on Sunday," I told her.

She scrunched up her face.

"Awwww," she said, with the same disappointment I witnessed two nights ago, then, "But I don't want you to go."

Not to be left out, Josie pouted, "Me either!"

I laughed.

"Well, guys, it's not that long and you'll have a great time with Daddy eating pizza and playing games and going over to Baba and Papa's," I said, smiling, knowing I was right.

I think I had her at "pizza."

"Oh, all right, then" she said, lumbering the rest of the way to her room.

Yep, it's all right, for sure.

Not a Pretty Picture

2011-01-24T18:19:00.000-08:00

Thank God I didn't bring my camera.

There was Josie, sitting under the preschool climber, screaming as you might expect one would whose toenails were being pried from their nail beds with dull pliers. Her face was swollen and bright red. Her tears eroding canals down her chubby cheeks.

Kodak moment, this was not. I certainly didn't need this memory captured on film.

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"

(Inhale.)

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"

(Bigger inhale.)

"BBBBWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

In my days as a pianist, there was a word to describe that last scream: fortissississmo.

This morning, two f-words came to mind: Flee. Fast.

Today was Josie's first day of preschool sans Mommy, sans Anna and sans Olivia. Quel dommage.

I'd done my best to explain to her (above all the noise) that she was going to play, have a snack, listen to a story and, most importantly, have fun. And she was going to do all of it without me.

"Josie, you've got to stop making all that noise so you can hear me," I persisted. "Honey, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to give you a hug and then Anna and I are going to go home and then when school's over, I'm going to come back to pick you up."

I kissed her, hugged her and headed for the door.

As awful as it sounds, I didn't feel badly for her. After all, she has been coming to this school since she was a baby and sees me drop off Anna three times a week. She knows the teacher and the classroom. She probably even knows where to find extra rolls of toilet paper.

Mostly, though, I didn't feel bad for her because it was the same behavior I've encountered with her countless times at the gym childcare: Josie screams. Josie screams louder. Josie screams so loud the childcare workers can't see straight. So they page me to come and get her. Josie stops screaming on cue.

I did, however, feel badly for the other kids in the class, knowing that my little girl's reaction could have set all the other two- and three-year-olds into a chorus of wailing and hollering. And I could tell her crying was flustering other parents.

"You have no idea how loud my kids can cry," I tried to explain to one of the parents, a stay-at-home dad. "This is Josie's M.O. She's gotten herself kicked out of the childcare at the gym so many times because she knows when she screams they're going to come and get me. I'm completely desensitized to it."

What sounded like rationalizing was also the truth.

"But Jen, we're not," he countered.

Ouch. I hadn't considered that.

So rather than ditch my youngest at school straight away, I decided to sit out in the hallway with Anna, hoping that Josie would calm down with me out of sight. After no fewer than 10 minutes of ear-splitting screaming, she did.

Then I left.

Now before anyone starts casting stones, you need to know the following: Josie is stubborn. Josie is strong willed. Josie really likes to get her way. Reeeeaaaally.

And despite her oftentimes less-than-lovable behavior, Josie is loved. Unconditionally, I might add.

Some might wonder why I didn't just stay a bit longer, until she calmed down and then attempted to leave once she was "comfortable." After all, it was the first day of school.

Thing is, Josie would have screamed whether I left after five minutes or five hours. She was going to make her point.

There was just one teeny-tiny oversight on her part: I was going to make mine, too.

See, when she wants to get her way at the gym, the babysitters summon the parent and the kid gets the boot.

But at preschool, where the whole point is to socialize your child and get used to being away from mom, crying your way to your way isn't going to work.

So really, I have been looking forward to today for a long time. Not because I'm eager to push her out the door or because I don't enjoy her company. Because I do. I was looking forward to today because I knew that it would be the beginning of the end of Josie's "I scream and Mommy rescues me" world view.

To be clear, I've left Josie many times. Alone with a sitter. With her sisters at the childcare. With my parents. With Tony's parents. With friends. Every time there is a certain amount of "getting used to" for her. Which always equates to screaming. Always.

So back to this morning...

On the frigid walk back from dropping off Josie, Anna sensed that I was a little concerned (for everyone but her sister) not to mention frustrated.

"Know what, Mommy?" she asked.

"What?" I said, weary.

"She'll be OK. Josie'll survive."

Turns out Anna was right. Josie did survive. She cried one other time, was told that she could stay with the group if she stopped, and when she didn't, she was sent to the other room. At which point she stopped crying.

(I should add that our preschool teacher and I see eye-to-eye on lots of parenting, so what she did was the exact same thing I would and have done at home, but can't ask the gym babysitters to do.)

"She didn't interact with anyone the whole time, but she'll come around," the teacher told me, assuredly. "And you know what? By 9:45, she stopped crying. I took a picture to prove it!"

And that just might be the only one we need for the scrapbooks.

The N-word

2011-01-13T12:05:00.000-08:00

I was quick-thawing frozen shrimp for dinner on Monday after school when Olivia called for me. A few minutes before, she went upstairs to do her required 20 minutes of nightly reading. She grabbed a new book that she brought home from the school library.

"Mommy?" I could hear she was in my bedroom.

"Uh-huh," I answered, hovering over the kitchen sink and paying more attention to the shower I was giving the two pounds of shrimp clumped in the colander.

"Um... what's a NY-ger?"

I froze and shut off the water. The shrimp could wait.

I had about seven seconds to go up the flight of stairs and figure out what I was going to say. One thing was for sure: I was not going to correct her pronunciation.

"Liv, honey, what are you reading?," I asked, walking through my bedroom door.

I wanted to start off gently, but I could already tell that my decision not to answer her from the kitchen was as good as waving a red flag. Her face went from curious to concerned. Concerned that she'd done something wrong.

Her head went down and her shoulders went up. She was looking at me with guilty eyes. Confused, guilty eyes. After all, she was just trying to sound out a word.

"I'm reading a book about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.," she answered, lips hardly moving.

"Oh, I see...," I said, hand extended. "Can I see?"

She gave me the book, eyes down.

"Honey, you haven't done anything wrong. Really. I just want to see the book," I explained in my calmest tone. Regrettably, I've reacted too quickly on more than one occasion and didn't want this to be another.

She took a breath, but wasn't buying my line.

I opened the book to the page she was reading and there it was, three-quarters of the way down the page: the n-word.

I cringed inside and out.

I cringed at the word. I cringed that I didn't look at the book first. I cringed that, once again, my sweetly naive six-year-old unwittingly stumbled across a crack in the parental superstructure we've built to keep her from the world's cruelties.

I closed my eyes and gave myself the moment to think.

And in that moment I remembered that by age six, I'd heard that word many times. Too many times.

My parents never used it. Neither did my older sister or me. But my grandparents did. It's what they called their next door neighbors.

Sensing the condescension in their tone when they said it, my sister and I knew it was a bad word. But in the absence of not knowing how to describe the neighbors, we used words from our own vocabularies. To us, the neighbors were "chocolate people." We were "vanilla."

Maybe it wasn't right, but it sure beat the alternative.

And here the word was again, making me feel just as uncomfortable as it did when I heard it as a child.

I had to say something. At least a third of Olivia's class is African American, and so is her teacher. Diversity is so much more a part of her world than it was mine. And, at some point, the nasty labels that come with it will be, too.

"Liv, that word is a terrible word," I began, my eyes locked on hers. "It's an ugly word that we'll never use in this house. And it's sad that people ever used it at all."

Then, worried that Olivia still thought she'd done something wrong, I added, "Honey, you're not in trouble at all. You were just reading from the book."

She was relieved.

I took a cursory look at the book while Olivia quietly looked on. There was no disputing that the book was informative -- but I wasn't sure it was appropriate for a first-grader. A fourth-grader, perhaps, but not a first-grader.

I couldn't end our conversation with my half-answer, so I said, "Well, can you tell me what you've learned about Martin Luther King, Jr.?"

"You mean DOCTOR Martin Luther King, Jr.?" she corrected.

"Yes," I said, smiling. The tension was gone.

And so for the next ten minutes, Olivia told me everything she knew about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. That he was a kind man. That he gave a speech about a dream he'd had. That when he was alive, the police beat up people just because they weren't white (her comment was, "But Mommy, the police are supposed to protect people, not hurt them!"). That there are still mean people who think like the police did back then. That Dr. King was shot on a balcony in Memphis.

The fact that she knew who he was at all was more than I knew when I was six.

Satisfied that we'd had a good discussion, I decided it was time to get back to the shrimp and so I turned to head downstairs.

"Mommy?"

"Yeah," I stopped and turned around.

"I wish he was still alive today so that he could talk more about peace," she said.

I exhaled, eyes frowning, mouth smiling. I considered the word she said that started the whole conversation. "Well, honey, I think he'd be glad to hear you say that."

The Gift of Time

2011-01-05T12:11:00.000-08:00

I sat in front of the computer, hunched over, eyes dry from staring at a too-bright monitor. It was late last Sunday night and I was headed to my folks' house the next morning for some post-Christmas time away.

I had gifts for my nephew, my sister and my dad. But after weeks of considering, there I was at 10 p.m., bouncing around from site to site, searching for a gift for my mom.

What the hell am I going to get her, I wondered, clicking on gift ideas that ranged from bad to worse.

I turned around to Tony. He was looking very satisfied and very comfortable, sitting with his legs out on the couch, under a blanket, reading on his brand spanking new Kindle.

Weeks ago, when I'd clicked "Buy Now" for the Kindle, I knew he would love it. But when it came to my own mother, I was clueless.

"I'm burned out on thinking of gifts, man. Can you help me? What should I get my mom?" I was whining.

He put down the Kindle. Pistons fired. Gears ground.

"Well, she's retiring in March, right? Maybe something she can use when she retires..." his voice trailed off.

"My guess is that once she retires, she's gone," I said. My mom loves to travel and seeing that she flies free (her first retirement was from American Airlines), I suspected she'd spend more time on the road than off.

"Maybe some nice luggage?"

It was a good suggestion, until I gave it more than one click's worth of thought. My mom doesn't mind spending money on purses, but luggage, not so much. This is the woman who used to bring home deserted, damaged bags from the airport.

"Maybe an iPad? It's small and light and has Wi-Fi, so she can use it when she travels," he said, nodding his head, raising his right brow. Clearly, this was his final idea.

And it would have been a good one, except that my mom would balk at the price and promptly return it. I toyed with the idea of getting one engraved, thereby rendering the gift nonreturnable, but it just didn't feel right.

I gave up.

"I'm going upstairs," I told Tony, and pounded up the stairs to bed with heavy feet.

What do I get someone who has everything she wants and doesn't want anything more? The simple answer was "nothing", but that seemed thoughtless.

I brushed my teeth and washed my face. Still, no idea. I applied my nightly treatment of Neutrogena ointment to the cracked, dried out skin on my hands and I asked myself again, What do I get someone who has everything she wants and doesn't want anything more?

Suddenly, a eureka.

The answer wasn't "nothing", but it was just as simple: time. The woman would want time. Maybe even time with me. Time in the form of a mother-daughter weekend away.

When Tony came into bed, I shared my idea. He said it was a good one. I went to bed feeling like I'd gotten somewhere.

The next morning as I drove down I-71, I gave my sister a call just to double check. She immediately (and wisely) nixed the iPad idea. I told her about my other plan.

"Maybe you, me and mom could take a weekend away? Maybe Chicago?" I suggested.

"Sounds good to me," she said.

My plan was validated.

Fast forward to Monday night. The girls, my parents, sister and nephew sat around the living room after a marathon gift-opening session. Wrapping paper littered the floor. It was my turn to give my mom her gift.

"You know how you hear about moms and daughters our age taking a weekend away to spend some time with each other?," I began. She looked at me, unsure where I was going.

"Well, maybe we could do that -- take a weekend and spend some time together."

She didn't say anything.

Apparently, the gift of time with me wasn't a real wowwer. I got defensive.

"OK, so I guess that wasn't such a great idea..." I said, voice very very snide.

"No, that's not it," she was backpedaling. "Where would we go?"

"Chicago?" I said.

"Oh...."

I might as well have suggested Scranton. At that point, the iPad was looking better and better.

I explained that maybe I could do a weekend filled with shopping and eating in the big city with her and then maybe later in the year, my dad and I could do a weekend doing something he preferred, like hiking part of the Appalachian Trail.

"Sounds good to me," my dad quickly chimed. At least he was on board.

"Or maybe we could all go..." I said, desperate for approval from my mom. "It could be like a trip for just for the four of us. Kind of like a family vacation."

"Now, I like that idea," my mom said, face instantly brighter. She was sold.

And everyone else was, too. Because none of us could remember the last time we took a vacation for the four of us where it was just us.

So it's been decided. Later this month, I'll fly to Chicago to spend a weekend away with my folks and my sister. Just Bob, Julia, Melissa and Jenny.

I have no idea what the weekend has in store for us, but for one thing I'm sure: this just might be my best Christmas gift idea ever.

One Too Many Ain't What It Used to Be

2010-12-21T12:47:00.000-08:00

It's not the achy back, the increasingly visible crow's feet or even the bountiful crop of gray hairs on my head that serve as the leading reminder that I'm well into and passing through my mid-30s.

It's my inability to hold my liquor.

Ten years ago, I could still drink close to a bottle of wine with nothing but a dry mouth to speak of the morning after. Last weekend, I had two drinks and found my face suspended in our master bath commode at 3 a.m. Sunday morning.

What am I doing?, I repeated to myself between the bouts of heaving.

Well, right then, I was getting sick.

Seven hours earlier, I was having dinner at a local restaurant with Tony, two of my running friends and their spouses. By the end of the four-hour meal, the two old-fashioneds and two sips of a Manhattan I'd tossed back resulted in one middle-aged woman who was running her mouth too often, too loud and, ultimately, to her own embarrassment. (Alcohol has the unfortunate effect of making me even more long-winded than I already am, as Tony's fond of pointing out.)

So in addition to accepting the humiliating fact that I made dinner largely intolerable for everyone else at the table Saturday night, the bigger issue was making the rest of the next day largely intolerable for myself.

Ten years ago, with nothing but a dog to send out to the backyard to do his business, this wouldn't have been a problem.

But these days, with three children who need my assistance on at least a half-hourly basis, my being hungover presents a problem. And when my other half is steeped in his end-of-year cluster of deal signings and closings and working around the clock, it presents an even bigger problem.

"How're you feeling?" Tony asked, smirking, when I stumbled downstairs Sunday morning.

"Ooof," I said, recalling the reflection I saw in the mirror just a few moments before when I was brushing my teeth.

"You're a lightweight," he accused, lancing my jugular. I might as well have sewn a scarlet "L" on my pajamas. And I got defensive about it.

"You always say that you want me to drink, relax and enjoy myself," I whined. "Well, here's why I don't drink hardly anymore. Someone has to take care of the kids the next day and that someone's me!"

He shot me a look and I capitulated.

Yes, it's true that since 2004, a disproportionately large part of my day-to-day has been spent sustaining lives, nursing them or watching over them (I am a mom, after all). Even so, mine was a weak comeback. It wasn't his fault that I felt the way I did. Clearly, that all fell on my shoulders. And from there, out of my stomach.

Thing is, the weekend before last, we went out with some other friends and I'd had two drinks over the course of three hours with little to no effect (Tony and I have had an unusual stretch of social activities -- we're lucky most months if we get out with friends for dinner even just once). As last Saturday reminded me, not all drinks are created equal. The percentage of alcohol in two old-fashioneds is greater than that in two mojitos.

Duh.

Somehow, this particularly important point got lost in my middle-aged brain, although it's safe to say that it's now firmly embedded in all four quadrants.

"I'm never doing that again," I told Tony yesterday, recalling the weekend's episode one more time.

He turned around to look at me. "Just give it another eight months and you'll be right back at it."

I'd like to think he's wrong. Eight months certainly isn't long enough.

Until the next time -- and I hope there isn't one -- I'll look for a better way to gauge my age.

And if it comes in a bottle, it'll have ammonia in it, not alcohol.

Getting the Right Thing

2010-12-15T18:18:00.000-08:00

I knew she'd eventually ask the question, but it still took me by surprise.

"Mommy, you know that thing that Dylan has?," Olivia asked while writing her letter to Santa on Monday. She put her pen to the side and looked up at me. Square in the eyes.

"Umm, no? What thing?" Her 10-year-old cousin, Dylan, has many things she doesn't have. But one thing in particular.

"You know, that thing he plays games with?" She lifted her hands up, fists half-closed in front, thumbs moving back and forth.

She wasn't talking about that thing. Thank God.

"Oh, you mean the Nintendo DS? The one he plays with in the car?" I asked, relieved.

"Yeah, that. A DS. I want to ask Santa for as DS for Christmas," she answered, head bobbing up and down, eyes the size of doorknobs.

"Uh-huh, you don't say?" I said, shrugged my shoulders and added, "Well, if that's what you want, I guess go ahead and put it on the list."

As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn't. The reason? Her Santa list was complete with exactly two things on it: in-line skates and the DS.

Santa already had a heads-up on the in-line skates and, from my limited understanding of such things, was working on fulfilling the order. But the DS? Not so much.

That one won't get fulfilled without lots of hemming, hawing and rationalizing.

Here's why:

A few years back, the grandparents asked if they could get her a Leapster for Christmas. The answer? Thanks, but no. Firmly, no.

The reason?

"Those things aren't about learning," Tony explained. "They're just gateway drugs to bigger and better things."

Like a DS. I tended to agree with him.

To be clear, we aren't raising our kids under rocks. They've certainly played on other kids' Leapsters and have had their fair share of Wii experiences. Both my nephew and my parents have one and we've all been known to have plenty of fun playing when we visit them or when they visit us. In fact, I'm pretty sure we've come close to peeing ourselves laughing so hard during a good game of Just Dance.

We just don't own a Wii. Or a Leapster. Or a DS. And we've been clear that we don't want to own any of these things until we think the time is right.

Our thinking -- however primitive and naively idealistic it is -- is that we want to maximize the amount of time the girls can have fun doing stuff that doesn't involve a television or handheld. Right now, they don't watch a ton of TV and what they do watch usually amounts to G-rated movies and PBS. That's right, our 6-year-old still watches (although now maybe the better phrase is "suffers through") PBS.

There's also the equity argument: If we get Child A the thingamajig, then we have to get Child B the thingamajig, otherwise the thingamajig is either going to start World War III or worse, meet an untimely end during World War III.

In our case, there's also a Child C, who happens to be the least rational and most vocal of the bunch. Guarantee she'd break any and all thingamajigs if she didn't have one.

And then there's this: Olivia's a good kid. Really, she is. She isn't demanding and has not once asked for something unreasonable. And most times, she ends up doing things a few years below her age level for the sake of her sisters (and, more than likely, so that Tony and I have an easier time keeping the peace.)

Part of me just wants to give her something she really wants for Christmas. Something special. Something her own. Something that makes her feel older than her sisters. Something like a DS.

I'm confident that for every parent reading this who's saying, "What's the big deal, anyway? Just get the thing already and be done with it! This is child's play considering what you're going to be up against in five years!", there's another one pleading, "Stay strong! Be a parent for Chrissakes! Stick to your guns, weak woman."

Both are fair enough answers. It just depends on what's right for us. And more importantly, whether the time is right.

And we've got exactly 10 days to figure it out.

What I do know is that if and when our kids get any type of video game, be it a console or handheld, the gift will come from Santa. The way I see it, he's the man who can make the impossible happen.

What's more, in the time it's taken me to write this, Tony and I are starting to share the same prediction: This year, we think Santa might bring just the thing Olivia was hoping for.

Potty Mouth 101

2010-12-13T07:27:00.000-08:00

I had just gotten done washing my hands in the restroom and was ready to head back to Mrs. Hunker's second grade class for an indoor recess when my friend called me over.

"Hey, Jenny, come in here!"

I paused and looked around. I didn't want to stay too long in the restroom and risk getting in trouble, but I could hear in her voice that it was something I just had to see. So I turned around and started looking under and behind the doors. She was waiting for me in the handicapped stall.

"Jenny, look at this," she said, giggling, hands over her mouth. She was pointing to something on the wall.

"What?" I asked. All I could see were smooth elementary school bathroom maize-colored tiles.

"Right here!" She pointed again. This time I could see there was a word written on the wall. "Read what it says."

So I read what it said. To myself.

The word was one I hadn't heard, but could surely sound out. Something told me I was being set up.

"I read it," I told her, "So what?"

"No, read it out loud," she insisted. She could tell I was suspicious.

"Why?" I asked, then narrowing my eyes, added, "I don't want to."

"Just read it! Can't you read?!"

I could, but something told me not to.

"Come on, Jenny. Just read it...it rhymes with 'duck'!"

I couldn't take the taunting anymore, so I said it. Out loud.

Then, without warning, my friend zoomed past me out of the restroom shouting, "Mrs. Hunker! Mrs. Hunker! Jenny said a baaaaad worrrrrd!"

I recall feeling equal parts anger, embarrassment and fear at that moment. Lucky for me, my reputation as a naive do-gooder got me off the hook.

But from that day on, my naivete gave way to a growing understanding that words weren't always just words and that if I was going to make it in the world, I'd have to appear a lot less gullible than I was.

Now three decades later, Olivia's learning the same lesson, albeit under slightly difference circumstances. And she didn't waste time in letting me know.

"Mommy, did you know that 'ass' is a bad word?," she asked Saturday morning over breakfast. I was mid bite with a spoonful of oatmeal. She was grinning.

To be clear, Olivia's heard "bad words" (not from me, I'm proud to say, which, in and of itself, is a miracle second only to the Immaculate Conception) but she's never used them, let alone quizzed my knowledge. In fact, the kid is still convinced that the word "stupid" has a higher badness ranking than, say, a certain word that rhymes with "duck."

Back at the breakfast table, I tried hard not to laugh. The kid blindsided me with her pop quiz, after all. I shot a glance at Tony in the kitchen. He heard it, too.

"Yes, I do know that it's a bad word," I said, then asked, "Where'd you learn that?"

A classmate at school was behind the big reveal. Surprise, surprise.

"Well, it's also another word for 'donkey'," I explained. "Sometimes you'll hear it in the Bible."

"Oh, like, 'The three kings rode on asses'?," she asked. I could tell she liked the way the word rolled off her tongue. Clearly, my little lesson in semantics backfired.

Tony jumped in. "Yeah, like that. Only most people just say 'donkey'." Never mind that the wise men probably rode on camels.

For good measure, I added, "Suffice it to say it's not a word you need to use. And more importantly, this isn't something you need to say to your sisters or to any of your friends at school."

End of conversation.

Thing is, never once did she ask what it meant. I'm not going to revisit the conversation and ask whether she can define it and honestly, I'm not sure she knows what it means. Looking back, maybe I should have told her what it meant, but strangely, it didn't occur to me. Probably wouldn't have hurt to tell her that saying some words doesn't make you sound smart, but make you seem the exact opposite. I figure she's at an age where the prospect of humiliation is deterrent enough.

But some day (and I'm guessing it's not too far into the future) it won't be. I know that. After all, I was experimenting with bad words at an age I'm not especially proud of.

