The paper trail

I have developed a new fear: drowning. Yes, I am a strong swimmer, and I only swim between June and August of every year, so imagining my life might end submerged underwater with no escape is fairly absurd. However, what I fear is not water, it's PAPER. I think if I die by drowning, you'll find me at the bottom of a feathery mountain of paper covered in crayon and stickers rather than in the depths of a pool.

For a society that is reportedly going paperless, I don't know, I have a whole lot of tree carcasses lying around my house at any given time. The beginning of the school year is a nightmare because for each child, about 9,000 forms, documents and notices come home for signing or perusing. Some are due back immediately and some are for events taking place within the next several days or a week. As awful as it is to be hit by a barrage of forms that need to be filled out and sent back right away, that's better than those that don't have to be back for a week or so, because THOSE are the papers that pile up on the counter, that must remain in sight lest you forget all about them. And for an indecisive person such as myself, included in that pile are the notices asking for help with the PTA, classroom parents, ordering school spirit clothing, etc. Then, every time you glance at them, you can think, "Do I want to do that? Do I have the time? If I hold onto these for another two weeks and agonize over them daily, will that help me decide?" (Answer: no, it won't.)

So I would venture to guess that the beginning of the school year is by far the worst for the sheer volume of paper that finds it way into my house and accumulates in small organized piles. But eventually, even those papers that are pleading for my help in one capacity or another go by the wayside as deadlines pass, by default excusing me from participation. And I can breathe a little sigh of relief as the pile slowly shrinks. However, in its place, new papers are growing. Others take the form of ongoing school homework or projects that you're supposed to be tackling daily or weekly. THESE are a nightmare in and of themselves, because I simply don't know where to keep them where I won't forget all about them, and of course if I keep them out, they run the risk of being spilled on by chocolate milk or something sticky. One example is the math calendar, where Colette is supposed to do some small math-related activity every day for a month. (Even if we forget about/put it off for the whole month, and then complete the whole calendar in 15 minutes on the last day of the month.) Still, it has to be visible and not get lost so that it may be returned in a timely manner.

That reminds me... I have no idea where her September math calendar went. We still have to do that.

And as your child gets older, the projects become a bit more involved and you're expected to take more time to complete them. Alexander received homework for social studies on October 1 that had a due date of the 11th. He finished it in about 6 minutes, complete with sentence fragments and lame pencil sketches. "You have 10 days to do this," I said. "You have to put more effort into it than this." Ten whole days? Where am I going to put this PAPER?! I found a spot on the refrigerator and affixed it with a magnet, where it remained until two days prior to the due date. The daily and weekly homework of two kids has been enough for me, and I know as they get older it's only going to get worse.

Of course, there are the papers that are for reference so they need to be kept handy. Student lunch codes, teacher web sites, math web sites, passwords, report card information, etc. I try to keep these all together in a folder in case I need them. Now if I could just remember where that folder is, it would be really helpful.

Finally, having a budding artist in the family means more paper than usual is floating around the house. And any parent who has a child who LOVE LOVE LOVES to draw knows, it's nearly impossible to toss any of it. How CAN you?? When Colette starts turning out one amazing picture after another, and I singularly appreciate each one of them as she shows them to me, they get herded into a little pile on the play table where they may sit for several days on end. At that point, I have one of three choices: I can either take the whole pile and stick it on top of the other nine thousand masterpieces she's done, which sit above the art supply drawers; I can toss it all into the recycling bin; or I can go through it piece by piece in an attempt to whittle down the pile to those that I really think are BEST. Again, this is a daunting task, because how does a parent trash anything their little Picasso makes? (Some of them really can be reminiscent of Picasso, too. You just can't make heads or tails of it.)

Well, obviously I can never go with the second option. What am I, some kind of heartless robot?

(Of course, I was BIG into drawing as a child and all of my growing-up years, really. My parents kept a small pile of my artwork. Apparently I didn't inherit their robotic tendencies.)

Anyway, in my head, I know that once, just ONCE in a while, I should go with option b. Such an opportunity presented itself just the other day. Colette has one of those little portable desk things that you can bring into the car or into bed with you and sit it above your lap for drawing or writing. Well, the one in her room was cluttered with all kinds of things, mostly PAPER. Since she doesn't have an actual desk in her room, I wanted her to be able to keep this little portable desk next to her desk and use it for her reading log at school. The only thing standing between me and that goal was the inch-thick sheaf of papers perched on top of it, full of drawings and stories and all kinds of two-dimensional cuteness.

