Like a Half-Eaten Donut, Better than Nothing!

I have been a bit of a mess lately. Literally and figuratively. Last week I went to a hair cut appointment and when the receptionist took my coat, I discovered I had fresh brownie mix dribbled down the front of it. And earlier that day I totally missed a conference call for work. The reminder popped up on my computer and I didn't recognize it so I dismissed it. Totally unlike me. I need a vacation. Somewhere that I can't get my hands on brownie mix or cookie dough.

Despite my above average ability to ramble, there are many occasions on which I start writing a blog post and only get a paragraph or two into it and realize I don't know what else to say. (See the example above.) Or I can't come up with a witty or fitting close. So today, because I slept like sh*t last night, I've decided that rather than try to write a complete post, I will pull together a few of the posts I've left unfinished for an eclectic look at the inner workings of my mind. Just what you were hoping for on this beautiful, spring-like day! So here goes it:

2/12/16: If you heard alarms going off on Friday night, it wasn't another car getting broken into. It was my hype meter. It's no coincidence that it was also the Night of Bruce.

My husband is an enormous Bruce Springsteen fan. Which is probably part of the problem. As I believe I've mentioned in an earlier post, familiarity breeds contempt. I have detested Neil Young for 20 years thanks to a coworker who played him 8-hours a day, 5-days a week. It's not really Neil's fault. Technically, as a singer-songwriter fan I should like him. But that's what overexposure can do to a person.

Every time I get in Rob's car, he's got the satellite radio tuned to the all-Bruce station. So, where before I generally enjoyed his music, I'm getting a little tired of it. But the music itself isn't as bad as the pre-concert buildup. I've been to one Bruce concert. He's an amazing performer, but I don't like waiting for the divas to appear on stage and I don't like big concert venues, so when it came time for this particular concert I took a pass. Not worth the big bucks and the finagling involved with securing the almighty ticket.

12/19/15: We know that fashion is cyclical. Every few decades, someone decides that bell bottoms, leg warmers, high waisted pants, tall boots, skinny jeans, shoulder pads, Bermuda shorts and pantsuits should be reintroduced to society. Even hairstyles come and go and then come back again. Except for perms. I'm still waiting for perms to make a comeback.

Toys tend to have more staying power than perms fashion. Elmo has been popular since he joined Sesame Street in the 80s. Barbie refuses to die. Matchbox cars still have their place. Every home has Jenga, Monopoly and Scrabble. And don't get me started on Legos. Did you know the company was started in 1932? [I have no idea where I was going with this post...]

12/13/15: PJs and Down Time
I know a few people who wring the life out of each and every day. I know several others who never want the fun to end when it comes to social occasions. Then there are people like me (at least I hope there are others) who look forward to pajamas and bed time as much as--if not more than--a night out on the town. This obviously can be problematic when ones spouse and friends fall into different categories.

What's important for "those people" to understand, is that my desire to be in bed versus spending more time with them is not personal. In fact, I'm pretty sure if Jesus himself showed up at my house I'd only be able to give him a few hours and then I'd need to retire to my room, slip under the covers, and curl up in the fetal position. This is fairly common characteristic of us introverts. We get our energy from alone time, versus feeding off the presence of others.

I suppose on some level I consider bed time my reward for having made it through the day. After work, there's nothing I want more than to come home, change into my p.j.s and settle in for the evening. If you want to put me in a bad mood, ask me to run an errand after I've mentally and emotionally called it a day. Ask my kids how well I handle that.

Think I could pull it off?

9/27/15: [Ironically, this could have been written last Friday.] I regained a touch of my youth on Friday. Thank God for hair color! Now if only it lasted longer than a few weeks. Part of me is considering adopting that platinum silver/purplish look that Pink and Kelly Osbourne are sporting these days. At least when the color fades I'd have the right color coming in.

Almost as bad as the skunk stripe I sport every six weeks or so, is the process required to fix it. Two freakin' hours at the hair salon is not my idea of fun. Sitting still that long is torture, and there's something about the environment that drives me nuts. In fact, I came up with a list of "10 Things about the Hair Salon."

1. The person with the loudest voice also is the one carrying on the most inane conversation. 
2. There's always one stylist who thinks she has to talk to you throughout your entire appointment, leaving you screaming inside.
3. And even if the stylist doesn't babble the entire time, you still have to at least start with small talk. I abhor small talk. 
4. Putting on a cape, slapping some thick paint on your head and leaving you to stare at yourself in the mirror for an hour-plus is cruel. You find wrinkles and lines you never knew you had. And inevitably I'm there with no makeup on. 
5. Speaking of thick paint, no matter how many times I remind them that my skin stains easily, I always leave the salon with a ring around my hair line. So I end up wearing a baseball cap for two days to hide my forehead. 
6. There's always some customer talking about her horse, or her vacation to Bora Bora, or the limo ride to see Bruce.

[Obviously I couldn't come up with 10 things...]

And finally: 

2/10/15: [This still applies one year later.]

Yesterday was Abby's 14th birthday and I couldn't be prouder of my not-so-little girl. I have to confess that it takes a good bit of self control to not brag about her ad nauseam. Finding that fine line between "how sweet" and "enough already" is definitely a major challenge in the age of social media. I figure if I only post photos of Abby's work it's not really bragging, it's more like show and tell. But how do I write a blog post about Abby for her birthday without going overboard? I don't have to. It's my blog and I can say whatever I want. Insert smiley emoticon here.

When my kids were elementary school age, I had one recurring wish for them, and it wasn't the standard "may they be happy and healthy." Instead I wished that they'd turn out like Richard, Ryder or Bridget, or Kevin or Laura Jean. These former babysitters and/or neighbors/friends, were the gauge by which I was going to measure my children. Why these five? Because their qualities were the same qualities that I hoped my kids would one day possess. Respectful, kind, hard working, intelligent, involved, friendly, happy, and NORMAL. Sometimes super kids have everything except that normal element. The one that allows them to make friends and fit in and get a job someday (if that's your thing).

Well, I'm happy to say that Abby (and Ian, too) have lived up to the example of those former youth, now young adults. I realize that parenting experts generally advise against comparing your kids to others, but I'd say it was less about using them as a measuring stick for my children, and more about providing a parenting goal for me. When all we hear about are wayward youth, I needed a beacon to follow that could show me it was possible to get it right.

That's all for now folks. I have at least a dozen others I'll share with you when I can't find the time or energy, or the right words, to write a complete post. Enjoy this beautiful day!

Reflecting on the "F" Word

It's been a particularly emotional couple of weeks for me and that's saying something given that I'm always emotional. I think it's fair to say the "F" word was the source of my emotion overload. Yes, family has a way of affecting us like nothing else can. It can bring out the best in us and the worst. It can be a source of great joy and utter misery. We may relish the laughter of shared memories, and at the same time struggle with the disappointment of unmet expectations. We can take comfort in the power of forgiveness, or live with the bitterness of unresolved issues. Family is a big bundle of crazy that we can't imagine (though sometimes we wish we were) living without.

My family has tapped into my every emotion in the past two weeks. It started with Rob and Ian traveling to Mexico City on a week long church mission trip. I was concerned for their safety, proud of their willingness to serve, and a bit envious that the two of them were spending that special time together. I also was lonely. With communications limited to three brief text messages, for the first time in my marriage I acutely felt Rob's absence.
I discovered I missed my husband. While it sounds terrible, I confess that I'm not someone who pines for my spouse when we're apart. With phone calls and email and Facebook updates, it's hard to feel truly separated. But when Rob wasn't here and I couldn't call him and didn't know how he and Ian were, and there was no opportunity to share and take comfort in the mere the presence of the person with whom I share my life, my heart hurt. I was reminded of how much I love him and how blessed I am. Missing him was good for me.