Until then, my hope is that the next time she learns a bad word at school, she'll have the sense to purge it somewhere like the potty, where I first discovered them, and where they belong.

Undoing the Christmas Curse

2010-11-29T20:22:00.000-08:00

All I'd said was that I wanted a new sweatsuit for Christmas.

I was 12, had braces, wore Benetton glasses a la Sally Jesse and sported a mullet the color of box-mix brownie batter.

And I thought that a new matching sweatsuit would be just the thing to update my look.

Problem was, I didn't give my folks any real specifics. Where should the sweatsuit come from? What color should it be? Should it have a pull-over top or a zip-up jacket?

I assumed "new sweatsuit" was enough to go on.

It wasn't.

On Christmas morning, my sister and I headed downstairs and my parents handed me a box. A box I knew held my new sweatsuit.

I tore off the wrapping paper to uncover my first clue: the sweatsuit was from Lazarus. Maybe it was from the Juniors' Department? Esprit, perhaps?

I ran my index finger along the side of the box to undo my mom's carefully taped-down lid. I took a deep breath, opened the box and unfolded the white tissue paper inside.

There before me was, in fact, a brand new sweatsuit. From Lazarus.

Only it wasn't made by Esprit. It bore a tag that read "Allen Solly". The brand my dad wore. The brand women over 40 wore. The brand that would most decidedly not go a long way toward updating my look.

I glanced up at my parents, smiled, and managed a "thank you." Apparently, what my mouth said, my eyes didn't.

They knew I hated it. A few days later, we took it back.

And so began the curse for all who would find themselves in the unfortunate position of purchasing a gift for me.

What I've learned over the years (from my spouse and family members) is that it's harder to buy for me than it is to define hard-core porn. When Justice Stewart wrote "I know it when I see it," the presumption was that he could figure it out when he saw it. Turns out success in buying for me requires clairvoyance and luck -- neither of which is easily come upon.

So this year, I'm makin' a change, folks.

No more guessing. No more rolling the dice. No more pressure.

All it took was being a mother for 6.5 years for me to figure out exactly what I want for Christmas.

So here goes:

I want 11 consecutive hours that will commence on a Saturday at 6 a.m. where I wake up, head to the gym, work out as long as I want, hit the steam room as long as I want, and shower as long as I want. Then I will come home, fix my oatmeal, drink my coffee, read my paper or book as long as I want. Then I will hit the mall or go to the bookstore or go downtown for dim sum. Then I will meet up with my children and husband for dinner at 5 p.m. at Chipotle, perhaps. Then we will return home, give our kids baths, put them to bed and Tony and I will watch a movie or the last season of The Wire while snuggling on the couch.

Bottom line: I don't want anything extraordinary or expensive. I just want to do the things that I want to do on my schedule.

Maybe it's selfish. But it sure sounds nice.

And if anything, it sure beats getting a new sweatsuit.

Seasonably Cool With a Chance of a Lock Down

2010-11-17T20:37:00.000-08:00

Some days on the walk home from school, Olivia gives me the weather forecast.

Yesterday, she reported, "Mommy, Ms. Brown showed us the radar -- there was green everywhere. It's going to rain tonight and then it'll stop tomorrow morning."

I played along. "Really? Oh my goodness. Well, we'd better drive in the morning then." My tone dripped with gratitude.

Her delivery of the forecast-- wide eyes notwithstanding -- suggested her zeal for the knowledge she possessed: I know what's going to happen next and I'm going to let you in on it.

But on today's walk home, she gave me a forecast I wish I'd never heard.

"Mommy, tomorrow or Friday, we're going to have a lock down drill," she explained as we hustled away from school.

"A what?" I had to hear it again.

"A lock down drill," she repeated. "It's a drill we have if someone mean comes to the school."

"Uh...huh," I managed, my mind racing while I was pushing the younger two in the double stroller. Apparently, I missed the explanation of this drill last year.

"Yeah, we all get into the coat room -- and we have a LOT of people. There are twenty five of us squished in there!" She paused, giggling, then continued. "Ms. Brown makes sure we're all there and then she checks the hall to make sure there aren't any other children out there. Then she locks the door and pulls down the shades so you can't see in."

There were those wide eyes again.

Another pause, then, "Oh, and if someone's hurt or something's wrong, she puts up a red sign. And if we're all OK, she puts up a green sign."

I wanted to shake my head back and forth, eyes closed, with my fingers jammed in my ears and pretend I hadn't heard a word she said. And then I felt it: Sadness. Deep, deep sadness.

After all, when I was in first grade, we had drills for tornadoes and fires. There weren't any drills for "mean people."

She went on, "If you're in the bathroom, you have to go to Mr. Zucca's room right away -- his classroom is the closest."

The upside was that she clearly knew what she was supposed to do. The downside was that she had to know what to do at all.

So I started asking questions.

"So you say you have to do this for 'mean people'?"

"Yeah," she nodded her head. "You know, like if a robber comes or someone who wants to take something from us."

She was thinking someone would take the school's books, equipment, maybe some money. The innocence of a bunch of kids didn't make her list.

I didn't see the need to explain that if there was, in fact, a lock down, it probably wouldn't be because of a robber. That the intruder would be far more disturbed. Far more troubled. And far worse than any monster she could ever imagine.

In her world, the bad guy is a robber and that's bad enough.

Tomorrow or Friday, I'm expecting to get a full report on the drill. I'll be thankful that the kids and teachers have it down and hopeful that they'll never have to put it into action.

And come Monday, I'll be anxious to hear about the weather.

Remembering it Perfectly

2010-11-11T21:01:00.000-08:00

When you run 26.2 miles, it's hard to remember much beyond the start and the finish.

You remember the start because you're glad to finally be on your way. And the finish, because you're just glad the blasted thing is done.

Everything in the middle kind of runs together. Half the time, you don't even know if the memories you do have are accurate ones.

That was my lot on Monday, as we drove back from New Jersey. Sleet was bouncing off the windshield and the wind blew the minivan side to side. Tony was focused hard on the road. The girls were watching their first of a half-dozen Barbie movies.

Any other time, I would have been barking at him to either slow down, watch out, or both. But I was too busy recalling everything I could about running the New York City marathon the day before.

I remembered running over the Verrazano Narrows Bridge with my friends Maureen and Lita and Lita calling out, "There's the Statue!"

I remembered literally running into my friend Heather around mile 9. We had started in separate corrals and on different levels of the bridge. I happened to look over, recognized her and shouted too loudly, "Heather!" And following that up with, "Shit!!," when I thought about the odds that we'd find each other.

I remembered spotting my best friend from college, Marycate, between 87th and 88th from far away. I started skipping with my hands in the air, jumping up and down, smiling and screaming, "AAAAAHHHHH!" She was leaning over the barricade and I jumped up and gave her a bear hug. She shouted, "Keep going! You're doing GREAT!"

Then one last memory.

Seeing my mom with Tony, the girls and Tony's Aunt Helen just after mile 16.

I had just finished running a challenging uphill then down on the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan. I knew that my family would be somewhere at the end of the bridge. I looked down and saw Tony with Anna on his shoulders holding the neon pink smiley face sign we'd made Saturday.

I started screaming and jumping up and down. "TOE-NEEEEE!!!! AAAANNNNNNAAAAAAA!!!"

They didn't hear me.

The course brought me closer to them and I shouted again. "TOOOOOE-NEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"

He looked and flashed a smile. "GOOOOOOO!!!!!," he screamed.

I was ready to move on but I happened to glance to Tony's left. I saw my mom.

It was a fraction of a fraction of a second. All I could see was her head and her eyes, but never have I read a face so clearly.

She was excited for me. Even more than that, she was proud.

I shared this memory with Tony in our sleet-battered car. "I know it all sounds crazy and melodramatic, but I could just see it in her eyes. I could just see that she was so proud of me."

I turned and looked out my window and swallowed hard. I could just see it in her.

For seven more hours, we drove through New Jersey, then Pennsylvania, then finally back into Ohio. The weather had improved and the kids were perfectly behaved on the drive. I was satisfied with my number of stored memories.

We were nearing Tony's parents house to pick up our dog when I decided to check my email on my phone. There was one from my mom.

I opened it.

"I am so proud of you. When I saw you at the 15 mile marker, you are so happy. I said to myself, 'She is going strong and she's doing fine... . You did it. The pride with you, no one can take away from me... . Love, Mom."

My eyes got wet and I took a deep breath.

Of course, I remembered the start and the finish. But I also managed to remember what happened in the middle just perfectly.

Chasing Away the Butterflies

2010-11-04T19:06:00.000-07:00

"You know how you feel butterflies in your stomach when you're nervous about something, Liv?"

That, from me, tonight while drying Liv's hair in the bathroom. I stood behind her, talking to her in the mirror.

"Yep, I do," said my six-year-old, nodding her head. She remembers the dance recital. Singing at the Kindergarten Open House. Starting first grade a few months back with none of her friends in her class.

We've talked about that feeling a lot. Whenever she's told me about it, my heart thumps a little stronger and I swallow a lot harder. Then I give her the warmest smile I can muster without getting teary and I say something like, "You know, Kiddo, that's actually a good feeling. It just means you care."

But the truth is, it's not a good feeling. When you're feeling it, it feels like there's a scream building inside you that you can't let out. Like there's a little man inside your belly on a stationary bike and he's just pedaling and pedaling, fanning and tickling your insides. And he's not going to let up.

That's how I feel now.

Because in three days, I'll be running the New York City Marathon with 45,000 other runners. I've got nothing to prove to anyone except me. I just want to know that after taking a 7.5 year sabbatical from marathon running to push out and raise three children, I can still put up some respectable numbers.

I suppose I just have my pride at stake.

So, back to Liv and me in front of the bathroom mirror, hair dryer whooshing and whirring. I turned the thing off.

"I feel those butterflies now, Liv. I'm a little nervous about the race," I admitted to her in the mirror.

It was a moment of vulnerability, but also a chance for me to show her that grown-ups get nervous, too. That just because I'm old enough to eat chocolate whenever I want, I'm not immune from everyday human afflictions like anxiety.

She turned around to face me.

"You know what I do, Mommy? Whenever I'm getting ready to start something I'm nervous about, I just say, 'I can do it' to myself. I just say it over and over. Maybe that's what you can do?"

My heart thumped stronger and I swallowed hard. Really hard.

"Yep, Liv," I said, the corners of my mouth turned down so she wouldn't notice them trembling. "I think that's what I'll do."

I turned the dryer back on and finished drying her hair.

I doubt she knows how much that moment will stick with me, not just on Sunday, but probably forever.

Because now I know that when I feel those butterflies, it means I care, but it also means I can do it.

A Betty Day

2010-10-25T20:00:00.000-07:00

Earlier tonight, I should have been savoring my trip to the grocery store without the kids.

Instead, there I was, pushing a cart that was a mixed bag of seasonal fruits and vegetables, white bread (whole grain naturally, to appease my guilt), and whatever else the store was offering me as a "ten for $10" special, and feeling completely defeated.

The truth is that nothing especially out of the ordinary or downright terrible happened today. Just the same old same old, really. But I've been a mom (and a human being) long enough to know that some days it just so happens that you're feeling more like a Betty Draper than a Carol Brady.

Today was a Betty day without a doubt -- Barbie figure, Jackie Kennedy fashions and infidelity aside. (For those of you who don't know Betty, think of any female Disney nemesis and, today, that was me.)

As I worked my way first through the produce section, then salad fixings, then through the seemingly endless options of tomato products, I had the same questions running through my head:

How is it that some days, it's all too easy for me to be downright mean to my girls? For me to be a walking buzzkill? For me to be a textbook nagging wife?

Today, I was all three. A sort of wife/mom anti-Christ trifecta.

I won't bother with the details, but clearly, today was not the kind of day I'd want to put on my Mom of the Year submission. But not to shameful to put on the blog.

Here's why:

If there's one thing I've learned since I started this thing it's that we all have our own unique family situations, our own special interests, our own happiness and hardship, but we're all human. Some, kinder than others. Some, more patient than others. But we're still human. That alone makes us plenty alike.

It reminds me of the time last month when I met a high school friend at a Trader Joe's in Cincinnati. She's an incredibly talented cookie designer and so I thought I'd buy some of her treats for my nephew's birthday. She was and still is very cool -- the kind of person who's equal parts genuine, compassionate, sincere and, well, cool. She's the kind of gal you'd meet and know inside of five seconds that you could head to the nearest Starbucks for some coffee, conversation and laughs.

I met my friend and her family in the store and then walked outside to the parking lot to pick up the cookies. I'm not a car person, but for some reason, I figured she drove a cooler car than me -- meaning not a minivan. I figured wrong. She led me to the car parked directly in front of mine. It was a Toyota Sienna.

Sure we led different lives, but in many ways, we were the same. Right down to our fly rides.

So in writing this, I'm not asking for absolution or a high five. Just a little, "Yep, I've been there." (For the record, it goes without saying that I'm not abusive. Heck, I've never even sworn in front of my kids.)

Now that the groceries are put away and I've written this, I don't feel quite so defeated. In fact, I'm even feeling confident that my behavior will improve tomorrow.

Maybe not as good as Carol Brady, but better than Betty, for sure.

Parenting, Vegas Style

2010-10-22T19:43:00.000-07:00

The summer after I turned 21, my folks took me to Vegas. Twice.

The first time was exciting and nerve-wracking. The only clear memory I have is looking down at my shaking hands after losing $40 my dad gave me to play at a Treasure Island blackjack table. The second time I went, I wanted to spend less time playing and more time watching. My dad's luck was always considerably better than average and so I wanted to learn from him. I even may have convinced myself that genetics would put luck on my side, too.

Fourteen years and more than a half dozen Vegas trips later, I know better. You can study up all you want on the odds and probabilities of dice rolls and cards, but in the end, it's just luck.

I've come to the same realization about parenting.

Shortly after Olivia's first birthday, I gave up reading parenting books. And parenting magazines. To this day, I barely even seek out parenting advice from other parents.

And it's not because I've got all the answers. I'm a dead end in that department. But I am someone who, on any given day, is barely keeping her head above the surface of a cesspool of self-doubt.

Toss me a parenting resource while I'm in the middle of frantic treading and instead of having the effect of a life saving buoy, it ends up feeling more like a cinder block being tied around my neck. Because ultimately, I'll either improperly execute the book's advice or I won't be consistent enough in its application. And then I end up feeling like a stoned woman -- the Biblical kind, not the high kind.

In that sense, parenting is a little like sitting at a blackjack table in Vegas. Sometimes, the answer is clear on how to play your cards. And sometimes, it's not. So inevitably, when I've got a soft 18 against a dealer's 5 card and I'm inclined to stay but I know there's the option to double down, I can't help but ask the dealer: "What's the book say?"

For those of you non-gamblers, "the book" doesn't exist. It's more or less the gambling world's collective "they", as in, "Well, you know what they say." It's that false sense of certainty we impose on things that are undeniably random. Ask what "the book" says so that when you make "the book's" move and it doesn't pay off, you can always blame "the book."

"I had no choice. That's what the book said," you say, shrugging your shoulders when you lose the hand. And then the dealer promptly picks up your bet.

In my six years as a mom, I've learned that you can do your best to put the odds in your favor, but the whole thing really is a crap shoot.

To be clear, I realize that parenting books and magazines certainly have a place and are a valuable resource to many parents. But at this stage of the game for our family, I don't want advice so much as I want camaraderie.

I just want to know that someone else has shared in my frustration, my happiness, my confusion, my neuroses, my daily desire for chocolate. And maybe coffee.

That's a lot like Vegas, too. If your blackjack table has a group of good folks sitting down, you find yourself high-fiving strangers and doling out compliments for "well-played" cards, ignoring the whole luck factor. And when the cards turn and everyone starts losing, there's a sort of group hug phenomenon that occurs and everyone ends up being a member of the losing table's ad hoc support group.

The way I see it, if we figure out what works best for us 50 percent of the time, that's like batting a thousand.

And I'll take those odds to Vegas any day.

Nothing a Little Moses Couldn't Cure

2010-10-17T21:17:00.000-07:00

Maybe it was reading from the book of Genesis. Or maybe it was a letter from Paul to the Corinthians. For all I knew, it could have been a reading of the Gettysburg Address.

This morning at Mass, any words from on high were muted by the decidedly unmaternal thoughts I was trying to suppress in the space between my ears.

There was Anna breathing loud through her nose, sucking her thumb, her shoulder digging into my bicep. She was doing her best to showcase her dejection at my earlier refusal to hold her for 50 minutes. There was Olivia, not paying attention, looking too old to be sitting on Tony's lap, pulling the toggle buttons on her sweater. And then little Josie, taking her spare jeans and Minnie Mouse panties in and out and in and out and in and out of the blue backpack I packed just in case the kid decided to christen the pew with her own holy water.

We were only two-thirds of the way through the Liturgy of the Word and Mass already felt less like a celebration of the holy trinity and more like a failed containment of a three ring circus. I couldn't imagine how Communion would go down.

Any other Sunday at church, the scene wouldn't have bothered me. But this morning, I was in a mood. I was still brooding over the disproportionate amount of time the girls spent engaged in crying or whining the day before. (Yes, I was pouting about their whining. How mature.) Judging by their pre-church behavior, it didn't look like today held anything different.

I could have shown contrition. I could have prayed about my poor behavior. Instead, during the reading of the Gospel, I was requesting.

Please God, please, get me the hell out of here.

Not very tactful, I'll admit. Or respectful.

So there I sat with my disinterested kids and agnostic husband, wallowing.

Without warning, I heard the collective "Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ." It was homily time. And my last chance to redeem myself and be a grown up.

Finally, I put on my listening ears.

Our parish priest spoke about about how often some folks' prayers are answered and others aren't. About how many people see prayer less as a conversation and more as a list of requests. About how hard it is to have faith when life's not going so well and how easy it is to forget to have it when life is. None of that was particularly original, but good enough as far as reminders go.

Then he talked about the first reading (which I missed while pouting). It was about how Moses was up on a hill, watching a battle below while raising his arms to God, praying for the success of the Israelites. His arms grew weary and he wanted to give up, but Aaron and Hur came to his aide and held up his arms so that he could continue on in prayer.

As crazy as it sounds, that image of Moses is what got my head on right.

I realized then that sometimes the kids drag me down to the point where I'm ready to cry uncle. And sometimes, you have to stick it out, do the heavy lifting and be a grown up. A parent, for God sakes. No one said it was easy.

Looking down at the battle with his arms held high, I'm guessing Moses was thinking the same thing. But that guy managed.

After Mass, we came home and ate lunch. And after that, even though every bone in my body wanted to leave the house for peace and quiet, I decided to man up and give the kids what they probably needed: a good romp outside around the playground.

Anna and Josie took me up on the offer, so off we went (Liv wanted to stay and watch the Browns' game with Tony). I decided that I wasn't going to rush them there or home. I'd just let them take their time and enjoy the whole process.

The trip worked. In fact, it worked so well that when we came home, I put Josie down for a nap and took the oldest two out to run errands (Liv had tired of watching the Browns take a beating, I suppose) and to pick out some Halloween decorations and costumes. We finished up the day with homemade pizza and a walk around the block in the dark.

For a day that started out pretty shabby, it didn't turn out so bad. There was less fighting. Less whining. Less pouting from me. Not exactly as noble or profound as Moses on the hill, but good enough for the Kuhels.

And after the kids went to bed, I found out what the readings were. Exodus first, then a letter from Timothy. Not that it mattered, but it was the least I could do for an answered prayer.

Sharing My Little Bowl of Happiness

2010-10-13T12:37:00.000-07:00

"Mommy, why do you eat oatmeal every morning for breakfast?"

That, from my oldest, yesterday morning as I sat at the head of the table, spoon perched high, ready for the daily porridge plunge. It's a question she's asked many times.

"I dunno, Liv," I said sighing, knowing my answer was a lie. But in the interest of time (the kid's notoriously slow in the mornings before school), I wanted to give a simple answer that I knew wouldn't generate more questions. I followed up by shrugging my shoulders, "I just like it, I guess."

The truth is that I eat oatmeal every morning because in addition to just liking it, it fills me up, it's healthy, it prevents me from pouring myself an oversized bowl of Mini-Wheats or Honey Nut Cheerios and because over time, I've convinced myself that if I start each day the same way, then somehow, I'll have complete control over my day. Which, of course, I don't. But I like to start each day at least thinking that I do.

So every day for breakfast, I make myself an ample amount of coffee (by any objective standard, I drink waaaay more than I should) and I chase it with a hearty bowl of either plain one-minute or steel cut oats mixed with a little salt, considerable cinnamon, a few dried cranberries and some ground flaxseed. (Because I'm sure some of you are thinking it, I'll have you know that Tony's affectionately dubbed my morning masterpiece "Colon Blow.")

Every day, I reach the bottom of that bowl of goodness all too quickly. But eating it truly makes me happy and it gets my head right for the day.

In fact, on days that I don't have my oatmeal, or something reasonably close, I'm grumpy. Pathetic, I know.

Even if I did have the time to tell Olivia all of that, I figured that she would have looked at me, confused, head cocked to one side. And then she probably would have asked something like, "Whaddayou mean by 'having control over you day?'"

Talk about loaded questions.

So that got me thinking about the book, "The Happiness Project" by Gretchen Rubin. It's an easy read and certainly falls under the classification of books one reads in the interest of self-help - whether one needs it or not.

I read it on the recommendation of a friend and after I got past the fact that Ms. Rubin is an educated, happily married, mother of two living in a nice part of New York City (she also happens to be the daughter-in-law of former Treasury Secretary and Goldman Sachs chairman Robert Rubin), I realized that she had something to offer me on the subject of happiness.

For example, it's OK for me to gain considerable satisfaction out of my morning bowl of gruel. At the same time, it's probably not OK for me to think that my consistent gruel downing will somehow play out into a day that's consistently satisfying.

That, of course, requires considerably more work than heating up the oats and pouring in the condiments.

Before reading Ms. Rubin's book, I was fond of wondering out loud to friends why it was that certain people seemed to be perpetually unhappy. "Why be unhappy?," I'd ask. "It's just so much easier to be happy than it is to be unhappy."

Now that I have age, marriage, a mortgage, bills to pay, three kids and a dog's poop to pick up in a blue grocery bag every day, I realize that's just not true. Yes, I have lots to be happy about. But that's a helluva lot different than actually being happy.

Like Ms. Rubin says, being happy takes work. (To be clear, I'm a happy gal, but who couldn't stand to be a little happier?)

I won't spoil the book for those of you who want to read it, but suffice it to say that I've decided to think more about how I can make my life happier - and, in turn, the lives of my family and friends and the occasional stranger happier (Ms. Rubin suggests, rightly I think, the "what goes around comes around" theory of happiness) - in the time between my daily bowls of oatmeal.

By the way, I misjudged the intent of Olivia's question yesterday. After I gave her my unsatisfactory answer, she leaned in close and hovered above my bowl.

"It looks so yummy and it does smell really good," she said, nostrils wide.

I paused and thought: why keep the happiness to myself?

"Wanna have a bite?," I asked, smiling.