I picked up the pile of papers and carried them downstairs with some other things. Holding the papers in my hand, I glanced in the direction of the paper recycling bin in the garage. Do it, do it, do it, a voice chanted in my head. Don't look at them! You'll regret it! RECYCLE!!

With every intention of heading toward the recycle bin, I suddenly found myself sitting down on the couch and looking at the first work of art on top. I knew it, I just knew it. I'm WEAK! What can I say? I have to give them a chance. What if the drawing to end all others, the one against which all other works of art in her young life would be measured, lay in this very pile?

Of course, it didn't, and yet, I found myself saving 3 of those particular pictures. For what? I could wallpaper the house at this point, and she doesn't show any signs of slowing down anytime soon. Some people take pictures of their kids' artwork, which is a good idea so that you only have digital files instead of whole trees taking up space in your house, but that just hasn't worked out for me yet. As a sentimental person, I like to touch the paper and handle it instead of just inspecting a tiny version of it. Similar to why I will probably always prefer reading a real paper book instead of looking at it on an e-reader. (Not that I have anything against those either.)

{One of Colette's short stories. The only words I can make out are "beer," "homies," and "I took your baby," but I'm going to hold onto it anyway. Mostly in case it's needed for evidence.}

For the paperless society that we supposedly have, it hasn't really earned a place in my house, try as we might. I suppose I could just take down all of the art and pictures on our walls and cover them with Colette's art work... along with my shopping lists, school forms, and assorted web site/password information. At least then I wouldn't miss any vital upcoming news.

And while I may be weak, my paper pile isn't just because of my own inability to throw anything away. When Colette looks up at me with those big blue eyes, holds out her newest picture that says "I love you" on it, and tells me so earnestly, "This is for you because I LOVE YOU! You can keep this forever," how in the world could I ever get rid of it?

I can't. And I won't... at least not until next recycling day.

Suburban outfitters

Listen carefully, because I'm about to share a stunning piece of information with you. Life as a woman is no picnic. Sometimes, it's even hard. Pregnancy? Sure. Childbirth? Oh yeah. However, I'm not talking about those. There is another, possibly even bigger horror, that all of us women have to experience on average of once a year. Once a summer. Usually around the end of May, beginning of June.

What is it? Oh yes. The annual trip to the fitting room to TRY ON A BATHING SUIT.

It's cruel, it's unnatural, and yet, it's sadly necessary. I thought we were so enlightened in this day and age, so sensitive to the needs of others and all about making life easier. Unfortunately, set foot in a dressing room and you could instantly be transported back 30 years and everything looks the same (except for your smart phone sitting on the little shelf).

The new-bathing-suit trip, for me, had become a much more infrequent trip in recent years. However, this year we decided to purchase the family membership to the local water park/pool. After a couple of visits and coming face-to-face with friends and acquaintances who live in town, sometime in the middle of summer I decided that I was going to need a brand-new bathing suit for such a visit. After not having been bathing suit shopping in a couple of years, I was humorously slightly excited to do so. How quickly we forget.

First of all, a body which has not seen the sun in the nine months that have elapsed since the end of last summer should NOT be exposed to fluorescent lights. Why do they have fluorescent lights in fitting rooms, anyway? I'm going to go ahead and assume that it's because they're a) really bright and b) cheaper than other kinds. Either that or department stores have an evil sense of humor.

So, I really think that the most compassionate thing to do would be for the store to offer a free spray tan immediately prior to the bathing suit trial. It's only fair. It doesn't have to be dark. I don't have to look like a model from the old Coppertone ads. Just a little golden glow, just so that my skin doesn't look like I died last week and so I'm not able to trace with my fingertips the exact path from the veins in my wrists all the way up to my heart. I'm not asking too much here. JUST A LITTLE SPRAY TAN FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

Barring that, how about ditching the fluorescent lights? Sure, they provide very bright light so that you can see every little thing. On the downside, they provide very bright light so that you can see every little thing. See the difference? Do they really think we women want to be illuminated like that? I want that kind of light if I'm reading a book. I don't need to play dot-to-dot with my moles. Why not just give me 3D glasses and really scare me?! What stores SHOULD do is use soft, warm, off-white light. Maybe even rose-colored light. With music playing, fresh flowers, a glass of wine, and perhaps even the sound of ocean waves crashing in the background. That's right, I want it to be a complete spa experience. You want to sell more bathing suits? Do all that and I promise your sales will quadruple. But as it is, right now, instead of crashing waves, pass by any fitting room and you're more likely to hear either horrified screaming or the gentle weeping of a woman who genuinely did not realize until this moment just what happened to her body over the course of the winter.