Two days after Ian and Rob returned home, I left for three days, thereby maintaining the warm fuzzies that came from missing them. I headed to the mecca of Waretown, NJ along Barnegat Bay for a getaway with my parents and sister, brother-in-law and nephew who were home from Colorado for their semiannual visit. Time with my sister Dawn was spent laughing at painful memories of falling off my bike, competing in plank challenges (which I won both times), swatting green head flies on the boat while crabbing, and playing numerous games of Bananagrams (of which I am the champion). Unfortunately, on the first night of our visit, my mom learned that her sister Janet had died, nearly two years to the day that her sister Glenna passed away. My mom was one of five girls in her family. There are only two of them left, and this causes my mom considerable grief and pain.

When Irving Berlin wrote "Sisters, sisters, there were never such devoted sisters" he clearly had my mom and my aunts in mind. There existed a bond between those women that I've never seen before and likely never will experience personally. Interestingly, the closeness they shared is is in sharp contrast to the relationships my aunts often had with others, whether it be their husbands or their own children. In fact, in my Aunt Janet's obituary, there was no mention of her oldest son. They stopped talking decades ago, evidence of how easily relationships can be destroyed by an unwillingness to forgive and forget.

Last summer's photo.
We forgot to take one this year.

Irving Berlin did not write a song about my sister and me. While there is no bitterness or underlying root cause for the distance between us (literally and figuratively), I must confess to a level of disappointment with the way things are versus the way I'd like them to be. I would like Dawn to move home (or within reasonable driving distance). I would like Dawn to at least want to move home. I would like her to be sad when it's time to say goodbye. I would like it if we would start telling each other "I love you." While I don't expect to achieve the level of closeness my mom had with her sisters, I know Dawn and I could have more, but I don't know how to get us there.

Dawn's visit home coincided with my church's annual mission trip to western North Carolina. A truly family affair, this trip brings together all ages for a week of work and fellowship that has to be experienced because no description can do it justice. Obviously I did not go on the trip this year because I wanted to spend time with my sister. Abby, however, more than adequately represented the MacShimer family.

Abby on the roofing site with her MPC family.

Since she returned home on Saturday evening, I've lost count of the number of times Abby wished she were back in Banner Elk. For the first time in her life, Abby, who thinks a 30 minute car ride is torture, was sad to see a nine-hour car ride end (she had traveled with friends). Despite the fact that she was leaving for Avalon on Sunday to spend time with three girls from school, Abby actually seemed weepy when she repeated for the umpteenth time that she "didn't want to be home," but wished she could return to NC (which makes me sad, though I'm trying not to take it personally).

Car ride buddies (plus the Hicks girls)

The Sunday church service following Banner Elk is always wonderful. Those who went on the trip wear their matching t-shirts. We watch a slide show of photos from the week. The praise band (which for the first time included Abby on guitar!) plays the same music, and a few individuals on the trip share their experience in place of a traditional sermon. Naturally, I cried during several parts of the service, partly because I was disappointed to have missed being there, and partly because I was overwhelmed with love for my church family. While the church, like our flesh and blood family, has its own issues, the grace and forgiveness that we extend to one another provides a foundation for the strongest relationships I've ever known. And I don't know if it's a "Christian thing" or if we're just lucky, but my MPC brothers and sisters so openly share their love. There's no awkwardness in a hug. There's no discomfort in saying "I love you." What a gift!

As I reflect on the experiences of the past two weeks, I realize how blessed I am to have more than one family who loves me. If you've been separated from a loved one, I pray for reconciliation and healing. The bonds of family should not be so easily broken.

College-Prep Chronicles, Volume 3

"I don't think it hit me--until the last one left home--that my job was basically over."

"It never occurred to me that they'd all move away."

"Boys definitely don't stick around." 

Three separate conversations. Three opportunities for me to stop in my tracks and wonder, "Could this actually be more difficult than I imagined?"

You know my story. I disliked motherhood for at least the first ten five years of my kids' lives. Nothing against them personally, I just didn't enjoy all the responsibility and the self-sacrifice. Frankly, it was really hard. Despite everyone telling me to enjoy it, that it goes "so fast," the time seemed to crawl by in those early years. As they grew up and things became easier, i.e., they didn't need so much from me, I became less unhappy. I wouldn't say I was singing from the rooftop or doing arts and crafts or making dinner, or anything crazy like that, but at least I wasn't regularly planning my getaway. Oddly enough, it wasn't until my children became tweens and teens that I actually decided this whole motherhood thing might not have been a mistake after all.

Given how eager I was for them to go off to college during the toddler years, I must confess that I never saw this coming. This sense of foreboding that's sometimes accompanied by a dull ache when I think about what waits just around the corner. I suppose if there's a downside to have pretty great teenagers, it's that it's harder to imagine letting them go.

For the first time in my life I'm having sentimental mommy moments:

The highlight of my trip to Italy was watching Ian from a distance and finding immense joy in seeing him smile and laugh. 

Pictures before the junior prom choked me up when I considered how grown up and lovely they all are. And dear God, how is it possible that next year it will be the senior prom?

I recognize that breakfast with Ian after church, before he goes to work, is precious time. And when we're together he looks at his phone less often than his father does, which makes me think the time is somewhat special to him, too.

When he makes me laugh or smile, even when he makes me crazy, I realize that our home won't be the same without him.

And it's not just Ian that I'm getting a bit emotional about these days. Although Abby is still four years away from college, I am acutely aware of what a huge void she will leave behind. For one thing, she's actually a visible presence, whereas Ian only leaves his room or the basement for food or to head out the front door for another destination. When Abby leaves home, who's going to run the household, knowing where everything is, where everyone needs to be and when, and how to do everything? Who will bake for me?

For the past year, Rob and I have been talking about our impending move, "as soon as the kids are gone." It sounded good to me, starting over, just the two of us. But now I wonder if I'm not employing the old "ditch the boyfriend/girlfriend" trick. You know, the one where you break up with him/her so he/she can't break up with you first? In other words, if Rob and I announce our decision to move on, the kids can't hurt us when it's their turn to leave. Oh, the mind games I play.

Hopefully, I'm making much ado about nothing. Perhaps I'll love having a quiet and considerably cleaner home. Perhaps I'll be so busy with my own activities I won't notice their absence (there is that theater degree in my future). Perhaps they'll call everyday just to chat so it won't feel like they're gone. Perhaps they'll both go to Villanova and I'll meet them regularly for lunch (HA!).

Perhaps I should stop worrying and wondering about the "what ifs" and try to enjoy the time I have left with them.

Egyptian Rat Screw and Sister Sightings

"As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be." The doxology or a statement about mothers and daughters?

My sister Dawn.
I mean my daughter Abby.

I am the mother of a daughter. An incredibly bright, ambitious and talented 13 year-old. I am thankful that my relationship with Abby has been pretty darn good to this point. And, if I can avoid becoming competitive with my own child, we might just get along fine for the foreseeable future.

I have been envious of Abby's superior athletic ability since she was about five. Her math skills have impressed me since elementary school. The cool confidence and drama-free nature she possesses have been a pleasant surprise, particularly given her mother's dramatic tendencies. She knows her way around baked goods. And her desire to work hard and make a good impression are a source of pride. More recently, I've become aware with more than a little jealousy of Abby's cute teenage figure, which takes me back 30 years to when I was a stick-shaped dork, resenting girls like her.

While all of her qualities are enough to make anyone sick envious want to take her down a peg feel the need to strive to compete, what most gets to me about Abby is her resemblance to my sister Dawn. It's not so much a physical resemblance, but more about personality, attitude and character. It scares me how often I look at her and see my sister. The facial expressions are the same. The things she says and the way she says them is frighteningly similar. Where this causes me particular concern is with regard to their corresponding level of competitiveness. And this just happens to be one of the few things I have in common with my sister. So, if A = D and D = K, what must be true of A and K? Hey look! It's your first math problem of the new school year!