She nodded and I handed her my spoon. She closed her eyes and tasted. "Mmmmmm. That's yummy," she said. "Can I have some more?"

"Of course," I told her before adding, "You know, the taste of it just kind of makes me happy."

We smiled at each other. She knew what I meant.

Rushing to Help and to Judgment

2010-10-03T20:47:00.000-07:00

It was a familiar tug-of-war type conversation I've had with at least two of my girls. Only on Saturday, I was having it with a stranger who was a good 80 years older than both of them.

"I'm independent! I take care of myself!," she shouted at me again, doing her best to wriggle free from my grasp on her left arm.

No less than three minutes before, I pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store for a quick (and rare) trip without the kids. There was a slow steady rain, so as I closed the door of my car, I pulled the hood of my raincoat over my head and hustled for the store's entrance. I'd only made it about three steps when I noticed the woman, face down in the exit road next to the parking lot.

I started running toward her and called out, "Ma'am! Oh my goodness! Ma'am? Are you all right?"

The second before I arrived by her side, I watched as she tried to push herself up, only to have her arms give out. Her right brow went crashing into the wet pavement. She was alert, but her right cheek rested on the asphalt.

"Ma'am? Oh my goodness! Ma'am! Let me help you up," I said, putting my hands under her armpits, trying to steady her. She was clearly shaken by the fall and I could feel that she wasn't able to push up her slight frame. I did my best to get her off the ground, but she kept reaching for her umbrella, making my efforts more difficult.

"Ma'am, I'll take care of the umbrella, just let me help you up," I explained. "Are you all right?"

She was looking down at the ground now. "Yes, yes, I'm fine," she said. But I could feel that she still couldn't stand on her own.

A man came running across the parking lot. Together, we raised the woman and we collected her bag and umbrella. She tried to shake both of us off.

"I said I'm fine," she repeated. I couldn't tell if she was more embarrassed or worried about what had just happened. "I just have to get to the flea market!"

Then I saw the blood dripping down her nose. It came from a disturbingly open gash above her right brow. Already, there were streams of blood running down her clear umbrella, puddling on the asphalt.

The man and I looked at each other. We knew she hadn't noticed the blood. We also knew there wasn't a flea market anywhere nearby.

"Ma'am, let's get you inside," he coaxed. Her took her right arm and I took the left and we walked her to the store's covered entrance.

"No, I don't need to go inside!," she barked at us, her voice filled with frustration. "I'm fine! I'm independent! I don't need anybody's help. I take care of myself!"

I didn't want to offend her anymore than we already had, so I gently took her by the shoulders and turned her to look at me.

"I know, Ma'am. I understand. But Ma'am, you're bleeding. You cut yourself badly and you need to have someone have a look at your eye," I earnestly explained. She shook her head. She wasn't convinced.

A small crowd formed around us and a woman called 911 on her cell phone. The fire department isn't more than 200 yards from the store, so the ambulance arrived quickly. This only served to make the woman more agitated.

When the medics asked her where she was going, she pointed up the street, saying, "I need to get to the flea market!"

The medics, the man and I all exchanged concerned glances. Fortunately, she allowed the medics to clean her up and bandage her, all the while she gave them her name, her address, her age -- all with complete clarity. She continued to insist on her independence.

"Maybe she came from the nursing home across the street, do you think?," the man asked me, aside.

"It's possible," I said. "But I think she's disoriented and it scares me to think of where she'll go."

Then the medics asked her again where she was going. "To the flea market!," she yelled. She'd had enough.

"But Ma'am, there's no flea market here," the medic explained.

"Yes there is!! It's at Heights Christian Church!"

My eyes widened. She was right.

It was a misunderstanding. She knew exactly where she was going. She was going to the church thrift store called "Elegant Flea" that's adjacent to Anna's preschool. It was just up the road.

I nodded to the medic. "She's right," I said softly. "There's a thrift store there."

The woman looked at me as though that was the only thing I'd done right so far. "Now let me go!" she hollered to the medic, who did exactly that. Seconds later, she was pumping herself fast down the covered walkway toward the church.

I asked her if she wanted a ride and she said yes, but she didn't stop to wait for me. The medic stopped me, saying, "Unfortunately, if someone refuses treatment or transportation, we can't help them. She gave us her name, address and all of her information and since she seems to be all there, we can't force her to do anything."

He could see I still felt badly. "She's a tough lady," he said, appeasing me. "She'll be fine."

So I turned and went into the grocery store to finish up what I'd started. The whole while, I couldn't stop thinking about the woman. I ran into my friend, a bright, successful nurse anesthetist and told her the story. She tried to reassure me, explaining that cuts on the face, particularly the brow, bleed badly and oftentimes look worse than they are. That helped.

But back in my car a half hour later, I looked down at my jacket. There was blood on it.

I knew there was only one way I would have closure. I headed straight for the church thrift shop.

When I arrived, no one was in the driveway, so I parked outside the door and stepped inside and down the short staircase. It was quiet and I could see the light was on in the thrift shop.

I turned the corner and was greeted by a woman. I returned the greeting and looked around the room.

Then I saw her.

No more blood, but the bandage was above her eye. She'd taken off her rain hat and slicker and was standing plenty upright. She was folding clothes. She worked at the thrift shop.

She smiled at me and glanced nervously over toward her co-worker. I understood. I wouldn't blow her cover.

"Oh good," I said quietly. "You made it."

And I left.

In that moment, it occurred to me how wrong I was about her. She may have been older, but she was every bit as independent as she said she was. And I felt horribly that none of us believed her.

Throughout the whole encounter, I could feel her frustration that we were restraining her. She didn't want us to think that she was just a fragile old woman with dementia who'd wandered off and needed to get back home. But that's what we all thought.

The frustration was familiar because it's the same sense I get from the girls when I too quickly rush to help, or worse, don't let them try something themselves. Sometimes, whether I mean to or not, I stifle their attempts at independence.

I know that if I was in the same situation again, I'd do the same thing. Only next time, I'll listen more closely and maybe instead of pulling so hard in the ensuing tug-of-war, I'll give in with a little slack.

The Dirty Truth About Bathtime

2010-09-29T19:48:00.000-07:00

I am a daily bather. Technically, a daily showerer. Sometimes twice.

And as it is for me, so it has been for the girls, right from the beginning.

Now I know all the stuff about how over-bathing children dries their skin out, how they don't get that dirty, how their natural oils are good and you don't dare want to wash those away, blah, blah-blah, blahgity, blah...blah.

But in the very beginning of each of our daughter's lives, the bath was the one time of day when there was peace. Soothing. If I'd paid better attention in my high school Scripture class, I may have even recited a Psalm or two.

The bath always occurred at the end of the day. Lots of times after a crying fit. And I'd venture to say that 99.9 percent of the time it ended with a happy baby (well, as long as I was doing the bathing -- my girls were picky that way).

But at some point, bathtime took a 180.

No more calming. No more soothing. No chance in hell of Scripture recitation.

Today, it's chaos. Utter chaos.

I've just confirmed with Tony that my choice of language was not hyperbolic. "Yes, yes, it's true," says the man, shaking his head in defeat. And he didn't even have to do baths tonight.

Maybe it's that they're older. Maybe it's that they're girls. Maybe it's that water somehow went from being a calming element to a partytime fixture.

I don't have the answer. But I do know that every night when they thumpety-thump-thump up the stairs, strip off their clothes and hurl them to the bottom of the landing, I already feel my blood pressure escalate. At this point, my response is Pavlovian.

Because I know that as soon as I turn on the water, even if I only have one or two of them, the squealing begins. Followed by singing and dancing. And other acrobatic feats not intended for a slick porcelain tub.

To be clear, I'm happy the girls are happy and having fun. Really, I am.

Problem is they just don't realize the cumulative nature of their respective fun. Translation: I can handle one of them all crazy, but three at the same time, at the end of the day, by myself (or even if Tony's taken Olivia and/or Anna to the shower when he's home in time) is grounds for instant depletion of any patience reserves I'd managed to store over the course of the day.

Perhaps my best bathtime brainchild came a few years ago when I came up with the "mini-shower." It was intended as the alternative to a bath, for nights when we got a late start and didn't have time for filling up the tub with however many dozens of gallons of water. Instead, I'd pull the shower head from the rest and give the kids a quickie shower. The end result was the same, but the time was cut in half. Fabulous.

When Josie got older and bathtime started taking longer, the mini-shower became the standard, with Tony and I praising it for its efficiency. The mini-shower was to bathing the Kuhel girls as the assembly line was to Ford.

There was a brief window when Tony and I felt we had bathing down to a science. Man, we were a well-oiled machine.

Then it became clear that we were too good. Too fast. Too efficient.

Clearly, the girls wanted no part of that. Connect the dots and here we are today. I'm confident that if Tony or I ever has to see a cardiologist for high blood pressure, the first thing on the list of stressors to avoid will be bathtime. Theirs, not ours, naturally.

I'm sure someone out there has an idea of how I can make it better. How I can channel all that positive energy into bathtime greatness.

If that's the case, please, keep it to yourself. I'm not interested. I wish I was a big enough person and a good enough parent to say I was, but really, I'm not.

I know this is my bathtime lot and soon enough, they'll all be showering themselves. By themselves. And we'll be right back where we were in the beginning. When it was good. And peaceful. And soothing.

And when that happens, I'll be ready. Scripture and all.

Getting On Without Me

2010-09-28T19:41:00.000-07:00

The voice called me back to the bathroom off the kitchen.

"Mommy, coze-a-door, peeze," Josie asked in her kindest of tones.

When I'd arrived at the open door, she was bent over her thighs, craning her neck around the corner to make sure I was coming. Her chubby legs were bouncing up and down so that her bare bum rose in and out of the too-big bowl.

Josie smiled, clearly glad that I'd obliged her. Then, for good measure, she added, "Need pie-vah-see, peeze."

I gave her the OK sign, nodded my head like I was thoroughly on board with my two-year-old's new found desire for solitude in the loo and promptly closed the door.

Just a few weeks ago, Josie was still speaking one word at a time. Now she's asking for privacy.

Please.

I'm all too aware that my baby's growing up. She's just making sure that I know she knows it, too. And thanks to this bathroom incident, I now realize that I'm officially in the phase of parenting where whether I like it or not, my girls are going to do their best every day to illustrate just how well they can get on without their mother.

I have to approach this phase with an open mind. I've been around long enough to know that it'll be this way for the rest of my life. I also know that my success in this phase will be measured by our ability to raise happy, healthy, self-sufficient, contributing children.

As parents, Tony and I will struggle for sure. And I know that for every moment of pride we share for our daughters, there will be a little bit of heartache.

Last week, a friend shared that her daughter - a beautiful, kind, sweet little first grader - seemed to be embarrassed when her mom gave her just one more kiss or hug before she headed into school. "I can't believe it's starting already," she said, her tone equal parts shock and sadness.

I knew what she meant. It's the struggle we all face when we want our kids to be independent, to be past any separation anxiety, yet we want them to love (and sometimes need) us just as much as they did when they were little babies.

And it's why every day, I feel a little swell in my chest when Olivia comes out of school, searching for me through the throng of backpacks, dogs, kid brothers and sisters and grownups waiting outside her elementary school. Every day she comes out and looks just a little concerned, then our eyes meet and she beams.

Yep, that's right, the kid beams for me.

I've properly seared that image into my mental scrapbook for reasons I don't think I have to explain.

So back to Josie and her pie-vah-see.

Today, I found myself getting misty at storytime when "The Long and Winding Road" served as background music as the librarian blew bubbles for the two-year-old tots to catch. Josie was reaching both hands to the ceiling, delighting in the steady stream of slowly falling bubbles. I put that moment in the mental scrapbook, too.

Soon enough, storytime was over and Josie and I headed out to play in the children's area. It wasn't long before she said, "Mommy...poo-poooooos!"

So I led her to the one-stall toddler bathroom. When we got inside, she turned to me, used a sweeping motion with her arm pointing outside the bathroom and said, "Mommy, coze-a-door." She wanted me to leave.

"No sweetie, not here," I said. "I'm staying with you here. You're still too little."

She seemed to ponder this as I took off her jeans and diaper (which was suspiciously warm), then looked up at me, as though she'd accepted this fact. "OK, Mommy."

She might want her privacy, but I think I'll stay close until she can get on without me.

When an Opportunity Isn't

2010-09-24T11:31:00.000-07:00

I felt shame and embarrassment, but mostly regret.

I recall the woman from the Personnel Department's name was Barbara and she was introducing me to one of the higher ups at the Forest Service in Washington DC, where I would spend the summer after my freshman year in college compiling news clips and writing a newsletter.

I'd gotten the job after a journalism professor explained that the Forest Service had an opportunity for Asian journalism students looking for a summer job. I wanted desperately to stay in the big city over the summer, so I applied, never once giving it a second thought that I'd used what I was to get the job.

"This is Jennifer Shen Scarborough," she began, placing way too much emphasis on my given middle name. Other than birth and baptism, I doubted I'd ever been formally introduced that way.

"She'll be working in Public Affairs doing the news digest," Barbara added. That should have been sufficient as an introduction. But it wasn't.

She continued, "And did you know that her mother is Chinese and her father is part Native American?!"

I wondered when a game show host was going to appear with a skinny mic in hand and proclaim, "Congratulations! You've just won the diversity lottery!"

Only 19 years old and not articulate or astute enough to assert myself, I smiled and nodded, much like someone who doesn't speak English. Nothing Barbara said about my ethnic makeup was wrong, but the fact that she mentioned it at all certainly was, in my mind.

And in that instant, I realized that I would spend the rest of the summer proving that I wasn't just a warm, half-Asian body. I knew I was good enough for the job. But did everyone else?

More importantly, I realized that sometimes, just because an opportunity presents itself doesn't mean that it's such a great idea to take it. In other words, just because I could, didn't mean I should.

That lesson is one that comes up over and over now that I'm a mom and all grown up.

I find myself saying it to Anna, when her middle finger has been inserted well into the upper reaches of her nostrils with such purpose that you'd think the world's biggest lollipop was the score at the other end.

"Please, Anna," I tell her, "Please please please take your finger out of your nose, honey. Honest to God, sweetie, just because you can, doesn't mean you should."

It's also something I remind myself of every time that I sit down to write a blog post. I'm well aware that the written word has lasting impact. Oftentimes hurtful even when it's not intended to be. Again, just because I can write (whether I do it well is another matter) doesn't mean I always should.

And I found myself wondering this fall when Olivia started the first grade, whether her elementary school's willingness to consider parental requests for teachers was such a good idea. Ultimately, I wondered whether it was the parents who ended up feeling better about which teacher's class their child would be placed in and whether a "less favorable" placement would really have any lasting impact on the child.

I know for sure that I had some bad teachers and I had some really truly terrible coaches (I've not forgotten how my seventh grade basketball coach degraded me in front of my friends and teammates in ways I'd swore I'd never repeat) but I still ended up being reasonably well adjusted.

To be clear, I understand wanting the best for your child and wanting to position them as best you can for success. But isn't it also valuable for children who are old enough to learn to roll with it, no matter how uncomfortable that is for parents? I don't know if there's a clear answer to that question because many times, it depends on the child. But I do know enough to know that just because we can choose our teachers, doesn't always mean we should.

And finally, in six weeks, I'll be on my way to run the New York City Marathon. It's been a long time since I've run one -- almost seven years exactly -- so I'm looking forward to it. Plus, I earned my way into that race with a qualifying time I'll never repeat. Thing is, I've been injured for the better part of this year and then two weeks ago, I managed to hurt myself again (though not anywhere near as seriously) when I fell during some speedwork.

Some days I wonder: I know I can run it, but should I? I've got several good friends and my cousin running the race, so that alone is enough to make me want to do it. I've decided that as long as I'm feeling good, I'm running the thing. And if, God forbid, I don't, I can defer a year. It's not ideal, but it is an option.

And if that's the decision I have to make, I'll be disappointed for sure. But for once, I'll have followed my own advice. And this time, I won't have any regrets.

Tale of a Mom's Night Out

2010-09-23T19:07:00.000-07:00

How it Started

Taken out of context, it looked like a scene from a D-list Hollywood drama.

"But Mommeeeee! I wanna go wif youuuuu!"

It was 6:50 p.m. last night and a teary, screaming Anna had followed me out the front door. I was boarding a friend's car for a night out with friends at a local Latin restaurant.

Unfortunately for Anna, the display of emotion wasn't achieving the desired effect.

"Sorry, honey, you can't come. You get to stay home with Daddy," I explained, doing my best to sound chipper, seeing that I had an audience of friends waiting in the car.

"No, Mom-eeeeeeeeeee!!!" Anna had extended one of her hands. Good Lord, the drama.

"Anna, that's enough," I called out, leaving the chipper mom voice behind. As the car backed down the driveway, I tried to comfort with, "OK honey," then, because I'm not completely heartless, "Love you.... bye!!"

If only my friend had stepped on it, leaving the air perfumed with burned rubber. Cliched? Perhaps. Hollywood ending? For sure.

The Night Out

Shortly after 7 p.m., most of us were seated at the table. I'm confident that we were all tired and hungry and more than likely decompressing from the day's events, which probably looked a lot like the previous day's events. And the day before that.

But there we were. All happy to see each other. Happy to share news. Happy to be away from the kids. Happy for the intended (or unintended) catharsis. And, of course, happy to delight in house made guacamole and plantain chips and then wash it down with a properly muddled mojito.

And even though we've never articulated it, I have to think that everyone appreciates a good mom's night out just as much for the stories we share as for the validation we receive. The irony being that we have the night out to get away from the kids only to spend 90 percent of the time talking about them.

How It Ended

Sometime around 10:30 p.m., properly filled on food, drink, and swapped stories, we loaded back into our cars and headed for home. I can't speak for everyone else, but I was glad to have had more than 37 seconds of uninterrupted conversation with my friends.

The car pulled into our driveway, the exact spot where the mother-leaving-her-child-behind melodrama unfolded a few short hours ago. Only at this moment, it's mercifully quiet.

Tony opened the door for me and after I get the report on the girls (miraculously, Anna recovered) and check a few emails, we head upstairs and ready for bed. Shortly after my head hit the pillow, Tony turned to me.

"You smell like a bar."

"I only had one drink," I responded, defensive. This was not a lie. He gave a huff and I knew he was teasing me.

"So, how was everyone?" he asked. I shared some of the news from the gang.

"That's good," he said. "Glad you guys had a good time."

Thing is, I know he means it. He really is glad that I had a good time. Because he knows that both of our lives warrant time away from the daily grind, even if it is just a few hours long.

Knowing that made the night sweeter. And the mojito made the sleep a little sounder.

Postmortem

To be clear, I do leave my children. All of them. Usually without incident -- the gym being the exception.

Tonight at dinner, Anna decided she had some explaining to do about last night's tearful goodbye.

"Mommy, I was soooo sad last night when you left," she began.

"I could tell," I said. "Well, why were you so sad?"

A pause, then, "Because I thought you were going to leave us with a babysitter, but you didn't!"

I wanted to make sure I had it right, so I clarified. "So, if I had a sitter, you wouldn't have cried, but because Daddy was home, you did?" The answer, complete with a vigorous nod of the head, "Yes."

Of course, this is not an indictment on Tony's parenting. It's more the simple fact that when a sitter comes, the cat's away, so the mice watch movies -- a special treat, if you will. By her logic, if I leave and Daddy stays, well, that's just like having both of us at home which, apparently, is to say that neither of us is any fun.

In the interest of having more nights out, I hope she doesn't tell that to my friends.

Bad Times with Good Deals

2010-09-16T21:44:00.000-07:00

There is relentless desire in some women to dress better than they do.

Sadly, I am one of these women.

We all know that money can certainly buy you terrific clothes and a fancy hairdo. But seeing that I have not, nor will I ever grace the cover of any fashion magazine because I'm neither a celebrity nor a supermodel, I've learned that if you're an average Josie and you want to look the slightest bit put together on a budget, you need time. Divine intervention might help, too.

But with time, I'm not talking about putting in the extra minutes in the morning to get all gussied up. I'm talking about the time it takes to get all the stuff and the stuff done to your hair (and nails, if that's your bag) so that you can at least look like you care an eensy bit about how you present yourself.

Because let's face it (and I'm cringing while typing this): it matters. Why it matters is for someone else to blog about.

What I can tell you is that every fall and spring, I set three fashion-related goals:

I'm gonna go out and find myself a few new pieces,
These pieces are not gonna cost me lots of money and,
I'm gonna look like a rock star when I wear these clothes that didn't cost me lots of money.

I consistently accomplish goal #1 and most definitely goal #2 - all it takes is 15 minutes and a trip to Target. Achievement of goal #3 is subjective, but by my standards, I'm still more Taylor Hicks than I am Lady Gaga, if you're feelin' me (then again, maybe that's not a bad thing...)

My objective success in accomplishing the third goal, I've recently realized, is first, my very much not being a rock star and second, my lack of time (a fact with having three kids) to find clothes that fit my definition of a "deal." Which is to say that I don't like spending more than two hours in search of a shirt that costs no more than $15 ($8 for a t-shirt), a $20 layer to go over it and a $40 something to cover my lower half.

This also explains why my seasonal wardrobe is a variation on a theme. Consider what one might say, seeing me walking the girls to school any given Monday. You might hear: "Oh, there goes Jen in that grocery bag blue polo she bought at the Gap for $3.54."

Tuesday, you'd hear: "Oh, there goes Jen again...in a tomato red polo...that she bought at the Gap...for $3.54."

By Wednesday: "Good God, did she just buy one in every color because they were $3.54?"

The answer to that, for your information, is no. I bought three colors. Out of ten. Well, there were, like, ten colors when they were full-price. Probably more in the neighborhood of four when they were $3.54.

A good friend of mine insists on not necessarily trying to find the best deal, because, after all, time is precious, but instead on buying pieces that look great on and then calculating the "cost per wear."

Brilliant idea. Except that I like my cost per wear to be in the neighborhood of 1/20th of one cent. Which is roughly the same value of a Sunday paper coupon. So, I'd have to be wearing every piece of clothing I own until the day I die -- a day that I'm assuming won't come for another 60-some-odd years.

A few months ago, a friend mentioned her Gap credit card and how terrific the "rewards" were. I splurged and applied. The deals were instant.

Twenty percent off that day. And a 10% off pass to use over the next 90 days. Ten percent off purchases on Tuesdays. And the promise of $10 coupons that would show up in the mail tucked neatly in my statement. All I had to do was start buying.

But when to buy?

One of the biggest complicating factors with my obtaining any kind of deal at the Gap or anywhere, for that matter, is determining a good time to find it. If I elect to shop on a weekday, rather than cut into weekend family time, then I have to get a sitter. Which costs money. And offsets any "good deal" I might get. And adds to my cost per wear.

So usually, I either decide not to shop, or shop online (only to return nearly all of it) or just go shopping. During the week. With at least one of my children. Usually two.

I attempted such a shopping trip this week. Here's how it went down:

Me (to Anna, after picking her up from preschool): Hey, Kiddo, we're going to take a quick trip to the mall...and we're gonna get pretzels!

Anna: Yay!