I was prepared. I was prepared not to take a peek in that mirror until I was completely clad in a new suit and not a second before. This worked for the most part, although I was still required to actually see myself at some point in what could be a good suit choice... or what could be a bad one. The worse the suit, the faster it must come off, of course all the while averting your eyes. One of my favorite Seinfeld episodes was where he talked about the difference between "good naked" and "bad naked." Well, I think we all realize that trying to bend and contort your body into and out of a bathing suit, sadly, typically results in bad naked.

So I looked at myself in my newest contender. It wouldn't have been bad except that it felt too tight. Looked at the tag and... oops. Accidentally picked up a size too small, and that's certainly not going to help the situation. As I crossed my arms and attempted to pull the top over my head, I realized that getting out of this contraption was going to be harder than I'd thought. Do you ever reach that fork in the road during the whole fitting-room experience where you have to make a decision: pop my shoulder out of joint or stay in this top until they cut me out of it? I had reached that point. I didn't want to be cut out of it, for obvious reasons such as a) a store employee seeing me naked and b) having to purchase a cut-up bathing suit. What does one do with shredded spandex, anyway? You can't make dust rags out of it. Not very absorbent. In fact, all I can come up with is fashioning several tiny bathing suits for Barbie, which would please Colette but I really don't want to spend that much on doll clothing.

Thankfully it didn't come to that. Luckily for me, I'm pretty flexible, and I was able to pretzel my way out of the suit with a minimum of sound effects and prayers to God. After all, I didn't want to scare my fitting room-mates. I can only hope there were no hidden cameras and that I won't find myself unwittingly appearing on YouTube.

I only ended up buying one suit that day. I did find two pieces that pleased me enough to buy them, and after briefly being held hostage in the other suit, that was enough for me for one day. In retrospect, however, I probably should have soldiered through and bought at least one more just so that I could avoid another shopping trip for an extra year. But who knows, maybe they'll listen to me and provide a more calming, serene fitting-room experience for us women who already have it so hard. I could make a phone call. Maybe write a letter or leave feedback on their Web site. Or maybe I'll just let the hidden camera footage speak for itself.

How NOT to feel old, or, how to feel younger than some trees and landmark buildings

I recently read a blog post entitled "How to Feel Old." It was about all of these fun little factoids like how the baby on the cover of Nirvana's "Nevermind" album is now 21 years old. The same kind of thing that comes out every year, talking about how old this year's college freshmen are and how they don't remember life before the internet and the like. So the blog had all this type of chuckle-worthy crap designed to make you feel like hanging yourself just because the cute little kid with glasses from Jerry Maguire now looks like he should be starring in Magic Mike.

I just don't understand these things. "How to Feel Old." Do I really need a guide? With each passing birthday, with each new silver hair that I spot in the mirror, with each new "big" high school reunion that rolls around, do I really need a tutorial on how to feel old? Because I'm learning that all on my own, I'm sorry to say. I don't need the aptly self-named "Scary Mommy" terrorizing me with new ways in which to realize the years are passing faster than they ever have before.

I don't need to learn how to feel old. Why doesn't someone help me out with how to feel young? No one seems interested in that. I guess it's boring journalism. It doesn't shock and quicken the pace of one's heart rate, which as we all know is dangerous for the elderly anyway.

I guess it's up to me, then.

HOW TO FEEL YOUNG*

* Some or all of these may not apply to you, just me, which is all that really matters.

1. Catherine Zeta-Jones, Jennifer Aniston, Salma Hayek and Jennifer Lopez are all gorgeous and seem not to have aged at ALL in the past 15 or so years. Think about THAT! Plus, they are all older than I am! Marginally so, but they are. (This is one of those "may not apply to you" facts.) And no, I don't care to hear about all of the professional hair, makeup, lighting, personal trainers, and anti-aging products and procedures that they have available to them.

2. The vast majority of my literature books from college are still in like-new condition. It's like I just used them yesterday! (This may or may not have to do with the fact that the vast majority of them also have not been cracked open since then.) If you have any well-preserved books from college stored in your basement, dust them off and place one or two on your end table. Hey look, you've got some studying to do!