Being four years apart, Dawn and I didn't compete so much in school, but in any setting where we did interact, there was an unspoken desire to kick each others' asses outperform the other. The problem was is that I had have a soft spot that my sister didn't doesn't possess, which means she was is always able to get the better of me. The perfect example of when/where this competition reared its ugly head? The Monopoly board. Dawn was is vicious and ruthless and always had has to have the ship. She would will sucker me into making lousy deals. And, I don't think she ever lost loses.

The first indication that Abby and I might have issues? A game of cards. Not just any game of cards, but a game with the eyebrow-raising name "Egyptian Rat Screw." This is a game of memory and response time, requiring a heightened level of awareness and an above average ability to slap cards. Skills which have weakened in me with each passing year. Skills which Abby has in abundance. And did I mention we're both competitive?

It started out civilly enough. Abby taught me the rules of the game, and for about 10 minutes I behaved as an adult/parent. But then my child transformed before my very eyes and I saw Dawn sitting across from me with that confident smirk that said loud and clear, "You're going down!" And all hell broke loose. I refused to take any more beatings and I let it all out. Yelling. Aggressive card slapping. Profanities. Insults. It was when I told her "I'm surprised you have any friends; you're so mean!" that Abby brought me back to reality with "Mom! I can't believe you said that!" Oops. My bad.

You would think that would have been enough to snap me out of it, but the ugly continued, ultimately reaching its pinnacle when I demanded an impartial judge to make rulings on whose hand hit the deck first. Rob and Ian wisely declined to enter into our melee, leaving only one option: videotaping. We set up the iPad to record, and within minutes were in another disagreement as to who had won a hand. We turned to the iPad for answers. We watched the recording. And went back and watched the recording. And slowed it down frame by frame and watched the recording. And we still couldn't agree on who had won. We abandoned the videotaping. Abby won the game. I had a small tantrum, and that was that. I am happy to report that I have behaved much more appropriately during subsequent games, except when I won that one time. Then I did a little whooping and hollerin' and happy dance and told Abby she was a loser. Just kidding. I didn't do a happy dance. That's just immature.

I'll admit that I still see the ghost of my sister every now and then. Occasionally in my cat who is either aloof or nasty, but most often in Abby. I try to ward off the panic that results at these sightings by reminding myself that I am an adult and no matter how successful she is or how much she resembles Dawn, Abby is my child. This means I will always delude myself into believing have the upper hand...

...As long as I don't challenge her in baking, soccer, softball, clarinet, guitar, math or card games. From now on, I think we'll stick to Scrabble and Boggle. I can beat my sister daughter at those.

So, this is how it's going to be

The summer of 2014 will be remembered as the season in which I lost my children. I think in my very last post, just two short weeks ago, I said something about really liking my kids, and as a result missing them when they're gone, which was the case for the first half of the summer. Well, Ian returned home on Saturday night and I spent a week on a mission trip with Abby, and I can now say that I don't like them nearly as much. Okay, that was a little harsh. Perhaps I should put it this way -- they both turned into teenagers this summer. Just putting that in writing makes my skin crawl.

Perhaps you think I'm lucky that Ian didn't hit this evil stage until now, but maybe in some ways that makes it harder to accept. I really thought that if my 16-year-old was still fairly likable that I was in the clear, that I'd made it past go and could collect $200. I had been patting myself on the back for being such an exceptional parent, having raised a kid who never rolled his eyes or gave me major attitude. Oh, how very foolish I've been.

When picking him up at the airport, after being gone for two weeks, my son's reaction to seeing me was "Hey." And no, it wasn't an upbeat, happy, let-me-give-you-a-hug "Hey!" In his first 24-hours at home I spent maybe three hours with him (he ran off to a friend's house), and in that short amount of time he gave me "the look" and the attitude to go with it. He actually had the cojones to attempt to "decline" a volunteer assignment for the following day that benefited an organization of which he's a member. He seriously thought that by stating, "I don't want to," he would get out of doing the job at hand. I don't know what kinds of kids he spent the past two weeks with, but I'm holding them responsible for this metamorphosis.

And then there's my daughter. Abby also deserted me, physically and emotionally, for most of July. The good news is that I know she felt some degree of guilt because of it. Case in point: Last week, Abby and I worked on Habitat for Humanity houses that were just a few hundred yards apart. During a lull in my work, I walked down to check on my girl (who, by the way, won the tool belt award for hardest worker on the first day of our trip). While visiting, I expressed concern for her safety with regard to something she was doing. She scolded me, in essence telling me to return to my own job site. I realized she was right and so I sulked and with my tail between my legs made my way back. Feeling melancholy over the distinct lack of interaction I'd had with Abby since the trip began, I sat myself down in a quiet place outside and contemplated the increasing gulf between me and my children. And I ate some Swedish Fish. And while I was wallowing in self pity and trying to get the candy out of my teeth, Abby came up to me and expressed concern for my well-being. She asked whether she'd done something wrong and apologized for upsetting me. I got teary-eyed telling her everything was fine and sent her on her way. Guilt is an invaluable tool.

Three days after returning home, Ian is ignoring my repeated requests to put away his clothing, groans when asked to do most any household chore, and feigns illness when he doesn't want to do something. In other words, things have somewhat returned to normal. At least he has stopped rolling his eyes and seems to like me a bit more. Of course, that could be because he again relies on me for food and lodging.

Abby, too, seems to have rediscovered me. When she was away on Monday, she texted to say goodnight and tell me she loves me. It was like the good ole days.

Today, Ian woke early to tell me he was heading to the shore with Noah for the day, asking if that was okay at the same time that Noah's dad was pulling into the driveway to pick him up. Sure, it's okay. Thanks for asking. Maybe 10 minutes notice next time instead of five? I believe that, starting tomorrow, Ian and Abby will both be home, together, for the rest of the summer. Which makes me think it's an excellent time for Rob and me to get out town.

The #1 Challenge in Raising a Daughter

It's often said that it's easier to raise boys than girls. I guess that's true, though for me it's not about Abby herself, but rather her interaction with the world that makes having a daughter more challenging. I don't worry what people will think if Ian's shorts are too short. I'm not as concerned that someone will try to physically take advantage of Ian. I don't give much consideration as to whether Ian's "behavior" will cause people to talk, or whether others think he's a "bitch" for being smart, competitive and driven to succeed. These are real concerns for me with my daughter, however. And I would add to this list: society's definition of beauty.

No matter how confident we are, regardless of our level of self-esteem, at some point in our lives every single one of us has wondered whether we're good enough. I was at the pool this weekend, and as I walked the perimeter looking for an empty chair, I felt like I was on display. I was self-conscious about my less than perfectly toned thighs and I cursed the blemishes on my face. And when I found a chair and settled in, I looked at every other woman who walked by and tried to figure out whether I was more or less attractive than her. At the age of 13, I'm sure Abby already has compared herself to her peers, and if her self-confidence is what it should be, she's not concerned about how she measures up. But, unfortunately, someday she will be.

Though I stopped reading parenting books when the kids were little because they made me feel badly about my skills (the same reason I don't read Better Homes & Gardens, Self, or a single cooking magazine), the one thing I remember is that, as parents, the example we set is the number one influence on our children's lives. If we are committed to our faith, eating well and living a healthy lifestyle, our children are more likely to be similarly committed (maybe not as quickly as we'd like, but someday). If we demonstrate kindness, service to others and a strong work ethic, our children will likely do the same (or at least one of our children will pick up these traits). Naturally, the negatives apply here as well. If we put ourselves first in every way, judge others and allow ourselves to be consumed by bitterness and hate, we're raising kids who may do the same (unless they decide to be completely different because they are ashamed of us). If we have no use for reading and lifelong learning, exercising or spending money wisely, well, you get the picture. What I'm taking a long time to say is that a mom's self-image can have dramatic effects on her daughter(s). If I complain about my weight and my blemishes and I constantly compare myself to others, Abby may very likely follow suit. And let's face it, the last thing our daughters need is any help in feeling badly about themselves.