Josie (wanting to share in the excitement): Yaaaay! Preh-zullls!!

Anna: Mommy, can we have a piece of chocolate, too?

Clearly, she sensed that the pretzels weren't driving the trip to the mall.

Me: Uh, no honey. Just pretzels. Mommy has to make a stop in a store and I don't think chocolate's a good idea.

Because buttered, salted fingers fondling polyester blouses, apparently, is.

A short ten minute drive and we were at the mall. We stopped first at Auntie Anne's. I bought two pretzels (one of them was free - I came prepped with a coupon) to keep their hands and minds busy as we shopped at the Gap.

I walked with purpose toward the Gap, armed with a promotional coupon that held an even more special deal for cardholders. I imagined all the hip clothes I would buy with my coupons and how these reduced-rate purchases were going to help me get more coupons in my statement.

Pushing the stroller with one hand and the other gripping Anna's buttery digits, we crossed the threshold of the Gap.

Then, without warning, from Anna: "Uh, Mommy I hafta go to the baffroom."

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

The pretzel supply was dwindling, but I had no choice. The kid needed relief. After a 10 minute trip to the bathroom, she was relieved. And so was the pretzel supply.

Back to the Gap, we went, although this time I had a decidedly different ambition: grab as many deal clothes as possible in the shortest amount of time without trying on a single thing.

I'd been in this Groundhog Day tale before, so I anticipated what ultimately would happen: I'd have to come back at some other point within the next 30 days to return every deal item I scored without trying on.

But this time, there was divine intervention.

Amazingly enough, all of it fit. None of it is going back. Most notably, there's not a single piece of variation on a theme-wear. And while I might not be a rock star, I'm confident that I'd look decent enough to head up to the mic on karaoke night, if that was my thing.

So for this fall/winter, I think I'm all set. I'll be happy with how I look. But the best part is that I can spend the time I would have spent shopping doing something considerably more productive (and less shallow) than thinking about how I'd like to dress better than I do.

Two Answers are Better than One

2010-09-12T08:23:00.000-07:00

My sister and I have far fewer similarities than differences.

We share a resemblance (though we'd both dispute that), the same parents and an unwavering belief that our way is, in fact, the best way. The latter is a trait we've inherited from our mother.

Our differences abound.

By objective standards, she's a gifted natural athlete. Where I required lots of supervised instruction, she innately knew how to play just about every sport she tried.

She was always a math person. I preferred to write. Sometimes too much.

She also has the knack for quickly assessing a situation and coming up with the right solution. I have a tendency to over think the easiest of problems.

This last difference is one that's served her well as an IT professional, earning her a reputation for being an effective and efficient manager. It's also one that comes in handy for an occasional ribbing of me, her little sister.

Take her solution for my most recent parenting drama, for example.

But before her suggested solution, the back story, which began last Friday morning, when I found myself in a less-than-ideal situation.

I rose early so that I could head out with a running friend for a 14-miler at 5:30. Long runs are usually reserved for Saturdays, but since we were headed down to Cincinnati for the weekend, I wanted to get the run out of the way. In the interest of time, I set my alarm for 5:15, which would give me enough time to brush my teeth, put my contacts in, get dressed and out the door to meet my friend.

I tossed a pouch of sport chewies in my running shorts just in case I needed them, but I figured I could go without food until breakfast. This was failure in judgment #1.

Two and a quarter hours later, I was back at home. And I was also experiencing an unwelcome side effect of distance running: bathroom issues.

Serious ones.

I needed to eat, but given the bathroom issues and the fact that I have earned myself a place in the record books for the uber sweaty/stinky, I opted to shower and start my day smelling like citrus bath products rather than a locker room or one of its commodes. This was failure in judgment #2 (yes, really, it was).

Freshly showered and dressed, I looked at the time: 8:10 a.m.

Olivia still wasn't awake and knowing that the process takes a good 25 minutes for her, I knew we'd be running behind. So I went into her bedroom, shook her awake, let her know we were already running behind and ran downstairs to get her lunch ready, along with assembling breakfast for Anna and Josie.

At least twice during this process, I had to take, ahem, bathroom breaks. My intestines apparently weren't sharing my zeal for the morning run.

Before I knew it, it was 8:55. Time to leave the house for the walk to school. Shoes on and kids in the stroller, we raced to school, all the way my insides yearning for the coordinates of the nearest facilities.
By 9:05, Liv was at school and I knew that I needed to get home to eat and, well, to take care of any unfinished business.

Ten minutes later, I was back at home and feeling woozy, so I readied my usual morning oatmeal in the microwave. That's when duty called, so I headed back to the business room.

Only this time, events took sharp turn for the worse. I could sense my blood sugar was really really low and that chances were pretty good I was going to faint.

The upside was that I was seated.

The downside was that my only company in the house were Anna and Josie, both of whom are under the age of four. And neither of whom knows how to use the phone. Clearly, this was a multi-faceted problem compounded by bad timing, not to mention, several errors in judgment on my part.

I put my head down on my legs and closed my eyes. I'm not sure when, but at some point, my ears started ringing, my head went fuzzy and it happened: I blacked out.

Probably just as quickly as I lost consciousness, I regained it. Only now I was convulsing wildly with my feet uncontrollably kicking the radiator in front of me.

I could hear Josie and Anna playing in the living room, but I couldn't manage to get myself out of the bathroom. Anna was my only hope. Mercifully, the convulsing stopped and I called for her help.

"Uh...Anna honey?" I begged.

I could hear her heavy feet pounding closer, through the dining room and into the kitchen. They came to a stop right outside the door.

"Hi, Mommy!" She was completely oblivious to the scene on the other side of the door.

"Hey, Kiddo. Can you do Mommy a biiiiig favor? Can you unplug my cell phone on the counter and bring it to me, please?"

Anna's not one with a gentle touch and I could imagine her ripping my new phone from its cord. As bad as I felt, I wondered if I was going to be on the hook for another $80 replacement phone.

"I got it, Mommy!" She sounded so proud. I know I certainly was.

"Good job, Sweetie! Can you bring it to me?"

She handed me the phone around the door and I wearily called my running friends, who, through a series of lickety-split texts and phone calls, came to my rescue in no fewer than two minutes (Heather, Maureen and Elinor, you know I'm eternally grateful).

I was saved. And mighty embarrassed.

I also couldn't help but wonder: what would have happened if I'd fainted and really did a number on myself with two kids in the house who didn't know how to use a phone? I figured maybe it was time to teach Anna, at the very least.

Now that I've come dangerously close to becoming the subject of a Dateline special, I've determined that the risk of Anna calling 911 for a test drive is far outweighed by the risk of what could happen to both kids if they found me sprawled out cold on the floor.

So back to my sister and her speedy solutions.

Over breakfast at my parents' house this morning, I explained to my sister my grand plan to teach Anna to use the phone. My dad was sitting at the table, nodding his head in agreement, knowing my past history with fainting (it's happened many times, every episode ignited by my failure to procure food in a timely fashion).

"I've heard the stories of three-year-olds calling 911 and saving their parents," he said, adding, "So that's probably not a bad idea."

I looked at my sister, who clearly, disagreed. Her brows were raised in a way that suggested I had it coming. And I did.

"Or, you could just eat," she said matter of factly, followed by a well-timed bite of her toast. She was clearly satisfied with her solution. Being the logical math person that she is, that was the most appropriate (not to mention obvious) answer.

Clearly, I'd missed this.

But one gal's straightforward answer is another gal's blog post. And for that, we both got our way.

Managing Change

2010-08-30T20:26:00.000-07:00

When Tony and I brought each of the three girls home from the hospital, there was only one thing we knew we would do as parents: we weren't going to have a baby sleeping in our room.

Not in a Pack and Play. Not in a co-sleeper. Not anywhere in our decidedly unmasterish bedroom.

There was to be at least 20 feet and two doors separating us from our newest addition.

This decision was made mostly by me and fully supported by Tony, who fears lack of sleep much more than I ever will. But it wasn't concern for Tony's potential sleep deprivation that factored into my decision (after all, I was nursing, so it wasn't like he had to get up and feed the baby).

It was that I don't manage transitions well.

I don't phase-in well. I don't "wean from" well. I just either do something or stop doing something. Shades of gray are my Achilles heel. And with children, there are shades of gray. Especially when it comes to their sleep habits.

Even so, I knew that if any baby of ours ever slept in our room, that kid would leave for college having slept no where but our bedroom. And that wasn't appealing. At all.

So the decision was made for all Kuhel babies never to take up bed with their parents (stormy nights, bad dreams excluded... we're not that heartless after all).

And so I've come to manage most transitions this way. When people ask me before a time change, "So, Jen, you going to put the girls to bed earlier so that they can adjust?" My response is usually something like, "Nah, I'll just put them to bed at the usual time and wake them up at the usual time. They'll figure it out."

Problem is, they're kids, babies sometimes. So no, they don't always figure it out.

Take last week, for example, when Liv started school as a first grader.

The first day after school wasn't bad. We went to the neighbor's house for after school popsicles, then back home for a little PBS. I was slightly annoyed that I had to ask once, then tell her no fewer than four times to turn off the TV. But usually, she's a good listener, so I brushed it off.

The next day, we brought a friend's daughter home from school. All was well until I asked her to come and say good bye to her friend. She looked at me and then simply did not move. I told her to come over. She continued to swing. I told her again to come and say goodbye to her friend. Complete obstinance, not to mention poor manners. I was livid.

And finally, after dinner on the third day of school, we went back to the school playground with the dog. On the way home, Olivia rode her scooter slightly farther ahead of Anna and me, who was trying to balance walking the dog and pushing Josie on her tricycle. Olivia was still well within earshot when Josie took a spill off her bike, the dog got away and Anna (clearly tired) inched closer to the street, wailing about I'm not sure what exactly. I shouted above the crying to Olivia, who was watching me, "Honey, Josie just fell down. Can you please come help me?" Like the day before, she looked at me and did not move. Anna and Josie's screams were in sync and getting louder. And I was angry that Olivia chose not to help. "Liv! I NEED YOUR HELP!" Again, nothing. She was looking straight at me, but no movement. Finally, "LIV!! GET OVER HERE NOOOOOW!!!"

Terrific display of parenting, but at that point, I didn't have a choice. Josie was scratched and crying. I'd let go of the dog, who, like Anna, was wandering close to the street and there was Liv, looking at me with a blank stare.

Finally, she ambled (yes ambled) over and said, "I didn't hear you. I thought you said, 'Stop.'" This, of course, made me more angry because I knew that she heard and understood every last word I said. I was miffed. Really really miffed.

Then I told Olivia that I was really really disappointed in her. And that I would have a hard time believing that she "didn't hear" me, based on her previous behavior that week. Of course, she started crying. After all, I'd done everything short of calling her a liar. And that doesn't feel so swell. For her or for me.

It took me a while to cool off. In fact, I was still cooling off until I ran into a friend at the grocery store and we were talking about our eldests' poor afterschool behavior during week one of school.

"You know, they hold it together all day at school and then they just have to let it out once they get back home," she said.

My friend was right. And I knew that I was wrong. Not so much for being angry at Olivia's behavior - I'm convinced that any parent would be annoyed.

I was wrong for not being more understanding that she's a child and that transitions are hard, even for kids who are good students. Maybe she needs extra time. Maybe she needs a mom who's willing to give a few more hugs when she's not behaving especially hug-worthy. Maybe she needs to hear that I know she's a good kid at school and that I know it's hard to sit and listen as well as she does all the time.

So tonight, before I put her to bed, that's what I told her. And she agreed.

"It is hard to listen and sit still and do all my schoolwork, Mommy" she explained before sighing. I gave her a kiss and an "I love you." She flashed me a smile.

As much as I'm tempted, I won't sneak into her bed tonight and get in a snuggle while she's still small enough to appreciate it - after all, she's on the top bunk.

But if she comes into our room, I'm not going to turn her away. Even if she does it for a few nights. It might be a transition, but I'll figure it out.

The Missing Sister

2010-08-25T20:45:00.000-07:00

I had just gotten out of the shower this morning and walked into the bedroom to get dressed. Anna must have come into our room while I was out running. I found her sleeping on my side of the bed, curled up, thumb in her mouth.

My footsteps woke her. She sat up straight, eyes wide open. She turned to me.

"Momeeee? Does Olivia hafta go to school today?"

It was only the second day of school and she was already hoping that her big sister didn't have to go back to the first grade.

"Yes, honey, she does," I chuckled. "She goes every day, sweetie."

"Oh... ." She paused to let my response sink in, then, "Can we go downstairs and have sumping to eeeat?"

The untrained Annaphile might see a child who's moved on from her sister's return to school to deciding whether she'll have Crispix or runny eggs and toast for breakfast. But I knew right then that my three-year-old's leading question of the day indicated one thing: a wee bit of anxiety over her six-year-old sister's new daytime absence.

For the past three months, my oldest two girls have spent pretty much all of their time together. Even the two short sports camps they did and the one half-day mini camp they attended, they did together. Olivia wanted to be with Anna just as much as Anna wanted to be with her.

It was kind of cute and I figured, what the heck? Might as well let them enjoy each other because God knows that in 10 years, they could be at each other's throats.

To be clear, they never excluded their two-year-old sister. In fact, all three of them played pretty well together, I'm happy to say. But seeing that Josie only speaks one word at a time and the older two could string together multiple words and clauses to form complete thoughts, well, the friendship was a likely one.

Anna has a few of her own friends, but I've come to notice when Liv's around and accompanied by her big girl friends, Anna would rather follow them around and face potential exclusion (never at the hands of her sister, mind you) than engage herself with a buddy her own age. That's the inevitability of having older siblings, I think.

Today, though, I realized just how much she's torn between not seeing her sister and doing her own thing.

On the walk back from school, we ran into a neighbor friend with three girls my girls' ages and planned to have a playdate. Anna was excited to play and made it very clear that I was not to be a part of the playdate. After all, a playdate with someone else, at someone else's house, by definition, does not involve one's mother. That's the case for six-year-olds, sure. For three-year-olds, not so much.

I explained that I would most definitely be attending.

So Anna ran ahead of my friend, her daughters, Josie and me, and into their backyard. She was glad to be at someone else's house for sure.

Thing is that at 9:30 in the morning, not everyone is as eager as Anna to tear it up and shake it down. Admittedly, Anna can be a bit in-your-face, sometimes loud and well, enthusiastic, euphemistically speaking. She was precisely the type of child who, three years ago, would have made a three-year-old Olivia cower in fear.

Which was the effect she was having on her friend this morning. So her mother and I amicably agreed that it was best if we postponed the playdate for another time. No hard feelings, just two mom friends who understood what was best for everyone.

The thing is that Anna wasn't as understanding and let us and the better part of our neighborhood know. As animated as she is, Anna typically isn't one to throw kicking and screaming tantrums. But she did. Right then and there.

All it did was make my friend feel worse, which I wished it didn't. And it shouldn't.

Anna then proceeded to cry the whole walk home and she didn't stop when we got inside. Also not typical.

So I picked her up and sat chest-to-chest with her, rocking gently on the living room chair. She was sobbing into me. Her little back erratically moving up and down, up and down. Tears soaking the shoulder of my shirt.

Anna can cry with the best of them, but not like this. Then it occurred to me.

Her crying wasn't at all about the playdate. It was that she had to come home without her favorite big sister. And well, that just wasn't much fun, was it? And it hurt.

I'm positive that if her tears were about the playdate, she would have been wailing about it. Anna's not one to mince words, after all. But never once did she say a word about it. I'd already forgotten that yesterday, after our trip to the gym and subsequent smoothie purchase, she asked, "Can we get one for Olivia?"

Olivia may have been out of sight, but not at all out of mind.

After calming her down a bit, I said, "Hey Anna, we'll do something else instead. What do you think sounds good? A bike ride?"

She stopped crying and pushed herself up off my chest. Her nose was all puffy and red. Eyes glossy.

"No. " A few hiccupy breaths, then, "Actually, I think I wanna go to that museum with all the toys."

She meant the Cleveland Children's Museum. We spent lots of time there last year when Liv was at school. Anna and Josie always had fun there. The museum was their thing.

"OK, Kiddo. Let me get some coffee and we'll head out."

So that's what we did. And together, Anna and Josie had lots of fun this morning at the museum.

Tomorrow morning stands a pretty good chance of Anna asking the same question. And I'll give her the same response.

Only tomorrow, I might throw in a hug for good measure. Then she'll go downstairs for something to eat and figure out what she and Josie can do together.

And I'll start planning for what I'm going to say in two more years when Josie starts her day, asking me the same question.

Out of Control

2010-08-23T09:22:00.000-07:00

"Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride."

Those were the captain's instructions as we ascended through the clouds west of Cleveland on our way to Las Vegas. I was attempting to lose myself in one of the steamier scenes from my first vacation read, Bernhard Schlick's The Reader.

I glossed over the words: Touched. Bath. Skin. Nipple.

My guess is I was supposed to be aroused, but the only tingling I felt was the nervous one in the pit of my stomach.

Please dear Jesus, puh-leeeeze. Don't let us die on this plane. Don't let us die on this plane. Pleeeeeezzzzzzzze.

Mercifully, the flight was smooth and the minutes passed, each one convincing me that dear Jesus did, in fact, want me to live. At least, he wanted both Tony and me to live long enough to enjoy our tenth anniversary Vegas trip. I'd deal with the way back later.

Thing is, my fear of flying isn't so much about falling 30,000 feet out of the sky, although by any objective standard, that would really really suck. It's rooted in one simple fact: I'm not flying the plane.

I spent plenty of my childhood flying around the world. My mom worked for TWA and my grandparents lived in Taiwan so we had the means to see them. And we did, annually. Back then, my biggest fear was experiencing the excruciating pain of having my ears pop when the cabin pressure changed. But somewhere in adolescence as my personality was developing, I became a control freak. And that forever changed the way I felt about flying, among other things.

Today, it's why Tony rarely sits in the driver's seat. In fact, the girls call the passenger seat in the car "Daddy's seat." It's also why I check my Garmin watch every tenth of the mile to to make sure that I'm running on pace. And it's why parenting feels like I'm constantly torn between letting the girls have their way and asserting my own.

For example, every morning, our three-year-old, Anna, wants to help me make my coffee. Now I know there are parents out there who give their kids the freedom to explore and do just about anything, including pour water in the coffeemaker, but I'm not one of them. I'm trying to be more open to it, but I'm not there 100%.

My compromise is that Anna puts the filter in the basket and then puts it into the coffee maker. She turns on the burner button and flips down the top lid. Today, I even let her scoop the grinds out of the coffee can and into the filter. That was a big deal. For her and for me (I had to take a deep breath and resolve myself to cleaning up spilled coffee grinds in addition to whatever else I'd have to clean up after the kids). Pouring in the water will come some day.

I understand that control freaks are an annoying lot, which is why I do my best to let go. When it comes to the kids, I realize the importance of reigning in my controlling nature so that they don't feel like they're choking on a tight leash. It's the only way they'll learn that there's not just one way to accomplish something. And that's a lesson that's just as valuable to me as it is for them.

I'll have you know that there was only one moment of stress for me on the flight back from Las Vegas. It came about 2.5 hours into our four hour flight, when the flight attendant came racing through the cabin, telling us that the captain wanted to ready the plane for landing. Seeing that we were still 90 minutes out from when I expected to land, I wondered whether we had to make an emergency landing.

I leaned over to Tony. "I think I'd feel a lot better about flying if I could just fly this thing myself," I said.

Tony smiled and rolled his eyes. "All things being equal, Jen. I'm glad he's flying it and you're not."

I laughed. Then I sat back, relaxed and did my best to enjoy the rest of the ride.

Every Swimsuit Tells a Story

2010-08-20T12:40:00.000-07:00

The state of my girls' swimsuits says something about our summer and my state of mind.

Liv's once emerald green tankini has lost its color, its shape and its probability of being passed down. As transparent as the thing has become, the tale of a summer immersed in the happiness of childhood buoyancy is woven through the remaining shreds of Lycra. Happy memories, but headed to the garbage, nonetheless.

Anna's striped tankini was a possible hand-me-down candidate until about a week ago. Today, I noticed a small hole in her derriere, but put it on her anyway. By the time we left the pool, there was a large enough exposed space on her left cheek for me to score a tick mark for all 37 times I'd been defeated in trying to cover her up. This suit will share a final resting place somewhere near Olivia's.

The state of Josie's navy polka-dotted suit was, perhaps, the worst. Frayed beyond compare. Lycra maxxed out. Barely recognizable as something I found on the Talbots Kids clearance rack three summers ago. I can't bear to even look at the thing. And as terrible as it sounds, there have been more days than I care to admit where my two-year-old has left me like her swimsuit: frayed, maxxed out and barely recognizable as the parent I was three summers ago when she was a newborn. Her swimsuit, like my memories of her frustrated, tantrum-esque screaming bouts this summer, is landfill-bound, for sure.

As for my swimsuit, it's in pretty good shape, thank you very much. Not too faded. Not too stretched. Well cared for. And certainly bound for the winter indoor swimming season and more than likely, next summer's, too. I like to think of it as a symbol of my resilience as a mom more so than an indication of a well-constructed suit.

Today was probably our last day at the pool together. Next Tuesday, Liv starts the first grade and then two weeks later, Anna starts preschool. As for Josie and me...well, we'll figure out how to speak nice-like to one another during our three mornings of alone time. Maybe we'll even head out together to get her a marked down swimsuit for next summer.

So now, as I do one last survey of the suits before pitching them, I can't help but feel more fulfilled than defeated. Sure the suits are plenty tattered, but that's a good thing. It just means I did my job and the kids had fun. So much fun that their little minds will store this summer as a memorable one, I think.

And I just can't bring myself to throw that all away.

The Daily Grinding

2010-08-12T05:44:00.000-07:00

Being half-Chinese means I'm lots of things.

Obedient. Productive. A gambler. (Stereotypes exist for a reason, right?)

From a health perspective, it means I'm genetically predisposed to having dental issues. Like sensitive teeth. Gingivitis. Periodontal disease.

It didn't help that my mom married an American whose natural tooth color was slightly yellow with a gap between his front teeth big enough to fit his index finger (it's long been bonded for those of you who know my dad).

This explains why I had to undergo such orthodontic pleasures as a Herbst Appliance (my husband chuckles every time I mention it), a Bionator (sounds like something marketed by the same people who invented Bowflex) and three different headgears (one of which Velcroed under my chin and encased my entire head in brown elastic - to match my hair color, presumably) before and during my four years as an awkward teen with braces.

During this same four-year period, I sported a shockingly terrible short hair cut that I requested a kind woman named Phyllis chop into my mop month after month. But I was beautiful on the inside. Guarantee it.

At any rate, my mouth is my mouth and I'm stuck with it. There was a lot of my parents' money invested in getting this mouth to look pretty decent.

But there's one thing that I'm convinced could make it all turn south, even more so than my genetic composition:

Motherhood.

On any given day, it's safe to assume that at least once, I speak to one or more of my girls with a jaw clenched so tight that I'm pretty sure nearly every last muscle fiber in my body is fully engaged. It usually sounds something like this, "Annaaaa, ghhett innn hhyyyourrr ccarssseat.... nuhhhoooowww."