3. If you have lived a normal life and therefore not worn a bikini to the beach for the past 20+ years, go into a private room right now, lift up your shirt and look at your stomach. Behold! Smooth, creamy (and likely dead-body white, if you're anything like me) baby-like skin. See that? That's not old-person skin! That skin could rival my 5-year-old's. I'd like to take that skin and put it on my face, in fact. Ok, so that idea kind of goes against what I'm trying to accomplish here.

4. Spend lots of time around old people. Older relatives, especially - people who have known you a long time. They'll say things like "You're too young to remember this, but..." and make lots of references to old music and pop culture. This will give you the opportunity to shrug your shoulders and say, "Nope, sorry. I have no idea what you're talking about. That was before I was born." You will also be the youngest one in the group. Very satisfying.

5. Blast the 80s station on XM radio in your car like I do. Since all they play is 80s music all the time, after a while your mind may be tricked into believing that you're actually a teenager again. Depending on your age you can also utilize the 70s, 60s, 50s, and (congratulations!) 40s stations. Just don't look in the rear-view mirror.

6. Chocolate, lots of chocolate. This won't necessarily make you feel younger but you won't care so much about your age.

7. If anyone says anything to you like "You're young at heart" or "You're only as young as you feel," or, God forbid, ANY mention of aging gracefully, smack them with one of the heavier college books we talked about earlier. Since it's on your end table it should be within reach. This will accomplish two things: the speaker will get the abuse he or she so rightly deserves, and swinging that book may bring back fond memories of good-natured late-night fights with your old college roommate. What fun!

All of these things should be done very close together, and in the event of a birthday, all at once the night before and morning of your birthday. So... enjoy good music, great chocolate, spend time with friends and family and reminisce all you want and you too will feel as young as you deserve to feel. Just remember to eat your fiber, slather on the moisturizer and floss your teeth before a reasonable bedtime. We may still be young, but we have to work at it.

Fixing a hole

I'm not an anti-dentite, but like most people, the dentist's office is one of my least favorite places to spend time. I've been there many, many times over the years, and if I could go back and do it all over again, one of my top five changes would be to heed the advice of the wise and FLOSS. Every day. Or if not every day, at least a few times a week. This would have saved me many problems (and money) over the years.

So, one of the lessons I've learned by this point is to go to the dentist regularly. Every six months and it's time for another cleaning. The flossing thing, however, still eluded me. At most visits, I've come to expect a lot of picking and poking, and usually, as happens by this TIME in my life (ahem) I receive the news that one or two cavities need to be replaced. It's always something, and I wish that once, just once, I could bid farewell to the dentist with a "Bye, see you in six months!" But no. It's always something.

And so, recently, for the first time, I received the news that I did NOT need an old cavity to be replaced. WOO HOO! Finally!! I've been waiting so long for this. Instead... I have new cavities. That's right, that's plural. FOUR new cavities! And on my front teeth no less! How did this happen? I haven't had new cavities in years, pretty much since I began sticking to the six-month regimen. And what the hell have I been doing with my front teeth, exactly?!

I made my appointment at their earliest appointment, a few weeks away, and when the day came, with some mild trepidation I arrived for my appointment. At 11:40 am in the morning, which would release me at approximately 12:30 in the afternoon, or more precisely, LUNCHTIME. When I'm unable to eat. Great. "Well, at least it's your front teeth, and not your back chewing teeth," the receptionist tried to cheer me up. A good point, although I still wasn't thrilled with the time slot.

At my dentist's office, they have TV screens built into the ceiling above the exam chair. Awesome! Two of the three work, and of course I was escorted to the one chair whose TV screen remained dark. "Those TVs are on," I said hopefully, pointing to the next station over. "I know," the dental hygienist answered. "There's a problem with the wire or something with this one. Sorry!"

I knew this TV had a problem because every time I have to have work done, they take me to the same station, and every time, the TV is off. So I knew today would be no different. However, the other screens are not usually turned on at the time. Especially since both of the other chairs were EMPTY and would remain that way the whole time I was there. Could I request to be moved? Is it like a restaurant where you'd rather a window seat or one not in the line of the kitchen traffic? Since she didn't offer, I glumly sat down in my seat.