So why this topic now? Probably because I watched the whole season of American Idol and Jennifer Lopez is just depressing as hell at look at every week. And then there's Jennifer Aniston who reportedly wants to lose 10 pounds before her wedding, which is good news because her shape was starting to concern me. But then, on the opposite end of the spectrum, you have Aussie mom Tara Brumfitt who has embraced the "reverse progress body movement," showing off her rock solid body builder physique "before" and her soft, beautiful, mommy figure "after." With her daughter as her motivation, Tara's working on a documentary called Embrace. “How will I teach my daughter to love her body?” she wrote on her website. “How am I going to encourage her to accept and love her body, when I am standing in front of her with a surgically enhanced body? What type of hypocrite or mother would I be?”

I had a friend recently confess that she considered breast implants, but when she thought of the message it would send her daughter, she decided against it. This was in sharp contrast to another friend who offered her physically fit, athletic 12-year-old daughter a reward if she lost some weight.

I don't generally say much about my weight in front of Abby, but where I increasingly have expressed frustration and insecurity is with the appearance of my face. From first time fever blisters and recent breakouts that take weeks to clear, to those obvious fine lines above my lips and the dark circles under my eyes, I know I'm growing older and I feel considerably less attractive. And this is obvious to Abby because I recently bought stock in Mary Kay cosmetics and am having their makeup and skin care solutions shipped directly to our house by the palate.

I used to be an all-natural kind of girl like my mom, who never wore anything on her face except lipstick, But now I'm using special facial cleanser and zit cream. I bought foundation powder. And just last week, I asked my Mary Kay rep to stop by and give me a makeup lesson. She showed up with a case larger than most of my pieces of luggage, and tried to sell me everything under the sun. Rather than just covering those dark circles, I really need their special heavy duty eye cream. If my blemishes aren't clearing up with the treatment she sold me, then I may need to wash with another Mary Kay product. She showed me numerous combinations of eye shadow colors, and lipsticks that I could brighten with a separate purchase of gloss. She left with my order for mascara (waterproof, of course), eye shadow, eye liner and blush/bronzer, but what was most interesting about this sales call visit was the rep's interaction with Abby, who sat at the table and judged whether what I was being pitched actually made a difference.

The Mary Kay rep tried to hook Abby like a drug dealer. "Ooh, I bet you'll like this eye shadow." Nope. Abby doesn't wear eye shadow. "Oh, how about these great lip pencils." Nope. Abby doesn't wear lip color. "This gloss would be fun, right?" Abby explained that she prefers the EOS lip balm. Mission Failed. That's my girl. You don't need makeup, my dear. Your natural beauty is undeniable. I can only hope that she will avoid painting her face simply because mom does, and as a teenager, it's important to avoid anything that makes you look like your mom.

So that's my two cents on how society's notion of beauty makes raising girls more difficult than parenting their brothers. I'd love to know your thoughts on the subject!

Not Reflected in the Score

It's not everyday that a lacrosse game makes you cry. Unless you're me, in which case you cry over everything from the sunrise and puppies to death and taxes. I can tell you that in the case of this game, however, I wasn't the only one emotionally affected.

On Tuesday evening, Villanova men's lacrosse played Princeton here at Villanova. For those of you who remember everything I say and write (which means you probably need to expand your social circle), you may recall that Chris Bates, husband of my friend, the late Dr. Ann Bates, is coach of the Princeton team. For the last two years, a small group of Freakin' Angels has road tripped to Princeton to see a game. When we learned of the match up here, Angel Kim G. suggested we make it a group outing and extended an invitation to our wider church community. In the end, we more than qualified for a ticket discount with a group of 44 "Ann's Fans" planning to attend.

Tuesday evening was cold, but can I be totally dorky and tell you that we were comfortable and warm in each others company? (Literally. The minute someone got up to hit the snack bar, their absence made you chilly.) There was something so incredibly moving about this group of 40-some people, from ages 5 to 55, all gathered together to celebrate our friend Ann and cheer on the man she loved. On a personal level, the gathering was a living reminder of our human need for community, the need to belong to something bigger than ourselves. I was awed by the blessing that these people are in my life. My Freakin' Angel friend Cathie, who does not cry, was also touched by the experience. The next day, she sent this email to the group:

I'm thankful:
> For you all and for your friendship.
> For the warmth that comes from having you all in my life & from sitting close under blankets.
> For our families and how they can all just blend together.
> For laughter.
> For a win for Princeton.
> For Theresa's on the spot medical assistance (damn those bleachers).
> For cocoa and pretzels generously delivered.
> For strong arms to carry Gemma when mine get tired.
> For Kim's organization in purchasing tickets for us all.
> For Nicholas' (Bates) never ending smile.
> For joy on a cold night.
> For Dickie's excellent photography work to capture the gems below.
> For Ann's friendship that continues to give to each of us.

Just a few of the girls in the group

When I asked Cathie's permission to use this in my blog, she said those were just the quick ones off the top of her head, there were plenty more things to be thankful for. Amen to that. 

Cathie wasn't the only one to share her feelings after the game. Kim S. (we have lots of Kims) noted, "A couple of times during the night I looked around and felt so lucky to be a part of such a great group." And Kim G. added, "It was so fun and such a blessing. I remember thinking that it's quite possible that a similar type of group someday soon will be gathering to watch some of our kids in their ventures. I truly consider you all family."

Someone who I never expect to share her feelings or express emotion is my daughter Abby. She'll tell you she loves you at least twice a day, but she doesn't put her feelings on display (I'm not sure we're actually related). For the first part of the game she voiced her displeasure at being there. "Cold and bored." After I further bundled the blankets around her and pulled her up close to me (and paid for hot chocolate), she seemed satisfied and even passed on the opportunity to go home early with a friend. When we arrived home after the game, Abby was almost giddy and unusually affectionate. In fact, when it was time for bed, she said something about snuggling with Rob and me, and when I agreed, she retrieved her favorite blanket and cuddled up between us, arms wrapped around me. If you think that's kinda weird, you've never watched your teenage daughter grow up too quickly and wished you could stop time and have her be a little girl again. The little one who wanted to sleep with you when she was scared, or not feeling well, or daddy was out of town. When they're little, those nights can be frustrating, but when they're 13, you know each time they cuddle with you could very well be the last (until you're 40, at which point you're happy to snuggle with your mom again).

I guess what I haven't said here is that I firmly believe Abby was moved by the friendship, love and affection our group of 40-some showed for one another. She knows how much my friends mean to me, but there was something incredibly powerful about seeing, and being part of, the sheer number of moms, dads, and kids gathered together for much laughter and joy. It's contagious. In fact, I hope that if you haven't yet been afflicted with this degree of love and friendship, that you catch it real quickly. This wonderful group of people is more than happy to spread it around.

My Little Girl is Growing Up

On Sunday, Abby turned 13, officially turning me into the mother of two teenagers. So far, so good.

Granted, it's only been 48-hours.

My youngest is pretty amazing. My oldest is, too, though they couldn't be more different. While they're both intelligent and "good" kids, their personalities are delightfully distinct. I'm not exactly sure whom Abby "takes after," but for the most part, it's not me. For example, she's private. You might be surprised to learn that I am not. Not only does Abby not share any juicy details about her life (most teens tell their moms stuff, don't they?), but she locks the door when she uses the bathroom and is fully clothed every time I see her. I don't recall having any such issues with privacy or modesty.

Abby is also rather reserved emotionally and stingy with her displays of affection. She so dislikes feeling sad or upset that we never watched most of the Disney classics because she knew there were some heart wrenching scenes that she just didn't want to put herself through. And as for affection, well, she gives me the top of her head to kiss good night. It's the weirdest thing. She has some major issue with kisses anywhere near her actual face. I suppose I'm lucky that she still takes the time to say goodnight and tell her dad and me that she loves us. I'll be okay with this discomfort with affection if it extends to boys in the coming years.