Or there's the wildly popular, "Juh-ooh-sie, puh-leeezh. Mommy ccann ooonnleeee do wuhnnnnn thhhinggg at a tiiiiime."

I'm convinced one of these days, I'm going to either lock my jaw shut or file my teeth smooth so that I completely lose my ability to bite and chew. I have no dental knowledge or research to substantiate my concerns, but it seems reasonable enough to me.

I used to reserve this jaw clenching behavior for use only inside the home, but as of late I've taken to doing it in public (I blame the August heat and the lack of air conditioning in our 1920s home). Take last night, for example, when we were out to dinner and Josie started performing doing knife tricks that involved her tongue. After trying to coax it away from her -- I knew that taking it away from her would end in screams -- I had no choice.

I clenched.

"Juh-ooh-sie. Guh-iive ittt to meee, nuh-owwww," I stammered. A half-second later, Tony snatched the knife from her. Screams followed. Lots of them. And I think I could taste some enamel that wore off my back molars.

I know that I'm making myself ripe for parody when the kids get older, but for now, it's all I can do to not bellow primal screams as frequently as I feel the urge. And believe you me, the urge is both frequent and strong.

In the meantime, I should probably try a more Zen-like approach that involves taking deep breaths and closing my eyes. That would be super Chinese of me.

And just about as likely as a stereotype is accurate.

Just Like Me

2010-08-05T20:25:00.000-07:00

Cheeks puffed full of hot air, most relatives eagerly blow the dust off the cover of the "just like" game the instant a new addition is made to a family.

You know the game. It usually goes something like this:

"Ooooh! Look at the way Baby Janey wrinkles her nose! That's just like her mommy used to do! Coochie coochie coo, Baby Janey, yessss....you're juuuuust like your mammmmmaa!!"

Or something like this:

"Did you just see that? The way Little Chuckie sucks on his big toe?? That's exactly what I used to do! Isn't that something...Little Chuckie's just like his Uncle Teddy! Hot dog!"

And so it goes. And goes and goes. And goes. It almost makes you start to wonder if your child is, in fact, your own.

And then one day when your child has moved out of diapers and into the realm of becoming a moving, thinking, processing, physically active human being, you see it.

The way she's obedient.

Just like you.

The way she gestures.

Just like you.

The way she's easily embarrassed.

Just. Like. You.

As parents, we relish the things our children do that remind us of the best in ourselves. Then we cringe and almost too eagerly craft a path to fix the things they do that remind us of all we've worked so hard to change.

I'll admit I regularly have to remind myself that my kids are who they are and there's no amount of changing I can, and more importantly, should force upon them. They have to live their lives and figure it all out for themselves.

But last weekend, I had the chance to help make a change. And it was one that left both Olivia and I brimming with satisfaction.

Some background first:

Most of you know that my youngest, Josie, started physical therapy when she was six months old. Nothing serious, but she was diagnosed with low muscle tone. Simply put, she didn't bear weight on her legs, couldn't roll over, hold her head up, push herself up on the floor. Part of it was her disposition (she wasn't going to do any of those things until she was good and ready) and part of it was that she's low tone. After nine months of PT, she was all caught up, graduated and went on to scare the bejesus out of me during most trips to the playground. Today, you'd never know the kid was low tone.

Thing is, low tone is genetic, say the docs. So they asked if either Tony or I were low tone. No way, we said at first. Then I started asking my folks questions. Turns out I didn't move much. My mom just always thought I was a content baby. Content to sit and watch it all happen around me. Then I started thinking about the things I struggled to do physically as a child. And it hit me.

Josie drew one of the short straws in her mother's genetic lottery.

Of course, I immediately started thinking about Olivia and Anna. Anna had always been a very physical child, so she was in the clear. But Olivia shared many of the same physical traits as Josie as an infant. And now that she's a happy, healthy six-year-old, I watch her occasional fumbles at the playground and can't help but think: She's just like me.

So back to the shared satisfaction ...

Last Saturday, Tony, the girls, his grandmother and I walked up to the school playground for another last-chance-to-wear-the-kids-out after dinner. Olivia was back at it on the monkey bars, going across the way she does, one hand following the other, one rung at a time.

She was getting tired. Tony gently suggested, "Hey Liv, you know if you go faster just one arm at a time and swing, you won't get as tired."

She wrinkled her face. Anxiety everywhere.

"But I can't. All the other kids can and I try and I can't." Her tone was equal parts shame and defeat.

My heart ached. I knew the feeling.

Yes, I've been involved in sports my whole life. Yes, I'm athletic, if, by athletic you mean someone who works out. But I've always been plagued with technical difficulties that have kept me mediocre in any given sport.

In basketball, it was layups. In the winter of my freshman year in high school, I'd come home from our 6-8 p.m. practices only to do layups with my right and left hands over and over and over, floodlight illuminating the driveway and hoop, until I could time my footing just right. In crew, it was failing to make a solid connection between my back and my legs, or "shooting my tail." It's a problem I have to this day whenever I row. It's so frustrating that I can't even bring myself to use the ergometer that sits in our basement.

The only exception has been running. At some point, I realized that my level of coordination had nothing to do with my aerobic capacity. I latched onto that and found my niche.

But for everything else, I could always see what my body was supposed to do. I just couldn't get it to execute.

Olivia isn't old enough to articulate that, but I knew that's how she felt there on the monkey bars.

So back at the playground, I bent down and said, "Hey Liv, remember how last month I crossed the monkey bars for the first time in my life EVER?"

No, that wasn't a lie. She nodded and remembered being just as excited as I was that day. We were jumping up and down.

"Well, when I was little I couldn't swing one bar at a time either, but now I think I know how to help."

We walked over to the monkey bars together and she stood on the platform, one hand on the first bar, one hand on the second.

I told her that I was going to hold onto her hand in front while she swung her other arm around to the third bar. She frowned.

"But I'm not doing it by myself!," she griped.

"Well, no, but all I'm doing is helping you get the feel for it, honey. You'll get it lickety split, you'll see. Honey, trust me, I know how you feel."

She wanted to trust me, but wasn't sure.

I held tight over her front hand and she swung the back hand to the third bar. Her eyes were the size of tennis balls.

"Mommy!!" Excitement. Pure and simple.

I nearly cried.

First, she did one bar. Then I helped her to two. Within ten minutes, the kid had sweaty palms and the makings of blisters, but she also traveled one rung at a time all the way across the monkey bars.

All by herself.

She'd figured it out and she was so completely satisfied.

I was too. Because I knew for that moment, and probably more to come, Liv and I shared something in common. The best part is it's something I understand, so maybe I can help her in a way no one could help me when I was an awkward adolescent in sports and on the playground.

If Olivia has children, they may or may not have something that resembles low muscle tone. If they do, I know that my sympathetic, gentle-souled daughter will approach her struggling child with a heart that wants to help in a way few others can.

Just like me.

Bad Answers to Tough Questions

2010-08-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

I definitely make the short list of Top Ten Parents Who Fail to Answer Tough Questions Posed by Their Children.

That makes me a winner in the Toilet Bowl of parenting. Terrific.

Take, for example, my response to this question from Olivia earlier this week:

"Mommy, how come there are so many brown people around here?"

"Here" was Cleveland's near east side. Kinsman and Union, to be exact. She asked the question after we drove past a dozen or so children playing on the fenced-in blacktop of a day care center. An orange construction cone served as a temporary blockade for a six-foot section of missing fence.

I glanced at the thermometer in the car: 92 degrees. We had the windows closed with the air conditioning on but I started to sweat. I couldn't answer.

I tilted my head back to look at her in the rear view mirror. Her head was turned toward the side window, eyes examining the storefronts with barred windows and makeshift signs. She didn't know that last fall, a man not too far from here had brutally killed eleven women and buried them in and around his home. There was a smell, but few thought anything of it, let alone the missing women, most of whom led troubled lives.

I paused too long. So she asked again.

"Mommy, how come there are so many bro-," I cut her off.

"You're asking why are there African American people in the neighborhood?" I corrected, not so subtly.

"Afri-what?"

"African American, honey. African American."

"Yeah, African American," she confirmed, nodding. "Why are there so many African American people around here?"

Before I pass on my response, some background.

We live in a Cleveland suburb called Shaker Heights. For those of you not from Cleveland, it's an inner ring suburb that's historically been know for its socio-economic diversity. Drive down Shaker Boulevard and you'll see beautiful, stately, century-old trees standing guard before beautiful, stately, century-old homes of the privileged. But cross the Rapid Transit tracks that run just four houses from ours on Avalon Road, drive a half block and you'll see handfuls of deteriorating single- and two-family homes.

Shaker's demographic makeup is roughly 60% white, 35% African American, 4% Asian, 1% Latino. Olivia's kindergarten class could have served as a microcosm of the city. In no way does she live in the lily white bubble of a suburb I grew up in.

And I'm glad for that.

Everywhere we go in Shaker, my kids see friends, students, professionals, parishioners, store clerks, grocery shoppers, librarians and police officers. The color of someone's skin, the shape of their eyes and what they choose to wear is a matter of appearance to the girls. I'm pretty confident that the only meaning of the word "race" they know is one that involves a challenge.

Except now, I was challenged. Olivia was asking a question about race in one of the city's deteriorating neighborhoods and I didn't want to her to make any assumptions about race and how or where people live. I knew my response would play a role in that.

But I fumbled for an answer and gave a response that was flimsy by any objective standard.
"Well Liv, you know how Pou-Pou is Chinese?" I began, reminding her of my mother. "Well, a long time ago, when Asian people started coming to the United States, a lot of them settled in California."

"California?" she asked, interrupting. "Ooooh. I wanna go there sometime!!"

"Yes, honey, we'll go there. Anyway, a lot of Chinese, Japanese and Korean people came to the United States and decided to stay in certain parts of California where they could all live near people who they were like. So, sometimes, people just like to live in places where people are like them."

The role of the ignorant, sugar-coating mother on the Afterschool Special was written for me.

Olivia didn't push me further. Either she was satisfied with my answer or had that uncomfortable feeling that I wasn't telling her the whole truth. Which is that yes, people like to live near people like them if that's their choice.

But "here" at the intersection of Kinsman and Union, I knew that for most of the people we saw, it wasn't their choice.

Days later, I'm not sure what I should have said. I wasn't ready to have a conversation with her about the gigantic disparities in socio-economic class that lie within a one-mile radius of our house. And at six, she understands that some people have more or less than others, but to what extent, I'm not sure.

Maybe it's time to find out.

My hope is that next time, I have a better, more honest answer. Being on this list of Failed Parents is not something I'm proud of.

And my hope is even stronger for what I've wanted for my kids all along: that their life experiences will serve them better than anything I have or haven't said.

Never Say Never Again

2010-07-26T06:57:00.000-07:00

I was foolish enough to make a list of parental nevers before I had children.

The list began with the following two items:
1.) I would never allow girl children to play with Barbies.
2.) I would never drive a minivan (especially not one with a rear entertainment system).

Mercifully, pregnancy intervened before I had a chance to expand the list. I was dangerously close to adding something like, "I will never take my children to Disneyworld."

My feelings about Item #1 were cultivated over two decades. Barbie became a persona non grata somewhere in the preteen years, when she symbolized all things beneath me. Twelve year olds are far too cool to spend time dressing up their Peaches and Cream Barbies, after all. In college, Barbie wasn't even on my radar, until I heard that a friend of a friend was a Barbie fanatic. A 19-year-old Barbie fanatic. She collected them and went to Barbie conventions. Weird, but certainly more legal than me using my older sister's ID to get served.

As an adult, Barbie was the face of so many problems for our gender. Objectification. Unachievable body proportions. Involvement with men whose hair is too perfectly coiffed.

My feelings about Item #2 grew from my lack of desire to become a taxi driver for my children. The term "soccer mom" appealed to me about as much as lapping up an oversized dollop of wasabi. Besides, minivans were decidedly un-cool. And I was going to be a cool mom.

Four years after Tony and I were married, Olivia was born. We bought a Highlander. And someone sent a Barbie in a baby gift care package for Christmas.

It was a gift for her, not for me, so I decided that regardless of how I felt about Barbie, she wasn't mine to toss.

The edges were softening.

Two years later, Anna was born. A friend gave Liv another Barbie for Christmas. She was battery powered and had a dress that spun around and lit up when you pushed a button on her tushie. I rolled my eyes, but naturally, Olivia loved it, so I kept it.

The edges were crumbling.

A year later, I was pregnant again. I'm 5'9", Tony's 6'5" and our kids had big car seats. They wouldn't all fit in the back of the Highlander.

So we bought a minivan.

With a rear entertainment system.

The edges were gone.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I also broke the nearly-made-it item on my list of parental nevers. When I was 30 weeks pregnant with Josie, we took the older two to Disneyworld.)

Sometime earlier this year, Olivia found a Barbie movie at the library that she wanted to check out. It was called "Barbie and the Diamond Castle". Powerless to resist, I borrowed it (not without asking her before I handed over my library card to the circulation lady, "Liv, honey, are you sure you want to watch this?")

She watched it during an overnight at my in-laws and she was hooked. My mother-in-law bought her the movie and I downloaded the movie soundtrack. There was a song sung by Katherine McPhee on it, after all, so it was completely legit.

Then I went to Target and bought three Barbie movies. My only excuse is that they were on sale.

Earlier this month, we made a trip to the library to stock up on movies for the kids to watch on the way to vacation. Two more Barbie movies for the ride.

Clearly, I'm a woman of shaky convictions.

But I'm also pragmatic.

Which is why I can report that for 14 hours on Saturday, six Barbie movies and one Disney Pixar flick kept the girls (and Tony and I) happy over a 770 mile journey in our rear entertainment system equipped Odyssey.

Go ahead - accuse me of becoming a sellout and taking the easy route.

At least I can say those were two things that were never on my list.

Sure Beats Being at Home

2010-07-21T12:34:00.000-07:00

"Mommy, vacation is fun. Being at home isn't."

That from Anna this morning as I was shaking Mini-Wheats into her bowl. Tony paused his search for SportsCenter on the TV, turned to me and we nodded to each other, smiling.

We couldn't disagree.

We've made it past Hump Day on our vacation and we're still going strong. Not that we thought we wouldn't have fun. But you may recall that about a week ago, Tony and I harbored some feelings of doubt based on one child's failure to sleep.

Because let's be honest, we all love love love our kids. And we all love love love to take week long vacations. Problem is that successfully loving them simultaneously without enlisting some form of help from babysitters, parents or inlaws can seem about as likely as a happy prearranged marriage.

Now, this will become less of an issue as the girls get older, I'm sure. But today, we have three girls, three different ages, with at least two different schedules and certainly three different definitions for what is and isn't "fun." By any objective standard, it's not the ideal foundation for a 100% happy nuclear family vacation.

So we made the conscious decision back in April that having a family vacation means spending quality time together away from our house doing something we think everyone will like most of the time.

Seeing that Tony and I aren't the most adventurous folks, we seek out the familiar. There's lots of security there. So when it comes to packing the kids in the minivan to go on vacation, we want to minimize the time spent getting our bearings and maximize the time we can doing all the things we can't do at home.

Enter Hilton Head. We visited last year with my folks and sister, staying at a plantation down the road. It was a terrific trip, so we decided to do it again, this time with just the five of us. And this time, we decided to stay at Sea Pines, since it seemed to be more self-contained and kid-friendly, which I'm happy to report, we were right about on both counts. (Staying at a new plantation on the same island is about as adventurous as it gets for us.)

Lucky for us, we've discovered that all our kids need for a fabulous vacation is a stretch of sandy beach and waves to jump in. Sure, there are pony rides, lighthouse tours, fishing trips, dolphin watches and tours of plantation ruins we could be doing, but as long as those kids are building sand castles and jumping through waves in the ocean for two-hour stretches, they're good to go.

We realize that we might be robbing the girls of more cultural and educational, not to mention, adventurous family vacation locales.

But for us and the busy times we all live in, the best vacations are ones that don't have inflexible schedules, tours to take or buses to catch.

For four days now, we've gotten up, had breakfast, put on our swimsuits, biked to the beach, biked back for lunch and Josie's nap, hung out, biked to dinner and then biked back to the beach or gone for a "gator ride" (the alligators like to patrol the marshes at night). At the end of the day, we're all spent.

We also couldn't be happier.

We might ask the kids where they want to go next summer for vacation, but I doubt it. Hilton Head's a pretty easy sell. As far as Anna knows, vacation equals Hilton Head.

And we already know that's a lot more fun than being at home.

Coming Full Arch in Beckley, West Virginia

2010-07-16T17:50:00.000-07:00

I like to write tidy pieces. Pieces that come full circle.

This one doesn't really. But it involves a shape, nonetheless. Arches. Two of them. And they're golden.

A short while ago, we departed the McDonald's in Beckley, West Virginia en route to our vacation at Hilton Head. I wish that everything that we saw, smelled, heard, touched and tasted there could be written in something as neatly packaged as a Happy Meal.

Instead, this one's more like its menu: a little bit of everything.

To follow the sensory route, here's a conversation I overhead (while waiting approximately seven minutes for our meal) between a West Virginia senior and the teenaged cashier:

WV Man (bent over, approaching the register, adjusting hearing aide): Whacha call it when it's just one patty?
Cashier (not sure she understood): Uh...a hamburger?
WV Man (confused by the simplicity of the answer): Ooooh-kaaaay. Gimme one of those then. With everything on it.
Cashier gives a blank look.
WV Man (tossing his head back and raising his finger in front, suggesting a Eureka!): And I want a LOT of raw onions on it.

Here's what I saw (again, while waiting approximately seven minutes for our meal):

A blonde, visored, neatly dressed team associate handling the McDonald's-eating public's fries with her bare hands. I need not say more.

Also, the manager, carrying two large rounds of vacuum packed Canadian bacon to a paying female customer who signed the invoice. Swear to God. She must have the Egg McMuffin molds in her kitchen cabinets.

Here's what I touched:

The Playplace. And not just the mix and match Ronald McDonald characters arranged in giant tic-tac-toe cylinders. I was up in the thing. Performing a rescue of my youngest in the enclosed blue slide which, by my best guess, had no fewer than 16 twists and turns. And I was wearing a skirt.

Here's what I tasted:

A cheeseburger and fries. It's about the most benign dinner I can imagine having at the place. They've made billions of them, so it's the one thing they can't screw up.

And finally, here's what I smelled:

The overwhelming scent of world peace. Who knew that the Hatfields and the McCoys signed a declaration of peace that's preserved in glass case radiated by intense afternoon sunlight around 6 p.m. each day? Yes, the real Hatfields and real McCoys of West Virginia and Kentucky signed a real life peace treaty on June 14, 2003. Like all 100 of them did. Judging by the signatures, it looks like they even forced a 7-year-old descendent to sign.

It's only fitting that a document of such import find its final resting ground beside a smattering of faded silk flowers in a McDonald's in Beckley, West Virginia.

Maybe on our way home, I'll be lucky enough to have a full circle experience. For now, I'll have to settle for 180s.

Two of them. At least they were gold.

When the Vacation Countdown Doesn't Look So Good

2010-07-14T20:42:00.000-07:00

Roughly 38 hours separates me from the start of our family vacation.

And I wish it was more.

Three hours ago (a lifetime now), Tony and I were chatting up vacation with the girls. How we're leaving after soccer on Friday. How we'll be staying with friends in Charlotte overnight. How all three girls will be sleeping in the same room at the condo. How we'll go to the beach every day and, yes, how Mommy actually bought chewy snacks today at Target for the trip.

Then bedtime happened. Or, in tonight's case, didn't. And in the case of of our youngest, still hasn't.

And now, as I listen to the overtired tot screaming about turning the light off (she means on) and Max (she wanted a Max and Ruby book to snuggle with) and the blanket she kicked off the 27th time (maybe it was 28), I can't help but wonder... what the hell were we thinking?

The perspective-filled grown up that's curled up in a fetal position somewhere in the spongy innards of my brain knows that this won't happen on vacation. At least, not every night. In fact, I doubt it'll happen at all -- if you know my kids, you know they're solid (and I mean soll-lid) sleepers. They've got it locked up.

But when your kids are having a tough go, no matter how infrequently it happens, it's enough to make you reconsider just about everything you've done as a parent up to that point. And it has a way of making you question whether you've ever done anything right.

Like whether booking that family vacation to Hilton Head for a week really was a good idea.

While writing this, Tony and I have both taken trips to the second floor to try and figure out what's wrong (because something must be, right?) even though we know not-so-deep down that there's not a whole lot we can do except wait it out. Which we have.

Now, an hour later, things are quiet. Finally, my breathing has slowed, my shoulders are relaxed and I've even managed to think about eating sandy Target-brand chewy snacks while building castles on the beach with my youngest screamer.

I'm smiling about it inside and out.

And now I know what I'll be thinking later next week when the bittersweet countdown to coming home has begun and there are only 38 hours left at the beach: I wish it was more.

The Maturity in Letting it Go

2010-07-11T11:20:00.000-07:00

"Mommy, what does 'mature' mean?"

That, from Olivia last night. She was flitting along on her brand new Razor (a birthday gift from her Baba) scooting home from an end of day trip to the school playground with the grandparents.

My answer, after some explanation.

We had left the park minutes before in the typical Kuhel fashion. Which is to say that all three girls were crying. Or screaming. Or a combination of the two.

One was deeply saddened because she had only mastered leaping to the high bar once (and Papa missed seeing it). Another one yelping from her near death experience after falling 2.62 inches off the Dora scooter. And the last one shrieking because her rogue helmet buckle pinched the skin on her neck.

It's a scene Tony and I have witnessed so many times that we did what we always do - we plucked the girls one by one and readied them for the journey home, showing little, if any, indication that we were at all moved by their fragile states.

But this time, some other folks were moved by the commotion. And not in a good way.

As we were leaving the playground, I witnessed a tween girl with her other Twilight-loving friends making fun of my girls. One was rolling on the ground, crying like a baby as the other two laughed nervously, watching us, heads down, diverting their eyes. The snickering littered my airspace.

I was pretty sure Edward wouldn't have approved. I certainly didn't.

But being the non-confrontational wimp that I am (even when it comes to teens), the most I could do was turn toward the girls and ask Tony and his parents in my most audible passive aggressive tone, "Are those girls really making fun of our girls? Are they really that immature?"

Yes. And yes.

My blood was boiling. But I wasn't saying anything. And the girls didn't stop.

My mother-in-law, not one to stand by, started to shout, "Girls...!" She wasn't going to let some punk girls make fun of her granddaughters.

Right then, Tony and I both cut her off, but for different reasons. Tony just didn't think it was worth it. I just didn't want to make a bigger scene, despite the fact that I already drew attention to the issue.

So the five of us kept walking, me still fuming. Mad at myself for not having the guts to stand up for my girls and annoyed that these teens, who clearly were old enough to know better, were making fun of a six-, three-, and two-year-old.

I couldn't let it go and said something again. "They're old enough to know better," I repeated to Tony. "I can't believe how immature they were."

My frustration only served to peak my girls' curiosity in the tweens.