Probably the worst part of having a cavity (or FOUR) filled is the novocaine shot. Granted, the whole appointment would probably be hell if it weren't for the novocaine shot, but still, let's face it, that shot sucks. And since I was lucky enough to have my fillings in a couple of my front teeth, I got the shots right in the front of the gums above my teeth. After about 15 minutes had gone by, I felt like I had buck teeth and a clown's nose on. I decided to share this with the dental hygienist, who laughed. "When you talk, your top lip doesn't even move," she marveled in a way that made me nervously think that maybe she had never witnessed this before. "He got you GOOD!"

This statement led me to believe that if I were lucky, I might be able to eat lunch by sometime tomorrow.

Anyway, he put the chair so far back that I felt I might slide right off the back and onto the floor. I wonder if that had ever happened before? All of the slippery plastic covering the head part makes it seem possible. Well, there's always a first time, and it most likely would be with me. I find it so funny that when you're in that chair, for some reason it's taboo to make eye contact with the dentist or hygienist. That would be weird. And unfortunately, they have to get SO CLOSE to your face that it's nearly impossible to see anything else. Not that there's anything else to look at. (More on this later.) The only doctor who gets closer to your face is the optometrist, and with that one you're FORCED to keep your eyes open, so it might be even weirder. Still, in that case you're required to stare straight ahead like you don't see them, 2 millimeters from your eyeball, shining a bright light into your eye. "La la la, I'm just sitting here, and I see nothing strange at all. No one's looking at me, and I'm just going about my business sitting here... I don't see anything..." Of course, if you happen to spot them in your peripheral vision, you're just praying that you won't notice them smiling at you or anything weird like that.

So, either you close your eyes, or you look at the ceiling. I close my eyes for a while, but since I wear contacts, sometimes my eyes get a little blurry if they've been closed for too long, so I like to open them sometimes to avoid this problem. So... looking around. Needle? Ack! Close eyes quickly! Ok, open again. Hmm... there is the dentist about 4 inches from my face. There's the hygienist holding the little spit sucking thing. (We used to call this "Mr. Thirsty" as kids.) There is literally NOTHING to look at. All there is to do is notice the horrible, outdated ceiling that makes you wonder exactly where all of your money is going. The one directly over my head was cracked and I noticed some worn down corners. Wait, did it look like a couple of those corners had been CHEWED? Maybe not, but where else is one's mind supposed to wander to when you're just lying there enjoying your pain? If it had been chewed, I thought, whatever chewed it has a really good chance of falling right on my face since that ceiling panel is right over my head. This was one of those thoughts that, as soon as it entered your head, you really wished you hadn't come up with it.

But seriously. How hard would it be to put something on the ceiling? Even the TV, had it been working, would have been too far down for me to see. My feet could have watched something, but as I was about to slide off the chair and onto the floor, it wouldn't have been anywhere in my view. (Plus, all of the TVs were upside down. Who installed these things, anyway?) But how about going old-school and putting up a picture? Or a poster? Or an awesome saltwater fish tank built right into the ceiling!! Ok, that might be a bit far-fetched. If they can't even get the TV to work they probably won't put in an aquarium, and if they did, it would probably be leaking and drip right onto my face.

While I couldn't see the TV at the station next to me, I could hear bits and pieces of it in between drilling noises. The dentist and hygienist could hear it a lot better than I could, though (what with my head being so close to the floor and all) and suddenly I heard one of the say something about a cruise. "Something happened on a cruise last night?" the hygienist asked.

My ears perked up. I had read that article on CNN this morning and knew the cruise ship had suffered a fire on board. "Hire!" I said, my mouth stuffed with rolled-up cotton, novocaine and assorted dental instruments and obviously unable to produce an f sound.

The two continued to talk between each other for a minute. I don't think anyone heard me, probably because any sound I made was muffled by the rubber on the hygienist's sneakers which were about two inches from my head. "What cruise ship was it? What happened exactly?" they wondered to each other.

"HIRE!" I said again, a bit louder, and was instantly reminded of Bill Cosby's stand-up with the bit about the dentist's office. I suddenly wondered if I should panic. Why could no one HEAR me? Was I actually unconscious and just dreaming? Help! HELP!!

"Fire?" the hygienist asked me. "Uh huh," I agreed, relieved that they could hear me and I didn't need to jump up out of my chair, rip out Mr. Thirsty and start knocking over small metal tables and stuff.