Then there's Abby's sense of humor. Frankly, it's kinda mean. She mostly enjoys physical humor, as in someone falling down the stairs or slipping on a banana peel. Where I get a kick out of the talking animals in the BBC videos, she's quick to remind me that "animals don't actually talk." She's very literal. The good news (?) is that Abby's increasingly laughing over silly teenage girl things, like goofy sayings she and her friends make up and share with each other as some kind of inside joke. "Whatev."

Academically, Abby is super smart. And good at math, which really confuses both Rob and me (the math itself and our kids' proficiency in it). Recently she's decided she'd like to go to MIT and become a computer programmer or software developer because somewhere along the line she got the impression that you can do those jobs sitting by the pool, just thinking up creative ideas. Given my job in the College of Engineering, I'm determined to (subtly) push her toward a STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Math) field. There are so few women in these areas that those who go for it can practically write their own ticket to career success. And did I mention that since elementary school, Abby has assured me that wherever she decides to go to college she'll earn a full scholarship so we don't have to worry about paying for it. I wouldn't bet against her on that.

That level of focus and determination is really Abby's hallmark and has been evident in the entrepreneurial spirit she shares with her long-time friend Maddie. You may recall the Sticky Ducks years (duct tape design business). Currently, the dynamic duo is all about baking and cake decorating. I can pass along their business card and portfolio if you're interested.

Because it's not annoying enough to be smart and entrepreneurial, Abby is also an athlete and musician. (She's actually tried playing the clarinet while hula hooping.) Whereas I was required to take remedial gym classes, Abby shines on the soccer and softball fields. She's competitive (we have that in common) and works hard to be the best she can be. For awhile she focused her musical talents on being first chair on the clarinet. Unfortunately, her interest in that instrument has waned (I blame the band director), but I'm pleased to say she's recently picked up the guitar. We literally picked up a nice guitar as her birthday gift and she spends her evenings looking up new cords and strumming classic rock songs. I love her complete commitment to those things she develops a passion for.

Truly, you can't help but love this kid, unless you're trying to outdo her in any way. Happy Birthday, Abby. You couldn't make me prouder to be your mom!

Heady Stuff

Given the year I'm having I shouldn't have been surprised to learn -- within 24 hours -- that both of my children have mild concussions. Abby's is the result of a tremendously impressive header in Sunday's soccer game with her travel team. (For those who don't know, a "header" is the redirection of a soccer ball with one's head.) Ian's is the result of an accident during play practice. Yes, I'm serious. Apparently he was lying on the floor (for a reason), when another actor whose vision was obscured because he was carrying someone else off stage (for a reason), stepped on Ian's head. Basically, Ian had the weight of two teenagers on his head. Obviously, that hurts. It just so happened that the high school's athletic trainer was still in his office and was able to see Ian and diagnose him with a concussion.

Five days later, Abby feels fine but won't be permitted to play soccer again until she's seen by a concussion specialist (pediatricians apparently are not qualified to evaluate these types of injuries). We couldn't get an appointment with one until Tuesday. Four days after his incident, Ian is still struggling. Or so he says. He is an actor after all. But seriously, his headaches are bad and he's experiencing occasional dizziness. I don't think he's faking it because with a concussion you're not supposed to watch television or sit in front of a computer or view anything with moving pixels. In other words, he's bored out of his mind at home and would actually prefer to be at school. He will also see the concussion specialist on Tuesday. (Unfortunately, the doctor didn't go for my "two for one" suggestion.)

Concussions are scary stuff. Did you know that the brain doesn't stop growing until about age 25, making impact that much more dangerous for children and teens? Did you know that for some reason concussions are worse for girls than they are for boys? Just a couple months ago an enlightening and disturbing piece appeared on Huffington Post. In "Why My Wife and I Pulled Our Daughter Out of Soccer" the author shares research findings which report that "girls' soccer is second only to football in terms of the number of concussions in youth and high school sports." While most soccer concussions are the result of collisions between players, or falls in which a player's head strikes the ground, what is of even greater concern is the effect of the repetitive sub-concussive hits the brain absorbs during games and practices as a result of heading.

Habitually heading soccer balls may have similar effects on the brain as the repetitive sub-concussive hits that offensive and defensive linemen receive banging heads along the line of scrimmage in football.

According to a UNC brain researcher, "Long-term (brain) damage may have less to do with the number of diagnosed concussions and perhaps more to do with the number of sub-concussive impacts to the head." The post goes on to cite other research findings and none of them paint a pretty picture. Like I said, this is scary stuff.

I confess to having trouble with the idea of Abby never playing soccer again, but I also can't imagine my incredibly bright, confident and industrious daughter not having her brain intact for the long life that's ahead of her. I can't imagine that thinking, solving and remembering could become a challenge because she played soccer throughout her formative years. While I realize that one header is not (God-willing) going to leave Abby brain damaged, I do question whether it makes sense to allow her to continue to play, even if we forbid her from heading. While I don't have the same concerns about Ian's time in the theater, I am worried about his current injury and any long-term effects it might have. When something happens to your children that could affect them for life, you quickly realize how precious their lives are and how much you love them just as they are now.

I know I'm generally not the picture image of parental love and concern, but my words today are heartfelt and serious. I'm sure if the kids were to read this, however, they'd have their doubts. I submit as evidence a conversation I had with Abby on Monday night:

Me:  I think I have a "sympathy headache" for you and Ian.

Abby: No, you don't. You're not sympathetic.

Me: [A look of shock and disbelief]

Abby: When we were little you told us that you weren't sympathetic and that "if you're not bleeding, you're fine."

Damn that kid and her long-term memory.

As Ian and Abby have grown, I've learned that the cuts, scrapes and bruises of their childhood are not, in fact, the injuries most deserving of my concern. It's the hurts they suffer on the inside -- emotionally, mentally and physically -- that demand my full attention.

Ack! Young Love

All you do, don't tell Abby I'm writing about her. She's not on Facebook and doesn't really care enough about what I'm thinking to check out my blog on her own, so I think I'm safe as long as you don't blab. I'm writing about Abby for two reasons: 1) She's apparently set a new record; and 2) I can't think of anything else to write about.

If you know Abby, you're probably not surprised to hear that she set a record. You may be wondering if it's related to baking, duct tape design, clarinet, hula  hooping, soccer, softball or math. What you probably would never have guessed is that she has apparently broken the middle school record for the longest sixth grade relationship. Yep, you read that right. If you're surprised, imagine how her poor mother felt when she learned four five months ago that Abby has a boyfriend. Just weeks prior to this great reveal (thanks to her brother, of course), I had told a fellow mom that Abby was not in to boys. In fact I'm pretty sure I said something like "I don't think she even knows they exist." Yep, I was that mom. The clueless one saying "My kid would never..." Next thing you know I'll find out Ian's given up computer games in order to take on yard work.  

The good news is that I know Abby's "boyfriend." In fact, they met in church, like all 12-year-old couples should. And did I mention his mom is one of my best friends? And that she isn't shy about "checking on things?"  If she can't find out anything by snooping, she'll actually talk to her son to find out where things stand. In other words, "Are you and Abby still a couple? Have you kissed?" They haven't. That's what we're told and that's what we choose to believe. From all indications, sixth grade dating seems to consist of text messaging, instagram and holding hands while walking around the school track at lunchtime. There's very little talking and even less actual time spent in one another's company. Hence the success of their relationship.

So my Abby has a boyfriend. This explains a lot about the increased frequency with which she showers and brushes her hair. She hasn't changed how she dresses, however, (t-shirts and shorts), but I guess that look works for her. "I'm an athlete mom, not some girly girl," she explains. Point taken. While I'm totally relieved okay with the improvement in her personal hygiene, there's one change in my near-teenage daughter that I can tell is going to cause me great angst for the next five-plus years: her complete lack of interest in sharing anything personal with me.