So, back to Olivia's question about being mature...

"Well, it means that you're behaving the way that someone older would," I stumbled. I'm a passable writer, but horrible at giving definitions on the fly. Especially under emotional duress.

"So, those girls weren't being mature," Liv had stopped scooting and turned to me. Her helmeted head was cocked to one side, lips closed hard, looking up. She was pickin' up what I was puttin' down.

Exaaaaactly.

"They were making fun of us?" That, from Anna, not wanting to be left out of the conversation.

Yes, I told her, adding that it wasn't kind, just in case she had any ideas.

"Well, that's not kind and it hurts my feelings," Anna pouted. If I hadn't said anything, Anna would have been blissfully unaware that the tween culprits had even existed. Apparently, she didn't want to miss the opportunity to experience humiliation.

Tony jumped in. "Well, it only hurts your feelings if you let it. Sometimes you just have to let it go."

His lesson was for the kids, but probably just as good for me.

Because in 35 years, I've cultivated my weakness for quietly stewing over matters big and small. Well, maybe not quietly enough because people usually take notice. A good college friend used to cup her hands together, then extend her arms upward and open up her hands. "Jenny-girl," she'd say, "just...let it goooo."

So I dropped the issue for my girls' sake.

I'd be lying if I said that I'm not bothered still. I am. Only today, I'm also trying to let it go (only with marginal success). And I'm reminding myself that for every lesson the kids learn, there's probably something in it for me, too.

Pretty mature for a gal my age, I'd say.

Missing it vs. Reliving it

2010-07-05T12:38:00.000-07:00

"You'll really miss this time when they're grown up," my dad said last Thursday night, shortly after arriving from Cincinnati.

The "this time" would be the era of erratic behavior, roughly from age two to four. The "they" refers to two of my girls. More specifically, Anna, the quick-witted, spirited three-year-old, and Josie, the (sometimes) deceptively sweet-faced, freshly minted two-year-old.

By Friday morning, grandpa was done waxing nostalgic. When faced with the mere possibility of babysitting all three girls for an overnight, he stumbled. "What? I'm not watching all three."

He might as well have declined chilled monkey brains served family style.

He noted my glare then tried to explain.

"Well, one of them, sure. But not all three... OK, maybe two of them," he backpedaled. Perhaps he could stomach sampling the brains. But certainly not the whole entree.

"Right Dad," I mocked. "As long as one of them was Olivia. And she doesn't count." Olivia would be the docile do-gooding soon-to-be six-year-old.

To be fair, I understand that both sets of grandparents are well-intentioned folks. They love themselves their grandkids. And I know that they're all more than happy to help out. They've all made this very clear.

But babysitting three wiggly, giggly little girls for a time period that exceeds a night out probably feels a little like riding a roller coaster. It sounds like a grand old time until you've strapped yourself in and find yourself chug-chug-chugging up an incline that looks more like the inverted parabola that gave you nightmares in trig than the bunny hill you thought you saw. By then, it's too late and you just have to hold on, praying that it's just as fun as you thought it would be.

I'm certain that for the grandparents, it always is. But I also think there's a fair amount of white knuckling involved. They've all noted on more than one occasion that there's a reason you're a parent to little ones in your 20s and 30s.

I'm guessing there will be a sweet spot for watching the girls when they're between the ages of 6 and 10. They'll be old enough to be independent but still young enough to enjoy what the grandtypes have planned.

After that, the teens will have arrived. And then, the girls may harbor quiet resentment that we don't trust them to be alone and that they have to be watched by their grandparents for anything longer than a night out.

Something tells me that my dad won't be telling me in ten years that I'll miss "this time."

But if he does, I'll just have to ask him to babysit.

You're More Than a Number

2010-07-01T07:07:00.000-07:00

There are lots of numbers that stick in my head.

Like 89.

That was my first sub-94 score on a 7th grade history test from Mr. Meade. And I was embarrassed.

Or $3.56.

That's what I paid for a Gap polo I bought this weekend on sale. And my sister just told me yesterday that it's now even cheaper. Dang.

Or 1:36.07.

That was the PR half marathon time that earned me a spot in this year's NYC marathon. It's also number I'll only see again if I happen to look at a digital clock at that exact same time every day.

I've had a love-hate relationship with numbers through the years, but no matter how hard I try, I just can't shake my zeal for logging my personal stats. Occasionally, I obsess over them.

Maybe more than occasionally.

On Monday night, I was introduced to a new one. And it's guaranteed to feed my neuroses like a sourdough starter.

It all began during a conversation with Tony's Uncle Larry, a retired editor for the AP, at a dinner at Tony's folks' house. We were chatting about my blog when I said, "What I'd really like to know is whether anyone actually reads it. I have no way of knowing unless someone leaves a Facebook comment or a comment on the blog."

Leave it to a seasoned newspaperman and blogger to get you the information you didn't think you could get.

"Well, sure you can find out. There's a program out of Australia called Stat Counter. You just copy a piece of HTML code on your blog and you'll be able to see how many page views and readers you have," he explained.

More numbers? Say it ain't so.

A few hours later, dinner was over and I brought the girls home.

After three cursory baths and a reading of the shortest book on the shelf I could find, I put the girls to bed. Then I raced to the computer, plugged in Statcounter.com, embedded the code and waited. I wondered if I'd found a new stat-finding friend.

Turns out, it was a match made in cyberspace.

Shortly after I finished my first post-Statcounter blog post yesterday, the numbers started rolling in. Charts and graphs told me how many page views I'd received. How many unique visitors I had. Where those visitors were from. What browser they used. Whether they came to my blog through Facebook. How long they stayed.

Finally, I knew that I had readers, so maybe I was doing something right after all. I was grateful for the information, but even more grateful for the folks who are kind enough to read.

I couldn't have been happier if someone had put an entire chocolate cake in front of me and told me I could devour the whole thing and not gain a single pound. I was giddy.

Giddy until I found myself checking my stats every time I passed the computer. Then, I started to feel guilty.

Because all of the sudden, it felt like I was spying on my readers. And only second to my ability to obsess is my ability to fill myself with guilt.

So last night while laying in bed, I wanted to know what Tony thought. Some pillow talk dialogue in the darkness of Camp Kuhel, 11:32 p.m.:

Me: I think maybe I should get rid of the Statcounter. It feels like I'm spying.

Tony: It's not spying.

Me: Well, it feels like it.

Tony (a heavy sigh): Oh good Lord.

Me: It's just that I know all this information about people and they don't know that I know. But I'm just fascinated that I can see how many people read.

Tony (clearly done with my guilt): I'm just going to start going to your blog every day and loading the page over and over to inflate your count.

Me: Well, I'll know it's you. Besides you wouldn't inflate my visitors count. I just feel like I'm violating people's privacy.

Tony (now really done with my guilt): Jen, everyone knows that nothing's private on the Internet.

Good point.

So now you all know that I know that you read. Or at least, you stop by.

For now, I'm keeping the Statcounter. And, at Tony's suggestion, I'm making it more conspicuous because that'll help with the guilt.

But you should all know that you're not just a number. You're a reader who's probably someone I know now or knew at some point in my life. And number or not, you're all stuck in my head.

The Lesson She Could Really Sink Her Teeth Into

2010-06-29T20:11:00.000-07:00

Lesson learning in our house tends to take place in one of two ways:

Way #1: Child exhibits undesirable behavior, gets warned, exhibits undesirable behavior again, gets something taken away.

Way #2: Child's undesirable behavior results in accidental bodily harm, usually to the offending child.

Both ways are accompanied by lots of tears. Lots of wailing. Lots of monumental unhappiness.

But all too often, lesson learning follows the rules of displacement. So rather than having a gain of five lessons learned over a week-long period, we have a net gain of zero when we learn one lesson, only to forget another.

Today, Anna (being the lucky three-year-old that she is) learned lessons both ways in a matter of 30 minutes.

A bit of Camp Kuhel dinner theater, the dining room, Tuesday, June 29, 6:38 p.m.:

Anna (pushing away a bowl filled with homemade turkey chili and macaroni, topped with sharp cheddar and a dollop of sour cream): Mom-meeeee? Can I have deh-ssssewwrt?

Me (lips pursed and attempting to give her the benefit of the doubt): Honey, if you're too full to eat dinner, how can you possibly eat cake?

Anna: But Mom-meeeeeeee!

Me (exhaling through the nostrils, lips still pursed): Anna, we've been through this before. You don't get dessert every night and you certainly don't get it if you choose not to eat what I make for dinner.

Olivia (not wanting to eat cake alone - Josie had already lost her chance when she screamed at dinner's arrival): Anna, all Mommy wants you to do is eat some of it. You can do it, Anna! Just eat some of it.

Anna (turning to get out of her chair, clumsily nudging her bowl to the edge of the table): But I'm all done....

And the chili mac is all down. All over the rug.

I bellow something indistinguishable. Certainly nothing profane, but an utterance more primal, and more than likely, fear-producing in children.

Anna (not one to cry "uncle"): Can I have deh-sewwwrt, Mom-meeee? Pleeeeeze?

Me (head down, eyes up, speaking very very slowly): No Anna. You may not. And not because you just dumped your dinner, but because you chose to eat none of it.

This, followed by lots of tears, lots of wailing, lots of monumental unhappiness.

Seeing that dinner theater won't have any curtain calls, I clean up while the scene of melancholy unfolds around me. First the floor, then the dishes. Then I get out the vacuum to clean up whatever chili-specked carpet fibers the dog missed.

And since I have it out, I might as well vacuum the living room. I nearly finish the rug and surrounding hardwood, the dessert drama has passed and the girls have moved on to the show's after-party. Tonight, this involves chasing each other around the living room. Clearly, a regression that's taken place thanks to the rules of lesson learning displacement.

I sigh, look down to adjust the height on the vacuum and prepare to launch a warning flare about running around the house. Only before I can even get the words out, my peripheral vision witnesses Anna taking her first stride, one misstep, then her face colliding with our open entryway door.

This time, lots of screaming first. Then lots of tears. And in the one step it seemed to take me to hurtle myself across the room, this time blood took the place of monumental unhappiness.

In that moment, I didn't care about lessons. Or their displacement. To be honest, I wasn't even angry. All I cared about was making sure my Anna was OK.

I swept her up, sat her on the kitchen counter, blood welling through her top and bottom teeth. Where was it all coming from?

Then from behind me, Olivia started to sob uncontrollably. "I-i-i-it's all...muh..muh...my...f-f-f-f-aulllttt!," she cried. "I-I-I...wuh-uh-uh-an-ted...h-h-her...t-t-t-to...ch-ch-ch-a-a-ase...m-m-m-meeeee!"

I held Anna up with one hand and cupped Olivia's chin with the other so she could look right into my eyes. "Liv, honey," I explained, as gently as I could, "This was an accident. This was not your fault."

At that moment, the kid carried the weight of the world on her shoulders and my heart ached for her. But Anna's mouth was bleeding and she needed me, too.

Then I had a moment of maternal clarity.

"Liv honey, I need you to be brave and I need help me," I told her. "Get a baggy and fill it up with three ice cubes, OK?"

I turned the switch. Olivia was now in helper mode. One of her favorites. And, turns out, might be a valuable coping mechanism for her. She reached for the baggies, opened the freezer and threw in some ice.

Eyes still wet and face puffy, she handed me the baggy. "Here you go, Mommy. I put in five ice cubes, just in case."

Now that she was calm, I could get a good look at Anna. Brave little girl that she is, Anna opened wide and I could see it at last. Her tooth had put a nice hole in the inside of her lip (which was already swollen) and the gums around her front teeth were bleeding. I wiggled her right front tooth -- the same one she damaged shortly after her second birthday after taking a spill on a friend's hardwood floor.

It was a little loose.

I called the dentist's answering service and the dentist called me back inside a minute. I told her what happened, she asked me some questions, I gave her my answers and we have a date with her first thing in the morning.

Anna will be fine with some Motrin, but I think the poor kid stands a chance of getting a premature visit from the Tooth Fairy.

Once the bleeding stopped and the tears dried, I explained again that this was an accident (Anna had only taken one step, after all) but that the girls were NOT to run around the house anymore.

And seeing that Anna was fumbling with her ice baggy, I had another idea.

"You know what I think this needs?" I asked.

"I know," from Olivia, nodding her head. "CAKE!!!"

Clearly, she'd forgotten Anna's first lesson learned. What the hell, I figured. Sometimes, you have to give a little. But just a little.

Ninety seconds later, they were all seated on the kitchen step, slurping on popsicles. My hope for Anna was that the popsicle would help the swelling.

I doubt it did much to advance lesson learning. I'm sure we'll have a chance to learn it again.

But from now on, Way #1 is clearly the way to go.

The Great Outside

2010-06-26T18:50:00.000-07:00

I like being outside. But the outdoors? Not so much.

And yes, there is a difference.

Outside equals my backyard, going for a run in any weather, walking the dog, marching the troops to school in a foot of snow. This would be "outside."

The outdoors involves tent pitching, bug spray, and most importantly, doing my business while hovering over something other than a toilet. And using something considerably more organic than toilet paper.

The closest I've come to camping is an overnight on a 100 mile crew team bike trip in the summer of '95. While I did sleep in a tent, I had access to a clean bathroom with showers, running water and toilets with doors.

After that, I figured I'd quit while I was ahead. I don't need to experience a true camping trip to know that I don't want to go full nature. I could lose 24 hours of my life that I'd never get back. I already lost three hours once at a monster truck rally that only served to confirm my pre-existing lack of interest in trucks bigger than my house, piles of tires, heaping mounds of dirt and cut-off tees.

Tony shares my "good from far, far from good" view of the outdoors. Score one for our compatibility.

Unfortunately, this means that our recessive gene has been passed along to our children.

To illustrate, a scene from Camp Kuhel, June 26, 8:40 p.m.:

Me: You guys wanna head out front and watch the fireflies?

(This, after repeated failed attempts two nights ago at dusk for any of the girls to get up the nerve to actually touch a firefly.)

The girls (in unison, vivace): Ooooh! Yeah!! YAY! YAY! YAAAAAAYYYY!!!

Tony and I lead the way to our front yard, now a glittering field of gold mini-bursts.

Me (seizing on their enthusiasm and a sugar-induced false sense of valor thanks to Josie's birthday cake and ice cream): OK, great! Who's gonna be the first brave girl?

The girls (again in unison, fortissimo): Me, me, MEEEEE!

Me (catching one, midair and bringing it closer to the girls): All right, heeeere youuuu go-oooh...

The girls (unison, fortississimo, now in flight): EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

For the next 45 minutes, Tony and I caught fireflies (and probably a scorching case of malaria from no fewer than a dozen mosquito bites between us), each time gently coaxing the girls closer. I even started giving the fireflies names.

First there was Humberto. Then Esther. Then Juan.

"They all Hispanic?" Tony asked.

Buzz kill.

Finally, Anna and Josie took the plunge and encountered the weightless pleasure of a firefly flittering off the tip of their index finger. Anna squealed with delight. And she wanted to do it again.

Next was Olivia's turn. Tony scooped up a firefly midair and with Liv at his side, readied her palm for firefly landing. Only, the firefly opted to circle around and take a breather. Right on Olivia's neck.

"Ooh, Liv! He's on your neck!" Tony told her, his voice filled with excitement he hoped she'd share.

Only she didn't. She was terrified.

Screaming. Then crying. Then screaming and crying and racing with purpose back to the safety of our entryway.

We eventually managed to get Liv back outside. She wanted so badly to conquer her fear, but was too scarred by the one that got away. We explained that it was OK if tonight wasn't her night.

Weather permitting, we'll probably be right back out there tomorrow night. My guess is that Anna will catch one again. Josie, too. And because Olivia's a determined little girl, I think she'll take a deep breath, hold out her shaky hand and screech when she sees a firefly graze her palm. Then she'll realize it's not that bad. And she'll want to do it again.

All three girls clearly love being outside. This test with the fireflies could be their launching pad to besting their folks and embracing the outdoors.

Camping, however, is another story. Maybe we'll pitch a tent in the backyard first. After the fireflies are gone.

A Stormy Slice of Life

2010-06-22T10:15:00.000-07:00

"Think I should go in and close their windows?"

That, from Tony, blue light coming in our bedroom windows this morning. The wind was picking up and I could hear the tink-tink of fat raindrops falling on the gutters.

Our house was built in 1928, so we're lacking on central air and high on the sounds of summertime.

I mumbled something that resembled an affirmative. "What time is it?" I asked, still groggy.

"5:30."

He went to the bedroom next door where Liv and Anna sleep. The dog was already pacing on the hardwood, trying to wedge himself in the three inch gap between my dresser and the plaster wall. I got out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Time to get dressed for the gym.

Then, the dreaded sound.

Thunder. Big rumbles of it from the south.

Dear Jesus, pleeeeeeze don't let them hear it. Pleeeeze. Pleeeze. Pleeeeeeze.

We go to Mass every week. And I lug all three girls up the aisle for Communion. Surely, that gets me points for something.

I'm out of the bathroom and Tony's back. With Anna. And Olivia. Both of whom are wide awake. And more than aware that a big storm's a-comin'.

I puff my cheeks full of air and let out a big sigh. Maybe tossing in the occasional Saturday confession is the going rate on getting my last-minute prayers answered.

"Hi Mommy," Liv says, cheery. "Hey, that's a pretty nightgown!" Fashion's never far from top of mind with this one.

I look at the bed like a life raft that doesn't have enough space. "I knew we should have gotten a king," I say.

"Yee-up," says the 6'5" husband.

We pile in, one at a time. "Skooch over, Anna," I say. "More....more...." She wiggles and giggles closer to Olivia and I find myself roughly 4.33 inches of space on the edge of the bed.

I roll on my side and put my arm around Anna. Thunder claps again, this time closer. Anna, thumb in her mouth, starts crying.

I kiss her on the head and tell her it's going to pass over soon. Just a little noise from up above and water for our flowers outside, I say.

Then, the big one.

KAAAA-BOOOOOOOM!!!!!

Shhheeeee-iiiittt... I know what's next.

A moment of silence, then this from the back of the house.

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!! MOM-EEEEEEEEE!!!!! WUUUHHH-AHHHHHHH!!!"

I'm convinced that if loud noises don't damage Josie's hearing, she'll manage to do it to herself.

I stumble out of bed while Tony tries to calm down the other two. I head down the hall and open Josie's door.

She's standing up in her crib, arms out, ready for the salvation that awaits at the undersized life raft. Another big clap of thunder. More horror-flick screaming.

I whisk her out of her crib. Poor kid is shaking uncontrollably. I walk back toward our room, holding her close, trying to shush her, but failing.

We reenter our bedroom, Josie still screaming. Then, she points to the armoire in the corner.

"Tee-dee!!! Tee-deee!!! Tee-deeeeeeee!!!," she begs. It's too early for me to translate the language of the soon-to-be twoser. Then I remember that for the last storm, the only thing that would calm them down wasn't the gentle hold of their mother.

It was Shrek.

"Oh, honey, no. I'm sorry, it's too early for TV," I explain. Miraculously, my explanation satisfies.

Equally satisfying is that the storm winds down in a matter of minutes.

Of course, in its wake were three very awake children, now poking and prodding each other in our queen-size bed.

Tony and I tried to ignore the ruckus for the next hour and sleep, much in the same way one attempts to sleep at 2 a.m. with a crying baby next door.

And somewhere in that 60 minutes, I said a silent prayer for patience and maybe for fewer nighttime storms.

The forecast for this week has more storms popping up tomorrow and Thursday morning. Lucky me, it'll be sunny and 80 on Saturday. Which is when I'll be going to confession.

All my BFFs (Best Facebook Friends, that is)

2010-06-20T19:55:00.000-07:00

A mere 24 hours after my first Facebooking, I shut myself down.

My curiosity of keeping up with familiar friends and reconnecting with obscure folks from the past was cut short by one conversation with Tony.

"I think the whole thing's a little weird," he said, his tone oozing skepticism. "You're just putting all this information out there and anyone can see it. Besides, there's no one from my life that I'm all that interested in finding out about now."

Before walking away from the computer, he turned around and asked, "What's this thing called again? My Face? Spacebook?" I rolled my eyes.

"It's called FACE-book, old man. The other one's MySpace. And it's not like I'd ever be friends with someone I didn't know personally," I snapped, taking the opportunity to correct him in an appropriately condescending fashion.

"Well, whatever," he said, "It's still weird."

That was almost two years ago. I reluctantly determined he was right and disabled my account. I didn't want to become fodder for a Dateline special on parents who throw privacy to the wind.

But every day, my inbox kept filling up with those automated Facebook requests, each one suggesting that I should join or risk becoming a decidedly uncool thirtysomething.

Finally, I surrendered. The lure was just...too...strong.

So I reactivated my account and hurtled myself into the sphere of reconnection with grade school friends, high school acquaintances, college teammates and coaches, and former work colleagues. My only rule was that I would only be friends with folks I knew. To do otherwise seemed, like Tony said, weird.

Soon, I had four friends. Then 12. Then 68. Then 92. Before long, I passed the 100 mark and 200 was in sight.

All the while, I followed my rule. At some point in my life, I knew each and every one of those friends.

Gee, I felt awfully popular.

My knowledge of other folks' mundane and exciting life details seemed limitless. I was reading about pregnancies, births, deaths, what folks were making for dinner, how hard the conditioning class was at the local gym, how much dinner at the new restaurant sucked.

I was silently smug with the knowledge that I was so connected and well informed on everyone I'd ever known.

Then last month I got a friend request from someone I've never met. My own rule would be put to the test.

The request came from a local fashion columnist whom I read and have written to a couple times about her writing. I enjoy her candid style, I appreciate her honesty and I've told her so. I have to admit, her friendship request was like an unexpected UPS delivery full of goodies for me.

First, I was flattered. Then, I saw her number of friends.

688.

If I accepted, I would be number 689. Not Jen Kuhel, the girl she knew at Sacred Heart in the 6th grade. Not Jen Kuhel the girl she rowed with at CRC. Not Jen Kuhel, the girl she slugged back a few too many Foster oil cans with at the Rooster.

Since the request came without a message, I wondered if I was just another cog on her Facebook wheel of friends. I also realized that not everyone shares my Facebook rules. After all, not everyone is just looking to stay in touch with friends. Some are clearly more public folks than I who can use it as a legitimate marketing tool.

But in fairness to the columnist (she just seems so darned nice) and to give her the benefit of the doubt, I sent her a message back, saying that she had earned the distinction of being the first Facebook friend that I'd never met. I hit "send" and wondered whether I'd hear from her.

A few days passed. Then, a response. A very kind, very personal response. I was relieved.

Tony still thinks Facebook is weird, highly impersonal, slightly disingenous and way too informative on everyone's day-to-day. Based on what I know and love about him, I doubt that will ever change.

But me, I still like the daily Facebook connection I have with the folks I see every day, the ones I don't and the one I have yet to meet.

Farewell, Maternal Guilt

2010-06-16T05:51:00.000-07:00

We moms are a guilty bunch, myself most definitely included.