By the time it was all over, I was feeling like I'd like to produce LOTS of f sounds. But honestly, considering the circumstances, it wasn't too bad. I was out in under an hour, as promised, and aside from feeling hungry and being concerned with the sheer SIZE of my lips at that point in time, I was fine and happy to be going home to wait until I could finally eat something. And as I finally started to eat my lunch at almost 2 pm, with my lip still numb but starting to tingle, I felt more glad than ever that 3 weeks ago, at 42 years old, I finally began flossing at night before bed. I'm remembering more nights than not now, and I'm determined that I'm going to make this habit stick. It's just that important. Next on my to-do list, I'm calling the dentist's office about that whole ceiling thing. Even though I only plan on visiting them once every six months now, I'd still like something nice to look at.

Happy messy mother's day!

Every year it starts pretty much the same.

On the morning of Mother's Day, I sleep in. When I get up, I start walking around the room, opening shades, etc., and at some point I hear Zach call up the stairs, "Get back into bed!" because, of course, breakfast in bed would not be if I were not in bed. Now that the kids are older, Zach can send them upstairs to do the dirty work. So this morning, as I was puttering around, I heard footsteps come running up the stairs and before I knew it, a cold, clammy hand was gripping my left arm.

"Get back into bed!" Alexander chirped.

"Isn't there something else you'd like to say to me first?" I asked.

He folded his arms across his chest, undeterred. "I am NOT leaving until you get back into bed!"

So it's not just a matter of making the perfect Mother's day breakfast so much as being in control, I think. :) I obliged and climbed back into bed, and waited. And waited. Let me tell you, the service is cute, but boy is it SLOW! After about 15 minutes, Alexander returned with a large towel in his hand and tossed it onto the bed in front of me. "This is going to be messy," he proclaimed and began to spread it out in front of me.

Messy. If there were any word to describe motherhood next to "love," I don't think there is a more obvious choice that could possibly be more fitting than that. Motherhood is so many kinds of messy that there should be sub-categories of the word to describe it.

When you give birth and are the proud new owner of a newborn, MESSY is where it's at. In between trying to keep your ahead above water in a sea of sleep deprivation and trying not to completely ignore your partner, there's a whole lotta messy going on. The baby vomit adorning your new shirt, pants and hair. The poopy diaper changes (and, if you have a boy, the pee too). The baby toys that multiply overnight. If you're like me, you practically forget you even have furniture at all, judging by the dust on top of it. It's all a big mess.

But that's just the physical aspect of it. When you have a child, the emotions become messy, too. I remember feeding Colette in the middle of the night in the hospital, and I started crying. The nurse poked her head in and asked me if I was ok. "Yes," I blubbered, "just happy!" Hormones are a mess. The overwhelming sense of love for the new child is fighting feelings of being overwhelmed, uncertainty about your new role as a parent, and terror about the health and safety of this new little being whose life you have been entrusted.


My first Mother's Day, 2005.

As they grow and new experiences begin to emerge, emotions can go awry. Every "first" is cause for celebration and can begin the emotional roller coaster all over again, depending on what kind of mom you are. ;) When our dog Lily died, Alexander was 4 1/2 years old. I remember how Zach and I dreaded telling Alexander. I wanted to wait a couple of days until I felt stable enough myself to break the news. We sat down with him and explained how Lily had been sick, and that when she went to the animal hospital, she had to stay and died there. We watched his face closely and braced ourselves. There was a pause. "Can we get a new dog?" was the first thing out of his mouth. We looked at each other, unsure as to whether we should laugh or cry, and assured him that, yes, after some time had gone by, we would get another dog one day. Some more discussion as to whether he had any questions and was ok, and that was that.

The next day, while Colette was napping, I was in the bathroom with Alexander. (I spent a lot of time with him there at that age.) I was sitting on a stool while he sat on the potty, probably reading him a book, when suddenly he asked me, "Do you miss Lily?"

I was so unprepared for that question, I just sat in shock for a moment wondering how to answer. I steadied my voice as best I could, looked into his eyes with my own teary ones and admitted, "Yes."

When he saw the tears in my eyes, that was it. It was if I had told him, without words, that it was ok to let it out. He started crying, and seeing him like that made it impossible for me to hold it in as well. So there we were, hugging each other in the bathroom, crying over our deceased dog together. I don't know how long we were in there like that but I remember it felt like forever. Eventually I got him washed up and carried him into the family room, where I laid him on the couch with a blanket and asked him if he wanted to watch a movie. I had to get the crying to stop for both of us. We got a break then, but the sadness continued over the next few days. I got a book out of the library that was about dog heaven, and he asked me to read it over... and over... and over again.