How did a woman like me who shares everything with everybody, end up with a daughter who doesn't want to tell me squat? When I try to talk to her, I get one word responses that provide me with just enough information to consider the question answered. No attitude or sneering or complete silence involved, but absolutely no details either. For example, when I ask whether she and the boyfriend remain a couple, I get (with no eye contact whatsoever) "Mm hmm." When I suggest she might want to talk to me about him she responds with, "What do you want me to say? You already know him." It's quite clear that Abby will volunteer nothing over the next five-plus years, which means I better figure out the right questions to ask.

Upon further reflection, I should have expected this.

The Christmas when Abby was nine-years-old, I gave her a copy of the popular American Girl book, The Care and Keeping of You. This book offers a way out for those of us who don't want to have this conversation an ideal starting place for the mom/daughter conversation about changing bodies. It covers everything from deodorant and haircare to breasts and periods to friendship and healthy eating. When Abby received the book, I recall a grimace after which it was promptly forgotten. Or so I thought. The next day I suggested to Abby that we talk about it. From there, the conversation went something like this:

"I've already read it."

"All of it?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh. What did you think?" 

"I really didn't need to know all that."

We never did talk about that book. Thank goodness for 5th grade health class or Abby might find herself asking the boy at the bus stop what a period is when she gets to that place in Are You There God, It's Me Margaret? Yes, I did.

So what's a mother to do with a daughter like Abby? Do I force the conversations knowing she'll avoid eye contact and shuffle her feet and behave as though I'm holding her against her will? Do I hope she's got it all figured out and that her friends are providing her with reliable information? (That was a joke.) Do I try to explain that "You don't really 'love him so much.' Here's what love is...?" (Good luck with that.) Do I ask our youth minister to speak to them, warning that God will strike them down should they ever lay a finger on each other?" (Seems like a good time for the scary version of God.)

I know, I know. You're reading this and admonishing me to talk to her, regardless of my her discomfort. Okay. You're right. I know you're right. I'm going to get right on it.

I just think it's prudent to give it another month to see if they're still a couple. These sixth grade relationships generally don't last very long.

 

The School Locker Phenomenon

My friend Emily over at Mothers of Brothers wrote a great post yesterday about the infamous School Supply List that never existed when we were children, but now comes along with our $7,000 a year school and real estate tax bill (don't get me started). Emily touched on most of the head scratchers and general irritants, including trying to find the very scarce, gender-suited 3-hole punched pencil case. We gave up that search at our house and Abby made hers out of duct tape. No surprise there. Emily's reflections on the million dollar calculator also rang true, and brought back painful memories of a certain child telling me the day before some big test that his had been "stolen" months before. We won't go into it.

Since Emily so effectively covered the school supply list, I'd like to address the phenomenon that is the School Locker. While I knew Ian had a locker (and that his new backpack was "stolen" out of it on the second day of 6th grade), my sense was that it was just a place where school work, test results, and winter coats went to die. Now that Abby is off to middle school, however, I'm seeing the locker in a whole new light. Clearly, this is a "girl thing."

A couple weeks ago, as I shopped for school supplies, Abby shopped for locker decor including a mirror and a shelf with which to raise items up off the floor. The floor for which she made a carpet, by the way. Abby didn't stop with the hand-crafted locker carpet. Among her homemade locker accouterments:

• Bulletin board decorated with splatter paint and a duct tape border 
• Pencil holder (made out of old duct tape rolls and covered in duct tape)
• Rose magnets made out of duct tape (we bought magnet tape and a hot glue gun just for this locker decorating project)

• Monthly calendar
• Hanging basket

I was glad she stopped before insisting on the locker chandelier. I kid you not.

 

I had to remind Abby that she wasn't actually going to be living in her locker.

  

I, for one, have no memories whatsoever of decorating the inside of my locker, but then again I always was out of the loop on what was fashionable. It turns out that Abby is not alone, however. Tween and teen girls across the nation take locker decor very seriously. An informal survey of 600 Facebook friends revealed these critical locker elements, in order of importance:

1. Cool magnets
2. Mirror
3. Lock type and color (don't know that Abby had an option here)
4. White board and erasable marker
5. Pen holder
6. Picture frames
7. Magnetic clips
8. Parker Stevenson Teen Beat Cover

While I think all of this locker hoopla is a bit much, ultimately if it brightens up Abby's day, I see no harm it. In fact, as modes of self-expression go, I'd much prefer a tricked out locker to piercings, ink, make up, and hair dye.

 

Now I'm just hoping she remembers the combination...

Girl Stuff

In our elementary school, 5th graders see "the movie." Students know "the movie" is coming from early on, especially if they have older siblings. We parents receive notice from the school nurse and guidance counselor regarding the date of "the movie," and we're offered an opportunity to review and approve it for our child, and to be prepared to discuss it. If it comes to that. I did not review the movie.

When Ian saw "the movie" three years ago, I tried to get Rob to have "the talk" with him soon after. It didn't happen as I directed suggested. In fact, I'm pretty certain Ian and Rob still haven't had "the talk." I offered to take the lead, and even had a brief "chat" with Ian once, but that's as far as we got. Now that he's clearly interested in the fairer sex, I think it might be time for Rob to finally step up to the plate. But this isn't about Ian and Rob. This is about Abby and (gulp) me.

Abby saw "the movie" last week. I think it was last week. Could've been two weeks ago. Or two days ago. The point is, I wouldn't know. I forgot to mark down the date of this milestone, and Abby never mentioned it. If it hadn't been for another mom's comment about it, I may have forgotten about "the movie" all together.

I asked Abby about "the movie" yesterday. I asked her what she thought. She nonchalantly replied, "It was all in the book." "The book" she was referring to is The Care and Keeping of You, an American Girl title I had given to her two or three years ago for Christmas. I had heard good things about it and Abby was an American Girl fan, so I thought it would make a nice gift that she and I could uncomfortably discuss bond over later.


Purposely keeping this image small
so as not to freak out my male readers.

For those of you not familiar with The Care and Keeping of You, it is basically a book about the female body for pre-teens, covering everything from acne, braces, and lice, to underarms, breasts, and bellies. And then there's the section on "Big Changes." Self explanatory, right? The book is nicely done with very detailed illustrations. As in pictures of stages of development. And "How to Insert a Tampon." I wish I'd had this information when I was in college going through puberty.

My giving Abby "the book" was not particularly well thought out. The day after the Christmas I gave it to her, I suggested that we sit down and review it together. I was looking forward to a good mom moment for which I could pat myself on the back. That special time together went something like this:

Abby, let's look at the book I gave you.

I read it last night.

You read it last night?

Yes.

How much of it?

All of it.

All of it?! What did you think?

I didn't need to know all that.

We haven't talked about the book or any "girl stuff" since.

But now that Abby is eleven and has seen "the movie," I really think it's time for her and me to chat. I'm pretty sure she's not going to want any part of it, if her reaction to "the movie" is any indication. When I asked her about the "feminine product samples" she received that day in school, she dismissed me with a quick, "I threw it in a drawer somewhere in my room." Given that Abby has not willingly put ANYTHING, including her clothes, in a drawer in over a year, I'm sensing she's going to be one of those ultra-private girls. I had to search her drawers for a while in order to find it, buried like some trashy novel under a pile of soccer socks.

All my blunders where this "girl stuff" is concerned has resulted in my developing a plan. This time I'm going to do it right. I'm going to turn to the woman who taught me everything I needed to know about growing up:

Judy Blume.

Think Abby will like Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret?