Now before I even start, I'm offering this to any male readers out there: I'm sure there are paternal types with guilty consciences the size of Montana, I just have yet to meet one. On the contrary, most of the dads I know are decidedly less riddled with guilt. So I'll go ahead and give men the superior gender award in that category.

But I have met more than my fair share of working and stay-at-home moms who manage to beat themselves up over just about anything. Especially when it comes to the issue of how we're raising our kids.

And I think I've figured out why.

It's because for most of us, we've been fortunate enough to choose our path. For some, we opted to leave our careers because we felt that staying at home with our kids was the best thing for them. For others, the decision was to head back to work because our jobs were fulfilling and we know that it's possible to work and raise happy children.

I'm not at all suggesting that we moms who could make either choice have the market cornered on guilt. I know first hand that there's lots of guilt on the part of women who don't have the luxury of making a choice and simply have to work.

What mother hasn't pummeled herself for the monumental maternal transgressions of doing laundry instead of working on a 50 piece princess puzzle with our three year olds. Or opting for a playdate rather than spending time dazzling our children with our brilliance. Or choosing to head out for some time with friends at night after a hard day at the office instead of coming home to tuck the twins into bed.

Somehow we've convinced ourselves that choosing to stay at home or choosing to work means that we have to have our game faces on every minute that we're around our children. Anything less feels like we're not making the most of our choice.

I think many of us are victims of our education because we made the mistake (consciously or not) of assuming that we were more enlightened and more worldly than our caveman parents. So when we actually chose to stay at home or chose to work, we would somehow do the whole mom job so much better.

Maybe we are and maybe we aren't. My guess is that guilt creeps in when we feel like we're not besting our own moms. Because for the most part, their lot wasn't so much of a choice. You either stayed at home or had to work. Period.

Thing is, I can't think of a single time where my maternal guilt rescued me. It very rarely helps me make a good decision. More often, it just makes me feel bad about myself as a mom. And that's just not helpful for anyone in my house.

My guess is that our moms felt guilt, too. Only we didn't realize it. Probably just like our kids won't realize it about us until they have kids.

I know that when my girls grow up, they'll know that they are loved unconditionally. And that goes a long way. Besides, who knows? Maybe by then, there will have been enough moms who chose to work or stay at home that they'll realize that there's nothing positive about maternal guilt.

And that would be a good thing.

Restless already?

2010-06-14T11:23:00.001-07:00

Only two days into summer break and I'm restless.

Restless because for the past nine months, I've spent so much time cooking, cleaning, disciplining, whatevering in the house that I'm convinced it's going to methodically detonate around me like one of those controlled explosions they use to blow up city landmarks. Restless because I feel like we've been spending lots of money lately. Restless because I'm done threatening to donate clothing that's been left for dead on the floor. Restless because, well, I've been around my kids maybe just a bit too much.

So what am I gonna do?

I'm going to buckle them (and the dog) in the car tomorrow afternoon and head south to my folks'. You read that correctly: I'm going to spend more time alone with them.

In the interest of full disclosure, yes, I would absolutely rather head straight for the closest resort for a 24-hour head-clearing cleanse among vanilla-scented candles, Egyptian cotton, warm bubbly bath water and nothing for the ears but the hum of central air. Who wouldn't? But I can't and honestly, unless I was presented the opportunity to do so free of charge, my cheap self wouldn't anyway.

Fantasy aside, the best thing is to head to my folks for a visit with them and my sister and nephew. I've made it clear that I have no expectation for anyone to change their schedules (though my mom was so excited about the last minute trip that she took off work Wednesday, even though she was just on vacation last week) or to wait on us hand and foot. I just want to be in a place that's not mine, that's free of life's daily obligations.

Sure, I know there's no place like home but sometimes, it can be so contaminated with to-do lists and the inevitable bad behavior rhythms (mine and theirs) that a change of scenery might be all it takes to springboard me into a more positive start to summer. So for the purposes of this week, I'm saying there no place like my first home.

The untrained parent might accuse me of running from problems. For starters, I don't have problems (well, except for my bum foot). And secondly, I'm not running. I'm BOLTING. And for good reason, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, Tony has to stay behind, because, well, someone has to work, right? Truth be told, he'll probably appreciate the quiet just as much as I will the time being something other than the stereotypical nagging mom.

I know that I'm blessed to have the flexibility to up and go with the kids during the summer and I'm even more blessed to have my folks just over a three hours' drive away. I'm thankful for that and I'm taking advantage of it.

And when we come back on Friday, I'm convinced we'll all be glad we made the trip. We might be tired from staying up late and doing too much and eating too much but we'll have had a good time.

I know I'll get restless again. It's part of the cycle of parenting. Or, at least, my cycle of parenting.

And heck, I figure if the solution is to spend more time with my family that's low-cost and high value, it will always be worth it.

The Fashion Force is Strong

2010-06-11T05:57:00.000-07:00

Today, I had to engage my fashion drone.

It's been hovering over my eldest's room for the better part of three years, cataloging the mismatched outfits, the inappropriate seasonal dressing, the wearing of too-small clothing. So this morning, after years of inactivity, I had no choice but to put the drone on a mission.

A bit of Camp Kuhel dialogue, 9 a.m., Friday, June 11:

Me (shouting at the kids swinging outside): Liiiiv! Come on in, kiddo! We've got to get Anna to camp in 10 minutes, so you need to get dressed! Come on! You can't wear your PJs when we walk over there!

No response. Not even an acknowledgement that the decibel level of my voice was such that the folks who live one street over could hear.

Me (again, louder): LIIIIIIIVVVV! Come in and get dressed, honey!

Again, no response.

Me (mad, eyes shut): ONE.....TTTTTWOOOOOO......THHHRRR-

Liv (about three inches from nose): Hi Mommy.

Me (eyes open): Seriously Liv? Can't you just come in the first time?

Liv: Sorry. Ummm... can I wear anything today?

Me: Well, don't wear something wintry. Just wear something appropriate for playing, OK?

Liv (heading upstairs): OK, Mommy.

The look on her face told me that of course, she wouldn't wear something wintry (yes, I've had the good sense to put away those clothes), but "appropriate"? I could see the wheels of subjectivity spinning out of control on that one.

Ninety seconds later she was downstairs and dressed. In a pink flowered frock. And a white sweater. And ruffled leather flats. That she wore to a rehearsal dinner.

"How's this, Mommy?," she asks, fanning out the sides of the dress, smiling. What am I supposed to say?

I purse my lips, clench the jaw and do a slow blink. "Well, Liv, it sure is pretty, but I think you know that that's not a dress to play in, right?" Then lower, in the business voice, "You know what I meant by 'appropriate'."

"Well, you said I could wear whatever I want."

Ka-POW! She couldn't wait to fire that one.

Of course, that's not what I meant. I tried to give her a little wiggle room with "appropriate". I don't want to be a complete control freak, but wearing a rehearsal dinner-type dress to walk the kid sister to camp and then presumably play in the yard and bake cookies with mom does not seem "appropriate."

I was annoyed. This battle over what to wear is one that I've largely spent in retreat. I figure that there are more important things to focus on, so as long as the kid is covered up and modestly dressed, I should zip it. Even when she's wearing twelve shades of pink because as we all know, pink matches pink. Or when she's wearing a bulky cardigan under a denim jumper because both pieces are her "favorite" (a term that's used to describe nearly every piece of clothing she owns).

But this morning I'd had it. Probably because she knew what I meant and decided to test my tolerance level anyway. I was done playing defense.

Belligerence wasn't necessary, but Jedi mom tricks were out in full force. I had an idea and shared it with her on the way back from camp dropoff. More Camp Kuhel dialogue:

Me (sweetly and appealing to her love of categorizing things): Liv, howabout when we get home, we organize your drawers?

Liv: Oooh, sounds good. Hey, I have an idea -- we can put the special occasion dresses in the closet and we'll organize the rest!

Bingo. My idea. Now hers. The force was strong.

Me: Even better, how about we put all of your outfits that match together so that every morning, all you have to do is pick out the outfit and go? Then you won't have to hear me nagging you any more. Sound good?

Liv: Great idea, Mommy! I can't wait to do it!

The force was so flippin' strong.

So, we came home and off came the inappropriate rehearsal dinner dress and on went a mismatched outfit. Call me relentless, but that didn't fly. If I was gonna do this, I was gonna do it.

Me: Kiddo? That's much more appropriate, but since we were talking about putting the outfits together, how about we start with that one?

Liv (looking down): Well, this shirt has flowers on it and so does this skort.

Me: Yes, that's true, but I think when Baba bought you this skort, she meant for it to go with this (picking up a white collared shirt).

Liv (pointing to the flower shirt again): But this one's pretty too.

Me: Yes, yes, it is. How about this -- you pick which piece you want to wear and we'll match accordingly?

It worked. She picked the skort. Off came the shirt and on went the white one.

For the next hour, we organized her drawers and both of her sister's drawers. They're beautifully organized. I like to think they'll stay that way, but I know better. Mostly because the youngest loves to go rifling through their drawers, tossing clothing over her shoulders like she's in the middle of a bad magic trick.

Tomorrow, we'll see if the drone's mission was truly successful. I'm guessing it will be because Liv's the kind of kid who likes to see the fruits of her labor.

I know this won't be the last time I have this conversation. After all, there are two more where Liv came from. So I'll let them follow in her footsteps until they test me.

And when that happens, it'll be drone time.

Crossing your legs and closing up shop

2010-06-07T17:54:00.000-07:00

Before I left for college, my grandpa's girlfriend gave me her version of a sendoff.

"Jenny," she said, exhaling a plume of smoke through a crooked mouth, "just don't ferget to keep yer legs crossed."

Her name was Alma and she had bleached blonde hair, skin the color of a bottle of Banana Boat tanning oil and wrinkles on her face that suggested lots of smoking, laughing and sunning.

Her daily diet consisted of no fewer than a pack of Salem Ultras, coffee, Double Stuf Oreos and carefully rolled up slices of Oscar Meyer bologna. Her favorite treat was a slice of Frisch's Hot Fudge Cake - layers of chocolate cake sandwiching vanilla ice cream, doused with hot fudge and topped with whipped cream and a cherry.

Not exactly the picture of healthy living, but for a 60-something woman, I'd go so far as to describe her as svelte. She lived hard, played harder and loved passionately.

Alma, who died in 2001, was a caring soul. Even though she wasn't my grandmother, she treated me like she was. And I liked that.

So when she told me to keep my legs crossed, I appreciated it. After all, coming from someone whose marriage to a Cincinnati German Catholic produced children in the double digits, I figured this was sage advice.

For the past 17 years, I've remembered Alma's words and while I took a little bit of artistic license with the definition of keeping my legs crossed (sometimes, I took it more as a metaphor, I'd say), I managed to avoid not starting a family until I was 29.

But now as the mother of three, I wonder if she'd have any more advice on keeping the legs open with the end result of keeping them crossed.

Alma lived in a time when there was no birth control. No family planning. If you didn't keep your legs crossed, then nine months later, you had a baby to show for it.

I can't think of a single person who lives that way now. Most of us are lucky enough to never know the hardship of either extreme -- what it's like to have a football team of children or not being able to have any at all. For us, we have the luxury of knowing that we want our one, or two, or three or four kids and then we decide if/how we want to stop the process.

There are days when I wish I had the same whatever-life-hands-you attitude as Alma. I've always said that I'd love a big family. But after four pregnancies, three kids and a year each of nursing them, I think it's time I closed up shop. If a baby found its way into my arms for keeps I most certainly wouldn't let go, but I'm done using my body as a vessel.

We haven't taken any permanent measures to ensure this because for us, it's so permanent. I'd be lying if I said that I don't feel bad about our decision to stop growing the family. It feels very selfish, but it also feels very practical.

I'm sure it will feel less practical and more forced in a matter of years when menopause comes knocking. Because then it won't be my choice anymore. It'll be thankless gift from something called time.

In the meantime, Tony and I will stand by our decision to keep our reproduction numbers in the single digits. More specifically, to three.

If Alma was around, I can easily see her saying something like, "Leave it up to the man upstairs. He knows when yer done. He won't give you more than you can handle." Religious or not, I tend to believe that about life.

But keeping my legs crossed -- literally or metaphorically -- is what I can handle for now.

Enough with the shouting already!

2010-06-03T17:44:00.000-07:00

We'd always flinch first and laugh later.

"CHRISSSSTIIIIIINE!!!!! Can we pleeeeeze pretend like we've done this beforrrrre???!!!"

That, followed by the hollow sound of a megaphone slamming down on the hull of a wobbly aluminum john boat. My college crew coach had a habit of beseeching this of coxswains when, day after day, practice after practice, they got a little too close to the Kennedy Center before docking at the Thompson Center Boathouse. Or to the rock formations just upriver from the Key Bridge that could have sliced our shells in half.

After practice and out of earshot we'd laugh and take turns doing our best coach impression.

Back then, I remember thinking that maybe he could have sounded just a wee more polite. That he could have asked nicely once and then the next time, perhaps a bit more stern. Seemed fair enough.

Today, I get it.

Only there's a big difference when you're yelling and screaming at a bunch of college-aged rowers who are underperforming repeatedly and simply not doing what's expected. It's less acceptable when your audience is five and under.

I wish it weren't the case, but raising my voice (that's a nice way to put it) has become a part of the daily fare here at Club Kuhel.

And like the sour taste of capers that lingers in the back of my mouth, I hate it. Actually, I hate myself for it. But I can't seem to get out of the rut.

I've got a list of reasons why I'm yelling, none of which seem all that bad as a standalone incident. To share a few:
1.) The near two-year-old screaming at me instead of using something resembling a word to make a simple request.
2.) The middle one who doesn't want to go to the playground after school.
3.) The oldest one who whines when she doesn't get her way because the middle one doesn't want to the playground after school.

Like my crew coach's predicament, these aren't isolated incidents. They're cumulative. These same things happen day after day. Hour after hour. Minute after minute. Heck, I think I even dream about it.

I understand and accept this is the nature of parenting. I guess it's just that I feel like I'm nearing the point where I might say something unkind and I don't want to make that mistake.

Just writing this now makes me feel like I'm taking a step in keeping myself honest. Maybe that shouldn't be my motivation but it's directionally correct.

I have to keep in mind that I don't have a whole lot of control over how my girls feel -- I can certainly make gentle suggestions for how they can express themselves, but ultimately, this is something they have to learn. Most likely from me. Clearly, now would not be the time to do that, but it appears that the damage is done.

Because I hear myself in their little voices when they play "Little Kid." It's a game where someone gets to be the Mommy and one unlucky soul gets to be, you guessed it, the Little Kid.

I flinch every time I hear the Mommy's inflection. Or see her eyes roll. Or hear her forceful sighing.

Let's hope I start making some changes now and so that maybe they'll be laughing about it later.

Airing our dirty laundry

2010-06-01T18:04:00.000-07:00

Generally speaking, I like to follow instructions. Like the ones they include on putting together the kids' toys at Christmas. Or the ones posted on the highway that tell you how fast you're supposed to go. Or the ones printed in barely visible light gray thread on a white tag tucked somewhere in your clothes that tells you how to avoid turning that $50 100% cotton dress into a babydoll tee after only one washing.

But my other half feels otherwise.

To him, such rules and instructions are merely guidelines. Gentle suggestions, if you will.

Well, I won't.

Because it's landed him hours of frustration assembling toys and the like. It's also landed him his fair share of speeding tickets (for you Clevelanders, we can all throw him a bone for the ones he got in Cleveland Heights -- ticket revenues are going to surpass property tax revenue there some day, I'm sure). But what has gone from a sore spot to a ground in grass stain in 10 years of marriage is the laundry.

To be clear, I do consider myself lucky to have married a man who contributes. When he can, he washes dishes. He helps bathe the kids if he's home in time. He vacuums. He'll even clean the occasional toilet if I ask. (Man, that's love.)

And lucky me, he likes to do himself some laundry.

Of all the household tasks, it's the one that he tackles with the vigor of a good spin cycle. I think it gives him a feeling of accomplishment to clear the chute of its occasional blockage of Dora underwear, Josie's oatmeal soiled t-shirts, my stanky workout clothes, his assortment of button down work shirts, peed-on Princess sheets and the seemingly endless supply of bath towels. For God's sake, the man will even fold and put away the laundry.

The problem comes with my clothes.

Again, because I'm a rule follower, when I'm doing the laundry, I sort it. By color, by washing temperature, by type. Not just my clothes. All of it.

I'll admit that before kids, I didn't do this, but now I do. Probably because now, after years of wearing the same pit-stained t-shirts and khaki shorts, I actually care about my clothes. I spent money on them -- not a lot -- but I want them to last.

So for you sorters, you may understand the frustration I experienced today when my dryer revealed to me the following contents upon opening:
- my favorite $10 Gap scoopneck t-shirt in heather red
- my black yoga pants
- two fluffy clean blue bath mats and all the miscellaneous fuzz the lint trap couldn't catch.

From the bowels of the basement, I roared, "GEEEE-ZZZZUSSSS CHRRRRIIIIIISSSST! Grrrrr-ooooosssss! My SHIRT and the BATHMATS???"

The girls were upstairs giggling and singing their way through dinner, so I doubt they heard me. If Anna heard me, she probably thought I was praying.

Maybe I was.

Now I know know know know know he means well. I just wish he meant well the same way that I do.

So I mentioned it to him when he got home. It's a variation on a conversation we've had before.

"Um, would you mind keeping things like the bathmats separate from my clothes?" I'd be lying if I said there wasn't the slightest hint of condescension in my voice.

His head completely still, he raised a brow and turned his eyes to me. "And that would be because the bathmats are somehow dirtier than your clothes?"

Precisely.

Of course, in his mind, it's all clean in the end, man.

At this point, we're beyond establishing rules of washing and looking at the tags.

Maybe now it's time to establish some guidelines instead.

The Problem With Me Time

2010-05-29T18:07:00.000-07:00

Take time for yourself.

That's the serving of conventional wisdom dished out to us stay-at-home moms about as often as I reach for a big ol' piece of chocolate cake on a Saturday night.

But the way I see it, whether you're a stay-at-home mom, a working mom, a dad, a daughter, a ditch digger, a whatever -- we should all take time for ourselves.

And I do. Maybe not in the "hey, lemme dial up five of my bestest girlfriends for an afternoon of chit chat over a BOGO mani-pedi" way, but I get my "me" time in every day at the tushie crack of dawn with my running buds or at the gym.

Problem is that the rest of the day sometimes feels like an obligation set on a Groundhog Day loop.

It starts with me busting open the Tinkerbell vitamins because the kids think it's candy and it makes me look like a daily morningtime Santa. Then on to breakfast -- not too sugary, not too fatty. Then ask Olivia three times what she wants me to pack her for lunch. Bologna? Salad with Ranch dressing? Sunchips? What fruit today? Apple? Sliced or whole? Then get everyone's shoes on (thank God it's warmer now so no outer garb required) and out the door. Out the door. I SAID GET OUT THE DOOR....NOW!!!!!!!

You get the idea. And if you don't, then you're a much better person than I am.

I want to say in the worst way that I love love love and cherish every day I that I have as a stay-at-home mom. Clearly, I love my kids. No question about that. But the job? Not always.

It's not that it's hard. It's not that it's stressful. It's that sometimes, like any job, it gets monotonous.

And there's no one for me to go to for help. No boss to tell me that she can tell my work is suffering because I'm not all there. No possibility of me being downsized.

There's just the hit-me-between-the-eyes reality that there are three little lives depending on my relative sanity to help guide them through their early years.

No pressure.

The scary thing is that Olivia's old enough to read that I'm not always happy. That sometimes, I'm grumpy. And the only thing she can think of is that I'm not happy because of something she's done.

That breaks my heart.

And it should. Because it's the closest thing I'm going to get to a performance evaluation.

So what to do?

Unfortunately for my kids, I'm not the type of mom that has all the cool ideas for in-home crafts. That's what preschool's for. I know I should embrace the creativity they might cultivate around the dining room table, but I get so caught up in the mess that I'm going to have to clean up later that I can't always bring myself to do it.

And then I realize, like I did today when I suggested to Olivia that we read a book out loud (again) instead of doing something else that required more of my time and effort, that I've already had my "me" time. And the rest of the day? Well, it's about them.

Now I'm not at all suggesting that I need to bend at my children's every request to make homemade playdoh or that I have to pretend that Anna's Pinkalicious all the time. I can't. And I don't think I know of anyone who can.

But I have to do better. Because as persistent as I am about getting my daily dose of me time, I need to be equally persistent at helping my kids develop their interests. Their hobbies. Maybe even the things that they'll want to do for their "me" time when they're grown-ups.

I can rationalize it about a million different ways, but the truth is that while taking time for myself is important, giving them time - not just any time, but quality time - is more important.

So make time for yourself? Absolutely. But for me, I need to be more careful that I don't take it away from theirs.

The Sins of the Father and the Shortcomings of the Mother

2010-05-27T17:52:00.000-07:00

Seated in the comfort of a therapist's couch with no one present to defend themselves, a 25-year-old me was more than happy to blame my perceived shortcomings on my parents.

All my insecurities, all my self-doubt, all my self-loathing. All my folks' fault.

The therapist told me to buy a copy of Healing the Child Within. So I did. And I read it cover to cover. I even recommended it to my sister. I felt healed and went on my merry way, smug with the knowledge that I was a better person because I had the maturity to "let it go" and forgive my parents.

I was relieved. I was changed. I was also so very very very stupid.

I stayed stupid for about five years.

Then I got pregnant and had Olivia. And I got wise.

Sure, as parents we inflict some damage. It's hard not to. After all, half the time, we don't know what the hell we're doing.

I know that most folks don't want their kids to think that they're perfect. We want them to know that it's OK to make mistakes. Especially parenting ones. But let's be honest, if we could, we'd only want them to see us make the mistakes that don't register on the Richter Scale.

But we're not always so lucky. Tony had this unfortunate experience yesterday.

It was an honest mistake. On Wednesday night, we all went to Olivia's Kindergarten Open House. There were three things on the agenda: watch the kindergarten class song and dance number, head back to the classroom to see what Olivia's been up to this year and most importantly, estimate (Olivia's word, not ours) the number of bottle caps the class had collected in a jar.

The prize for the closest guess was a Junie B. book. And Olivia had given a lot of thought to her answer.

Problem was that we left the Open House before Olivia had a chance to give her estimation. When we got home, she realized this and panicked, so being dutiful parents, we headed back.

Tony went into the school with her. I wasn't there, but from what I gather, the conversation went something like this:

Tony: So, Liv, how many do you think are in there?
Olivia: 100.
Tony: You think? Maybe more?
Olivia: OK, 10,000!
Tony (laughing): Oh boy. That might be a little high.
Olivia: Hmmmm.
Tony: How about 175?
Olivia (not wanting to disagree with Daddy, of all people): OK -- how do you write that?
Tony: 1-7-5.

If Olivia could pick her unluckiest number, I'm pretty sure that now she'd say 175.

Yesterday, when I went to pick her up from school, I asked her about the bottle cap jar. Her eyes got wide. Her brow wrinkled. The corners of her little mouth started to quiver.