Freaky Tuesday

Last Tuesday was Freaky Friday. You know, the movie where the mom and the daughter switch bodies and roles (back when Lindsay Lohan had a career)? That happened with Abby and me. I have to admit I've seen it coming. Along with all her impressive qualities, Abby also is a control freak bossy enjoys being in charge. Just ask her brother. She routinely hounds bitches at instructs suggests ways for him to get his shit together improve the way he does things, even something as trivial as refilling water bottles.

Signs that Abby's need to run the household control things was getting a bit out of hand occurred a couple weeks ago when she informed me, after my directive, that she would not bring in the garbage cans from the street because, "That's Ian's job. He's the boy." There are two problems with that statement:

1. Assigning gender roles is not appropriate for the girl who wants to be the first female president of the United States.
2. I'm the mom and I'm pretty sure that I'm supposed to be in control around here, not her.

When I explained this, she pointed out that Ian should do it because, "It's the only exercise he gets." Clearly I need to watch what I say around her.

But let me set the stage for Freaky Tuesday. Here's a brief summary of events leading up to our official role reversal: 

1. Sunday night, our usual routine. Abby goes to bed. I tuck her in and kiss her goodnight.
2. Monday morning, I decide on the spur of the moment that I'm going to visit my parents that evening. I pack an overnight bag so I can leave directly from work. 
3. Abby is still asleep when I leave for work.
4. I spend Monday night at my parent's house. Talk to Abby briefly on the phone.
5. I spend most of Tuesday with my parents. When I arrive home around 5:00 p.m., Abby is at soccer practice. 
6. I leave home at 6:20 p.m. for a meeting at church.
7. Abby arrives home from soccer around 6:45 p.m. that evening.
8. I call Abby from church around 8:00 p.m. to tell her my meeting is over but that I need to get together briefly with a couple of people. I will be home in about an hour. 

And that's when the switch occurs:

Abby:  [Heavy sigh] You're never home anymore. I haven't seen you in forever.  

Mom: [Guilt ridden; realizing it's been almost 48 hours] You're right. I'm sorry. I'll come home now.

Abby: Nooo, it's okay. Go ahead.

Mom:  No, really. I'm coming home.

Abby: (Laying on thick layers of guilt) Noooo. Just do what you have to do.

Mom: Are you sure?

Abby: Yes. I'll see you when you get home.

I have a confession to make. The part I left out of my conversation with Abby was that I was going to "meet with a couple people" at Iron Hill Brewery. For a beer. Now granted, they were from my church committee, and we were possibly probably going to discuss church stuff, but still... It hit me that I had become the teenager, out with my friends, while Abby had become the mom, complaining about never seeing her daughter anymore and laying on the guilt big time.

While a large part of me enjoys the mere thought of being the kid again and thus having no grown-up responsibilities, I'm pretty sure that some day very soon, Abby and I will swap roles again. And I'll be waiting in vain to spend time with my daughter because she's too busy with her friends.

When There's No Need to Lie; A Celebration of Friendship

Last week in "You Annoy Me, or, I'm Busy this Month," I explained how I encouraged accepted understood my children's need tendency to lie when it comes to the difficult experience of breaking up with a friend. Despite a good scolding from a coworker (thank you, Patricia), I must stand by my comments, simply because I know if the shoe were on my foot, I'd also lie to save someone's feelings. Actually been there, done that.

Lest you think I'm just a mean, bitter woman, raising children to deceive others and squelch perfectly good friendships, today I want to share with you the inspiring story of a relationship involving no malice and requiring no subterfuge (my 25¢ word for the day). My daughter Abby has a best friend, Maddie, whom I wish she could some day marry. Okay, that came out wrong. I meant to say that I hope some day Abby can marry someone like Maddie. Well, you know what I mean. The friendship of these two ten-year-olds is really something special:

• They are equals in practically every way (though Maddie is a good bit taller)
• They bring out the best in one another
• They make each other laugh, think, and grow
• They avoid petty jealousies and typical tween girl issues
• When at each other's houses, the parents forget that the other child is not actually part of the biological family
• The in-laws parents are great friends who thoroughly enjoy each other's company (well, I suppose I should only speak for myself on this one)

These girls are truly one-of-a-kind, or I should say two-of-a-kind. They both possess determination, focus, skills, creativity, and intelligence beyond their years, impressing and inspiring both sets of parents. This type of friendship is so rare at their age, at any age really, and when I reflect upon it, I realize that these are the same qualities that define a solid marriage. Hence my marriage comment earlier.

Our children will almost certainly have friendships that as parents we find toxic unacceptable disappointing, but when these good ones come along, they are cause for celebration and encouragement. So today, Maddie and Abby, I celebrate your wonderful friendship. And Ian and Noah, you've got something really cool, too. And Angels, well, I can't imagine life without you. Isn't friendship a beautiful thing!

 "Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival." --C.S. Lewis

My Abby, Maddie, and friend Abby L.

My Sick Pig

This is getting ridiculous. Last week I was heavy-hearted, this week I'm just plain irritated. Finally Rob is out of my hair feeling good enough to go to work, and now I'm stuck with an ailing guinea pig.

Abby's guinea pig Snickers has been under the weather for over a week now. First, his food consumption decreased noticeably. Then, not surprisingly, he was pooping less. And his overall demeanor was off. He's usually a happy, sociable little guy who likes to chew on the bars of his cage. (It sounds like he's banging away on an old fashioned typewriter.) And he has a cute little piggy mouth that seems to be smiling most of the time. Charming fellow, that Snickers.

Well, being that I was busy playing Florence Nightingale to my better half and had more important things to deal with, I didn't make too much out of Snickers self-imposed diet and lack of interest in us. Figured maybe the Funkapotomus had paid a visit to him too. But over the weekend, our piggy gave us more cause for concern:

• General lethargy; he just laid there and looked at us with sad, crusty eyes
• Sneezing and coughing
• Heavy breathing (particularly noticeable while we were all sleeping as one big cozy family in the basement during Irene)

Abby was terribly upset by Snickers decline, and since it takes a lot to upset Abby (she's the stoic one in this family), I decided it was time for action.  Before going to bed last night I made the mistake of researching guinea pig illnesses online, and it was dismal as hell wasn't encouraging. Based on his symptoms, I diagnosed Snickers with an Upper Respiratory Infection, but the website noted that a sick guinea pig rarely gets well. I slept lousy, dreaming of guinea pig funerals, got up this morning and was on the phone by 8 a.m. making a most likely futile appointment with the vet.

Two hours (1.5 of which were spent in the waiting room), a massive allergy attack, and $115 later, I'm here with a hopefully recovering Snickers who endured a force feeding of baby food, a thermometer you-know-where, a front teeth trimming (?), a nail clipping, and a fluid injection into his side. I came home equipped with a small mammal pharmacy, including:

• Antibiotics and a dropper to dispense it 
• Yogurt (with dropper) to feed him after the antibiotics so he doesn't get diarrhea
• Jars of carrot baby food and a dropper to use for feedings every six hours
• A tube of nutrient gel to mix into the carrots
• Eye drops
• Broccoli (which he'll have to share with us)

I drew the line at the Vitamin C tablets she wanted me to crush up and mix into his food. Vitamins are expensive. 

Let's just say this is more than I would do for most of my family members people I know.

The bottom line is this. If in a few short days Snickers is not recovered, chances are slim that he will get well. And to be honest, I'd really miss him. And more than that, I hate to see Abby cry. So let's all say a prayer for the little guy, okay? 

Our friend, Snickers, pretending to eat for the camera

Legs, Nail Polish, and Guinea Pigs

Yesterday I saw something on Facebook that made me feel a bit better about myself. And it wasn't related to weight loss, hot singles in my area, or the average salary for soldiers and teachers versus government employees. Surprisingly enough, I found comfort in a post by my dearest high school friend Kelly, whom I wouldn't typically look to for solace. (Our lives are quite different these days.)

During back to school shopping with her 7th grader, Kelly noted that she was jealous of how great her daughter looked in skinny jeans. If you knew Kelly, this would be laughable given that Barbie and Pamela Anderson have nothing on her where shapeliness is concerned. But anyway, it made me feel better that I'm not the only one envious of my little girl.

In the past year I've noticed with increasing alarm how grown up and pretty my daughter is becoming. And while I am embarrassed to admit it, I envy admire her strong, athletic legs and wish they were mine. Given that she's only 10, I'm afraid I may have to kick her out of the house when she's 15 just to avoid being reminded on a daily basis of my increasing age and her teenage beauty. Do all moms go through this?

There is additional evidence of Abby's unwelcome transition into young girlhood:

• She requested our college-age babysitter accompany her back-to-school shopping instead of yours truly
• Her bottles of nail polish now outnumber her stuffed animals
• Monetary loans donations are no longer being spent on American Girl doll clothes, rather they are being used to establish her already popular Sticky Ducks business.
• She no longer thinks it's neat having a funny, vivacious, and charismatic mom who will do anything for attention. Case in point, she's mortified embarrassed that I'm playing Holly Huckleberry in our church VBS production of Avalanche Ranch. This is despite all the critical acclaim and Oscar talk.

On a positive note, she still seems oblivious to boys however, there are still occasional sightings of my little girl. Last night, for instance, she fell asleep with me after shedding tears because her guinea pig Snickers is not eating well these days. Looks like I'm going to have to hold on to those precious mommy moments. I have a feeling they will become fewer and farther between.

Hold On a Minute, I'm Not Ready for This

This week I went to two musical events -- Delco Idol Jr. and Abby's "Band Camp" summer concert. Naturally, kids performing can always be counted on to provide excellent blogging material, however, something else is heavy on my mind and in order to exorcise the demons, I'm going to share it with you. Here it is:

Without warning, my children, and their friends, have moved past the "kid" stage and right to the "young people" stage.

This is not so much a chronological phenomenon as a physical, mental, and emotional one. For instance, while Abby is only 10 compared to Ian's 13 years, she's showing as many signs of having moved up to this stage as he is. In case you don't personally have children who have morphed from kids into young people, here are some of the signs:

• They stop caring about the look of their bedroom (if they ever did) and start caring about the look of their clothing 
• They no longer say "ewww" when someone mentions the opposite sex
• Sleeping with you after a nightmare or during a thunderstorm is no longer an option (for them, not you)
• Spending time with friends is nearly always preferable to spending time with mom and dad, even when they're not embarrassed, irritated, or pissed off at you

The number one sign your child has moved up a level in the climb toward adulthood is when, during a brief moment, time stands still and you suddenly see that child as an "outsider" might see them. I don't know about you, but it has me freaked out. 

Tonight was moment #3 for me. Moment #1 happened back in April and it wasn't even my child. You may recall that we vacationed over spring break in the Outer Banks with three other families. Early on in that vacation I found myself coming back from the beach in view of our house and noticed someone new in the hot tub. I thought to myself, "Hmmm, who's the young guy hanging out in the hot tub?" It wasn't until I came closer that I realized 1) the "young guy" was Ian's best friend, 13-year-old Noah and 2) I clearly needed glasses.

Moment #2 occurred just a couple weeks ago while at a soccer game with Abby, friends, and friends' parents and siblings. The 13-year-old brother of one of Abby's friends walked up to my baby girl her and said "How ya doing?" Thankfully She looked at him as if he had lost his mind, said nothing in response, and the moment passed. But meanwhile, mom here had one of those out of body experiences. I suddenly saw Abby as a 13-year-old boy might see Abby. And I didn't like it one bit realized she's darn cute and no longer such a little girl.

And last night I saw a touch of the boy/girl dynamics at play when Abby and friend were engaging in conversation with Ian and friend and there was an element of bashfulness/coyness/flirting that I'd never seen before and hope to not see again for another eight to ten years.

As if I don't already have enough gray hairs...

Adventures in Racing, Girl Scouts, Puppetry, and Bad Guys

After another rough night day week month, I was going to write about the insidious nature of depression. But that’s depressing. So I thought maybe I’d cheer myself up and get a laugh out of you by recapping my Saturday adventures.

It started with my first 5K. A "5K 2Care 4Kids," to be exact. My church was sponsoring the event to raise money for education for kids in Haiti and Liberia. I helped promote it from the pulpit, explaining that you didn’t have to run to participate because I, for one, only run when chased. So I showed up, dressed to run because the clothes are cute, but ready to walk. Rob was planning to run, and Abby was undecided until the last minute when she confidently announced that she was running with the intent to win. We got those cool little number bibs that make you feel like a real athlete, and off we went, Rob and Abby at the front of the pack, and me hanging back with the stroller brigade.

Those three miles were filled with lots of chatter, fellowship with friends, laughter, and tears. For a change the tears belonged to the little ones, not me. Abby finished with an impressive 10 minute mile (having never run a race in her life), and I finished. In less than an hour. Barely. But to be fair, I did double back a few times to catch up with friends and take my turn pushing little ones in strollers. I’m sure if it hadn’t been for those detours I’d have finished with a strong 17 minute mile. I should also note that yesterday my doctor told me that my iron levels are so low I’ll never run a marathon. So that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

With my runner’s “high” in full effect, I left the race and headed off to the day’s second activity: chaperoning Abby’s Girl Scout troop’s visit to the Children’s Festival in Philadelphia. I was in such a good mood I didn’t even mind being stuck with 19 eight-to-eleven year-old girls, usually my definition of hell on earth. We enjoyed an uneventful train ride into the city with a fresh but funny ticket guy, strolled through U Penn’s surprisingly gorgeous campus, made some arts and crafts, watched an interpretive hula hoop dance, listened to African drumming and then headed in to the theater for the performance of Basil Twist’s Petrushka, a Russian puppet show.

Floating Instruments

Now I like to consider myself a cultured person. I enjoy foreign films with subtitles, after all, but I have to admit I sat there thinking, “What the hell is this?” I shared baffled looks with my personal group of 4^th graders as we became hypnotized by floating instruments, airborne hens, balls of light and giant spinning wheels, until graced by the presence of a ballet dancer who flirted mercilessly with both a clown and a muscle-bound machete-carrying African dude. The whole thing was bizarre as hell incredibly abstract until the point where Mr. Muscles takes the ballerina lays her down and starts making out with her. I’m thinking “You go literal now?? With a bunch of kids at a children’s festival?” The show ends with Mr. Testosterone chasing Mr. Clown through a forest complete with an over-sized bear and killing him with a machete to the back. Children's entertainment at its finest.

The make-out puppets

The puppeteers came out after the show and conducted an illuminating Q&A with the audience. And thankfully one of the Girl Scouts asked what everyone else was thinking: “What was that about?” I later learned that one of the youngest girls with us took another leader aside and asked the really important question “Why was that dude on the ballerina? What was that all about?”

Having received our dose of artistry and culture for the day, and having earned our “freaky puppet show” Girl Scout badge, our gaggle of girls made its way back to the train station. And that’s when what little maternal instinct I possess was set to high alert by the presence of what I’m fairly sure was a predator with a shoe or foot fetish. An older gentleman, maybe in his 60s, nicely dressed in a Ralph Lauren sweater and khakis, was strolling about the platform with a slight grin on his face. He watched my girls with obvious pleasure, and repeatedly focused his beady little eyes on their shoes. Or perhaps he was trying to see through them to their little girl feet. But it wasn’t just the little girls he seemed enamored with. I also saw him checking out a couple of the other moms (and their feet). Let's just say I may not be able to run a 10-minute mile, but I was more than prepared to kick 100% of his creepy ass.

So that was my Saturday. An interesting day to say the least. And far more entertaining and blog-worthy than this pesky depression crap I'm dealing with. Writing is becoming more of a challenge these days, so bear with me till we get the meds straightened out :-).

Till next time...