Here's how our conversation went:

Me: What happened, honey?
Olivia (not able to hold back tears any longer): Two people won. Uuhfff...Thomas and...uuhfff...Maddie D. won the books. One guessed a little more and one guessed a little...uuhfff.. under.
Me: What was the number?
Olivia (now sobbing): It...uuhfff....was....uuhfff...(now really loud) ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR!!!!!!!

You'll recall that her original guess was 100. I'm guessing she would have walked away a Junie B. winner. So, she continued:

Olivia: I wish ...uuhff...I had just had my own guess!
Me: Oh Liv. Oh Liv. I'm so sorry honey. I know that you would have liked to have won that Junie B. book.
Olivia (stopping and looking me square in the eye - this, with conviction): It wasn't that I wanted the book, it was that I wanted MY OWN GUESS!

Ouch.

I knelt down and gave her a hug because I know that's what Tony would have done if he would have been there to defend himself. I know he would have left that dagger in his shoulder because letting the hurt go would have seemed wrong.

I knew that telling Olivia that Daddy meant well wouldn't have meant anything to her. The sad thing was that as upset as she was with him, she was more upset that she didn't assert herself. Golly, that made me crumble.

So I told her that from now on, when there's a decision to be made that's hers and hers alone, she should always feel free to stand up for herself. For good measure, I added that some of the time, she'd be right and sometimes, maybe not. But she would always know that the decision was hers.

She accepted this.

My first move when we got home was to run interference and call Tony. I couldn't stomach the thought of the drama that might unfold if he was ambushed the second he walked in the door. The man felt simply awful.

And even though we knew that it was mostly about Olivia having her guess, she's still only five. So we also knew that part of it was not winning the book.

Being the good father he is, Tony stopped by the bookstore on the way home and picked up a Junie B. book. Criticize us though you might for trying to right a wrong, but seriously, how could he not?

When he walked in the door, he saw Liv and apologized. Her sadness was officially swept under the rug when she saw that he cared enough to pick up a Junie B. book.

So all is right in the Kuhel house again.

I think that one of the hardest things about being a parent is knowing when to back off and let a child do his or her own thing. We're parents so we want to set limits. We want to guide. We want to see them happy.

But that ain't easy.

Tony and I will mess up again for sure. Seeing that I stay at home, I've got more than ample opportunity.

Hopefully, Liv never finds her way to a therapist's chair. If she does, hopefully it's not for what happened this week. And if it is, hopefully, she'll blame us. But only until she has a few kids of her own.

The Crossing Guard

2010-05-26T13:40:00.000-07:00

I used to wonder if our friendly neighborhood crossing guard had a crush on me.

"You get a haircut, Jen? It looks all sexy!" That was back in October. For the record, yes, I did get a haircut. A big one. And I looked like a man.

"Look at you, Jen. After those three kids, how you keep your body all nice? Lookin' guh-ood!" That, in the spring. And no, my body wasn't encased in spandex.

"Wow, Jen. You're looking all nice and pretty today." That was this morning. I was wearing a floral skirt. Not because I was trying to look all nice and pretty, but because my shorts and chino skirt were in the dryer.

Back in the fall, his comments made me downright uncomfortable. Mostly because in my 35 years, I've not been a regular recipient of catcalls. If I get any unsolicited comments on my appearance, it's from Tony, a member of my family, a member of Tony's family or a member of the same sex. There was that, and the bigger issue of appropriateness. Besides, I wasn't confident that I could explain to Olivia what "sexy" meant only one short block from school.

Thing was that the crossing guard didn't exactly give me the willies. His choice of language was certainly questionable at best, but now I actually think the guy is just trying to dish out compliments. I determined this after talking to a friend who had the same feeling I had and after hearing him saying nearly the same things to dozens of other women.

I suppose there was comfort in knowing that he wasn't singling me out.

So one day, I decided to start trying to make conversation with the crossing guard that went beyond the weather but didn't go anywhere near his perceived level of my sex appeal.

I found out that he's married. He likes motorcycles. He has grandkids that call him "Poppy." He's retired, but can't stand sitting around the house (his wife can't stand it either he says), so he helps the kids cross the street safely in the morning. And after the kids and moms are done crossing the street, he fixes up houses because he likes carpentry. Then he's back in the afternoon, manning the crosswalk at Avalon and Fernway.

There was even the time when Anna asked him why he bought a new crossing guard vest (nothing goes unnoticed with her), so without delay, he trotted over to his rust-colored Ford pickup to give her the old one for dress-up. He did it so quickly that his only motivation could have been kindness for this three-year-old kid who was curious about his lemonade Gatorade yellow vest.

After that, I got it.

Here's a guy who sees moms (and some dads) every day walking their kids to school. He can see that a small small small percentage of those moms are truly put together women with hair and makeup just so. Chances are much better that these moms have spent more time in the morning sounding like Parris Island drill instructors just to get the kids out the door than they have combing their closets for the coordinating separates they'll wear that day. It's not every day, but many days I'm guessing he can read the look on our faces: Just...get...me...through...this...day.

So maybe his comments are just his way of blowing a little sunshine up our collective skirts. Maybe he's seen lots of skipless stepping and wants to remind us that we're all ladies worth noticing.

I don't wonder anymore if he has a crush on me. Clearly, he doesn't. And while I still end up shrugging off most of his comments, I know that they come from a well-intentioned place that said anywhere other than a kids' school crossing just might be crushworthy.

Let's get this party started... or not.

2010-05-24T10:52:00.000-07:00

Birthdays are for celebrations.

Chocolate cake with butter cream frosting, vanilla ice cream, a little "Happy Birthday to You" sung a cappella, a few presents. What's not to love?

Apparently, not enough.

Since Olivia started kindergarten last fall, we've spent our share of Saturday afternoons shuttling her to birthday parties. She's been to parties with five guests and parties with 50 children (brave souls, those parents are). She's been to parties at folks' homes and parties at local gyms and ice skating rinks. This past weekend, she attended a party where a magician swallowed (clean) toilet paper only to pull colored tissue out of his mouth (the wow factor was off the charts on that one).

To be clear, I don't begrudge any parent for throwing their child a party of any kind -- be that in the home, off site, with two kids or with 200. That's our prerogative as parents. Besides, I love a good party. Really, I do.

Problem is, I fear that the bar has been set in Olivia's mind for what a birthday party amounts to. In seven weeks, she'll be six and I'm sure she'd love to have a toilet-paper-eating magician at her party. But she won't.

And it's not because I'm cheap (though I am) or because I think it's some gross display of materialism (I don't). It's because I fear that once Tony and I set a birthday party standard, we'd have better luck blindfolding ourselves, throwing back a fifth of Jim Beam and pinning the tail square on a donkey's ass than resetting the party bar.

Why? Because we have three kids. And one of whom remembers details like what color earrings the Target checkout lady was wearing on November 16, 2009.

I can say with confidence that Olivia will accept whatever she gets for a party, whether that's a just family party or a big bash (though she might secretly wish for more). Because that's the kind of kid she is. The jury's still out on Josie. After all, she generally speaks one...word...at...a...time.

But Anna. Oh, Anna. I can already hear her begging me to replicate (or better) the party she witnessed for her older sister. I'm cringing just typing it. Maybe I'm not being fair to her, but I know her well enough (and quite frankly, in recent weeks, she's tested my patience enough) to know that I don't want to risk it. At least, not this year.

So like I said, in seven weeks, Liv turns six. And who knows what kind of party she'll have?

What I do know is that there will be a beaming, loose-toothed six-year-old with no fewer than four people singing an off-key Happy Birthday to her. We'll eat cake. And ice cream. And she'll open some presents.

But most of all, regardless of where the party's at or how many kids come, I know it'll be a good celebration.

I'm picky

2010-05-21T10:27:00.000-07:00

My mom and I stood in the small entryway to Betsy Resler's cozy ranch. The look on Betsy's face was unmistakable.

She was embarrassed for me. And probably a little grossed out.

"Oooooh! Julia! Stop! Don't pick at it!"

Betsy was my mom's good friend. And the it was my nose. My nine-year-old increasingly porous nose that was sprouting a new crop of blackheads. My mom took it upon herself to harvest them.

"But see, Betsy," my mom explained, "there's stuff that comes out," revealing the whitish blob of evidence on her fingernail.

Betsy was shaking her head, brow wrinkled, teeth clenched. "Just leave it alone, Julia, really."

Of course, she didn't. And of course, to this day, I don't.

I don't blame my mom for making me a face picker. I'm sure I would have figured it out on my own anyway. It's part of the natural human progression.

As toddlers, we pick our noses. As small children, we pick our scabs. As adolescents, we pick our zits. And as adults, we pick all three. Maybe we don't do it out in the open, but we do it.

I wish in the worst way that I didn't pick at my face. I'm lucky enough these days where I really don't have to worry about zits anymore. Sure, there's the occasional rogue pore reminding me that yes, once, I was a very awkward, heavily bracketed with braces, oily teen. I haven't completely gotten rid of the awkwardness, but I've successfully done away with the other two. Still, I continue to pick.

Pick. Pick. Pick.

Most (but not all) nights, before the evening face washing, I spy a nose pore that looks a wee bit chubby. "Try...to...re...sist," I tell myself before I dive in with more gusto than Greg Louganis in the 1984 Olympics.

And every night, I emerge a gold medal winner. Not something I'm particularly proud of, but in some way, it feels oddly cathartic.

I know my girls will be pickers. In addition to being genetically predisposed, they're already walking the picker path. Noses (I swear Anna just tickled her brain stem today), scabs, showing interest in each other's scabs (ewwww...).

My only hope is that as adults, they keep their picking and their picking hands to themselves.

How do I look?

2010-05-19T10:31:00.000-07:00

Beverly McNear was my it girl when I was five.

She was blonde. She had blue eyes. She was petite. And I was not any of those things. (Cue strings backed by a few rolling swells from the brass section, please.)

I know. Poor...little...brunette...brown-eyed...freakishly tall Jenny.

To be clear, my parents never gave me any reason to believe I was anything other than a beautiful little girl. Still, there I was at five, already keenly aware that I didn't look the way I wanted to look.

And now at 35, I haven't moved much beyond Beverly McNear.

I could blame Madison Avenue. I could blame the fact that growing up, adults always guessed I was a solid three years older than I was. I could blame that I was bigger than my high school boyfriend. I could blame rowing lightweight in college and teaching myself all kinds of crazy diet tricks. Or maybe, just maybe, it could have been that that's just the way I'm hard wired.

Regardless, I need to back off. Because it's a dangerous path I could be laying for my girls. Even if they haven't said anything, I know they notice.

Problem is, so many of my friends -- all of whom are beautiful, beautiful women -- beat themselves up over the same thing. We all want to lose weight. We all want to look amazing. We all hit the gym so that we can at least feel like we're trying to achieve our goals the healthy way.

Sad thing is that for most of us, once we achieve our beauty goal, we're scared that our less-than-ideal selves are just in remission. That someday that self is going to come around for an unwelcomed visit and might just decide to stay permanently.

So we hold on to our "fat" clothes. Or we deprive ourselves of certain foods and drink so that we can say we're in control. Or we just keep telling ourselves that we're not thin enough or beautiful enough or blonde enough or whatever enough just in the hopes of keeping us forever vigilant.

I don't have any answers. I wish I did, but I don't. But I can make some reasonable changes in my own life.

I can start by eating dessert on days that don't begin with "Satur". I can start asking myself and honestly answering whether I really want to get up in the morning to work out every day or if it's just part of my obsession. I can start saying "Thank You" when a friend is kind enough to compliment how I look instead of making a self-deprecating remark. Maybe that's a weak start, but it's a start.

Kudos to all my friends who are leaps and bounds ahead of me and are fit and healthy because they're smart enough to know that's what's best for them and for their kids. I'm just figuring that out.

I've written it now, so I have to make good on my plan. I know myself well enough to know that I won't be able to completely ditch my neuroses, but I can mitigate it for sure.

Because in 16 years when all three of my girls are are their own, I want them to know that they are beautiful women. Not because they fit some idealized Beverly McNear version of beauty, but because they created their own version that goes well beyond how they look.

C-c-c-c-c-c-come on

2010-05-18T11:16:00.001-07:00

"Monogamy" looked like a dirty word the first time I read it. Probably because it was written in lipstick on the back of a half-dressed Asian woman in a George Michael video.

There was gyrating George, clad in black, swaying side to side, fists criss-crossing in front doing the 80s boxer dance, looking at the camera and telling me that he wanted my sex. And my love. After all, it was natural, chemical, logical and habitual.

I had to look up monogamy in the dictionary after watching the video (see, MTV helped expand my vocabulary... and all those parents in the 80s were worried about MTV filling up our minds with garbage). After learning what it meant, the 12-year-old me didn't understand why it was written on that lady's back. The black lace teddy she was wearing sure didn't scream "monogamy" to me.

Now I understand that George was probably telling us the same thing we tell our kids: one at a time, please.

So fast forward from 1987 and I'd venture to say that most of you reading this have, in fact, explored monogamy. And I'm guessing that most of you are committed to it because you're married or in a committed relationship, after all. If you're married and not monogamous, well then, I don't know what to say.

At any rate, I'm almost 10 years into my marriage. And in that 10 years, I've talked to my girlfriends a fair amount about sex. When we were all freshly married, it was more of a fun chit-chat and occasionally there were even some tips being swapped. Then when we all decided to start having families, sex became more like a seventh grade science project. If you do it the day you ovulate is it too late? Are you on a schedule? If you lay on your back with your pelvis up in the air afterwards do you have a better chance of the sperm reaching the egg? What's your BBT?

And now that most of my friends have succeeded in starting families, it seems like sex has about as much appeal as spending a Saturday afternoon cleaning toilets. I'm too tired, I hear. I just want him to get it over with, we say. The last thing I want to do at night after dealing with the kids all day is meet his needs, we groan.

Granted, I'm just as guilty as the next gal for feeling that way some of the time. We all do. But the fact remains that we've committed ourselves to exploring monogamy and we've certainly committed ourselves to our significant others.

Like George said, it's natural, chemical and logical, but for us 30-something women, the habitual part ain't always in the cards. And sometimes it gets to be too easy to just let it go. And that makes me sad.

I'm not sure how to solve it, but I think that building it into our lives is a good start. If we let go of something this important, something that keeps us intimately connected to our spouses, what else are we willing to let go of? I don't want to know.

To be clear, I'm not at all suggesting that those of us who aren't always busy in the bedroom start doing it more because it's our "wifely duty." That's just wrong.

I'm suggesting we build it into our lives because it's important. It's certainly important to my marriage, even if, sadly, I don't always act like it is. Because even though we don't always feel like it, I think there's a part inside all of us that knows what George was talking about.

So why not g-g-g-g-g-g-go on?

And just for giggles or inspiration: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8x9rtEHtubI

Pillow talk and baptism by shower

2010-05-17T16:53:00.000-07:00

Turns out some pillow talk and a shower can fix just about anything.

Until last night, I was embarrassed to admit that recently I've spent way too much time thinking about something terribly self-centered: me and my place in the world. It's been a recurring question that keeps bumping into me, like someone who's standing just a little too close behind in the checkout line.

So last night before turning my light off, I interrupted Tony's reading in my typical apologetic fashion.

"Hey, um, you at a place where you can stop?"

He gave me a sideways glance, brow raised. After 16 years together, I'm easier to read than Dr. Seuss. He turned off his light and rolled over to face me.

I spent the next five minutes brain dumping everything I'd thought about in no particular order. Why I'm so neurotic about my weight. How stupid I feel even obsessing about it when there's so many other more important things to think about. Like raising our kids. And being a better mom. Or saving the dolphins from that horrible cove in Taiji, Japan. And if we can't get enough people to save those dolphins in that tiny cove, then there's not much hope for the world. And if people can't exact change on a global level, then maybe all we can do is just make life better for the folks who live in our house and be satisfied with that.

Yes, it really was that incoherent. I finished it off with, "I feel stupid thinking all this because people have significantly worse things happening to them."

But there in the darkness, there was light.

"Hey, if it means something to you then it's not stupid. Just because something bad is happening to someone else or someplace else doesn't diminish how you should feel about something," he said, adding that he's thought about the same thing (though probably in a more organized fashion). His response wasn't enough to keep me from thinking about it, but it certainly was a good enough answer for me to go to sleep.

Five and a half hours later, I'm up and slogging my sorry booted self to the pool for my latest obsession. And still I'm bothered that I've been thinking about me so much. A mile in the pool alone with my thoughts and some air bubbles didn't help. But back at home, as I was showering off all that chlorine, it hit me.

It was almost biblical, really.

Is this a mid-life crisis? I almost snorted out loud at my absurdity.

Crisis? Come now. That thing in Cuba was a crisis. This is more like a situation at best.

I happily reported to Tony when he returned from dog duty that I had figured it out. "This is what's supposed to happen when you're in your 30's, right? You spend your teenage years and your 20s wondering what you want to do with your life. Then you spend your 30s wondering what you're supposed to be doing and what it all means. It's like a second puberty," I said. Just no zits and training bras (well, for me, at least not the former).

So there I was, freshly showered after my mid-life epiphany and realizing that I was only doing what like 90% of other folks my age do (the other 10% are truly altruistic souls who have more perspective on life than I'll ever have).

I'm sure I'll still wonder about my place in the world. But at least I know I've got company so I won't feel so bad about it. And if I do, I'll talk to Tony and take a nice hot shower.

Is less more?

2010-05-13T17:38:00.000-07:00

One look at our back playroom is all it takes for me to want to do more with less.

Surrounded by an accumulation of toys and books that rivals a January Cleveland snowfall, there is maybe maybe a handful of toys that once came in a plastic sack accompanied by a receipt with my Discover card number on it. Everything else was either a hand-me-down or a gift. (By the way, "gift" is a misnomer for anything that makes noise with the push of a button or has a thou-sand tee-ny ti-ny lit-tle pie-ces.)

And to be clear, I'm thankful for the generosity of family and friends. Everything in this room was well-intended and presumably purchased because the giver/hand-me-downer thought to him or herself, "I know she'd just LOVE this!" I'd even venture to say that 99.9% of the time, they were right.

Except that now this room is brimming with toys the girls love, or at least loved at some point. I do my best to be diligent about rotating the toys and (gasp) taking them to Goodwill. But it doesn't solve the nagging feeling I have that we've just got too much.

I recall a grade school and high school friend of mine who once gave up most of his worldly possessions, save two well-worn flannel shirts, some jeans and boots. Back then, I thought he'd gone nouveau hippy and had maybe read one too many books on minimalism. Now I think he may have been on to something.

But my kids are kids. Not young adults with the benefit of a parochial education who are affected by the 1980s excesses. It's not fair for me to take away their things.

So this week, I decided to implement a few austerity measures, targeting my own excesses first. I figured a good starting point was the kitchen.

Our kitchen is filled with food I bought because I thought, "Oh [insert any family member's name] would just LOVE this!" And because of this, my kids know there is no shortage of food in our house. By the grace of God, they don't throw tantrums if a favorite food item isn't there -- in fact, they're pretty resilient and are happy to eat something else. Which is why I decided that this week, I wouldn't replenish favorites.

I'm happy to report that five days into Austerityfest '10, we're making headway on clearing out the fridge and the cupboards without a single trip to the grocery. (OK, so there may have been a trip to Whole Foods to sustain my bulk oatmeal habit and there may have been a trail mix purchase at Target today, but certainly nothing on par with my thrice weekly trips to Heinen's.)

We've been eating leftovers. I've been making simpler meals. More importantly, I've been making smaller meals (three pounds of mashed potatoes is a bit much, no?). Liv's traded in her usual bologna with mustard sandwich for last night's leftovers for lunch. And she's happy about it.

Of course, in ten years when the playroom and its contents are long gone and the girls are in the throes of adolescence, I'm guessing this will all seem inconsequential if at all memorable. Because then, I'll probably wish that I enjoyed the overflowing playroom a little more and thought about what it all meant a little less.

Who's afraid of private parts?

2010-05-11T19:56:00.000-07:00

I'm motivated by fear. Fear of failure. Fear of getting fat (again). Fear of not being in the driver's seat (I mean that in the most literal sense, by the way). But most of all, fear of looking stupid. Granted, this fear usually leads me to the right path, but it just doesn't feel as noble as, say, just doing the right thing because it's the right thing to do.

This said fear has lots to do with what drives me as a parent. But I wish it didn't. And it's starting to backfire.

Like on Tuesday, when Olivia asked me how you tell a girl dog from a boy dog. I thought I had sufficiently answered the question with, "Well, a girl dog has girl dog parts and a boy dog has boy dog parts." I know, welcome to 1955.

Some background: in nearly six years, I haven't uttered the "p" word to my girls. Heck, they don't even know that they have a "v" word. For my kids, it's collectively known as "the bum." I know that most parents have already done "the right thing" and educated their kids in anatomy. I haven't because I was afraid that it would lead to another question and another question, which would ultimately lead them to the question. And well, I'm just not ready for that. (Clearly, I'm still learning that it doesn't matter what I'm ready for, it's what the girls are ready for.)

I've had six years to come up with an answer, but I don't have the most curious kids so I thought I could buy some more time. Turns out time's up.

So back to the boy dog vs. girl dog parts.

Naturally, Olivia pressed me on what a "boy dog part" was. Seeing that this discussion occurred after picking up our freshly groomed dog (lucky me, his "p" word was prominently displayed, thanks to sharp shearing), I took a deep breath and responded, "Well, boy dogs, like all boys, have penises and girl dogs don't." She giggled, of course, and said in the voice of a 15-year-old, "I already know, Mommy," adding that a friend recently divulged this information to her.

Terrific. So in addition to her getting her anatomy lesson from another 5 year old (I realize now that's what I should have feared more), I looked, you guessed it, stupid.

Time for this old girl dog to learn some new tricks.

What I know

2010-05-11T11:23:00.000-07:00

Write what you know.

That's what all my writing teachers would say. Problem was, I managed to carve a career for myself writing about things I didn't know squat about. Business in Richmond, Indiana. Supply chain technology. Lawyers. (Just because I'm married to one doesn't mean I have a clue what he does.)

I was ill-prepared and ill-suited for all of it. So when the time came for Tony and I to start a family, I figured that maybe it was time for me to give up writing (I didn't really care for any of the subject matter, after all) and to take up parenting.

The fact that I babysat a total of 10 hours in my teenage years meant that I was ill-prepared and ill-suited for parenting, too. But being a parent isn't something you can really give up on, so I couldn't exactly decide to change my mind and try something else.

The good thing is that nearly six years and three kids after I hung up my QWERTY keyboard, I stumbled upon a few things I'm an expert on and can write about: my family, my obsessions with food, my quest to stay in shape and, well, me.

I'm sure this will provide for very interesting and stimulating reading for all of you, but it's good practice for me, so maybe you'll indulge me every once in a while and read this. Because writing's all I have when it comes to skill sets. And to be completely honest and objective, I'm not all that great at it.

So thanks for making it this far. I realize that in this post, I managed to avoid sharing any of my expertise in my family, my obsessions with food, my quest for fitness and me, but believe you me that I know plenty about all of the above. And I'm gonna write about it.