Lily and her new baby brother.

When the kids start making friends and going to school, it takes on a whole new level. As most mothers, I'm sure, I'm overprotective of my kids and worry about them constantly. I worry more about Alexander than Colette, because, while she is nearly 3 years younger than he, she is more socially advanced and makes friends more easily. A couple of weeks ago, I went to the school to attend Colette's kindergarten class's "math games." I arrived shortly before noon, and after signing in at the front desk, it occurred to me that this was a time I hadn't previously been at the school and wondered if Alexander might be having lunch. I moved aside a bit and looked into the all-purpose room, which was bustling with kids eating lunch. I saw a packed table of kids eating right up against the far window, and suddenly, at the table directly across from it, closer to the doorway near where I was standing, I saw Alexander. He saw me and began waving. I smiled and suddenly, my smile began to fade and my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. It appeared that Alexander was eating by himself at a huge lunch table. My heart started pounding. Knowing that I most likely was not allowed near the lunchroom, I walked down the short hallway next to the school store to get a closer look anyway. Once I stood outside the double doors, I saw that he was in fact sitting with his friend Daliah. Then I saw another kid at the end of the same table - sitting alone, I think? - and while I took this all in, a voice called out to me, "Hi!" I looked over and saw one of Alexander's classmates who had attended his birthday party waving to me, and I smiled and waved back. That table was fairly empty too. In fact, it turned out that all of the kids were sitting in small groups of only 2 or 3. (I found out later that the two tables were so empty due to the fact that it was Take Your Child to Work Day.) But in that one moment, when I saw my son's face, I had tunnel vision and saw NO ONE else around, just him, and immediately felt terrified that he was eating alone. Once I realized that all was ok, I relaxed a little, and of course the front desk receptionist came over to tell me that I had to come back to the waiting area. "I'm sorry," I said feebly, "I was just waving to my son..." and kind of left it at that, because in that moment, I had no idea how to tell this woman how I nearly had a panic attack just because I thought my child was eating lunch by himself. I did, however, quickly relay the story to an acquaintance I ran into in the waiting area, and she quickly assured me that "boys are different from girls," and that her son eats lunch alone all the time and didn't mind at all.

I still can't think of that day without remembering how my stomach tightened up in knots and I very nearly cried right there in the lobby of the school, standing motionless with a frozen smile on my face, while my son waved excitedly as he spotted me there. I relayed the story to Zach later and told him that I think I'm too sensitive to have kids. "Too late for that," he quipped. But it's true; I am. See? I am a MESS! And I know that there will be more of the same in the years to come... how I am going to handle that... I honestly don't know.

So not only do I face the spilled pot of dirt on the family room rug, the one that one child is using to plant a dandelion, the permanent marker streak on my fabric blinds in the same room, the chocolate milk that spilled on the play table, the watercolor paints that were left out to dry and their evidence wiped on my good towel in the bathroom, but I also face the emotional messes of a Mother's Day tea complete with songs and readings, learning that my son has received a science award, my daughter dancing in her recital, and even the seemingly mundane like watching my children walk into school in the mornings, dragging a big backpack that is almost as big as my daughter is, taking those few steps up the walkway and disappearing into the darkness of the inside of the elementary school where I have no choice but to trust that my children will be safe and well-taken care of. Maybe by this point, a sunny day in the middle of May when the school year is coming to a close, most people don't even give it a second thought anymore... but I do. After we hug, say goodbye and I love you, I still get the tiniest lump in my throat watching them walk into the school like big kids who are getting bigger every day.


My most recent Mother's Day.

And, still, in spite of the innumerable messes that it holds, motherhood is always amazing, never boring, and boasting its own holiday that's more important than any of the others. So, yes, this Mother's Day was messy, in the truest sense of the word: a platter of blue-tinted Cool Whip was the backdrop for a solar system created from fruit. A sun with flames crafted from cut-up pineapple and strawberries, an Earth shaped from blueberries and kiwis, the rest of the planets and an asteroid belt artfully created from assorted fruits, and even poor old Pluto given a place of honor with one tiny blueberry. It was a thing of beauty. (It was also a good thing I put away the good white towel that Alexander had chosen as my placemat in favor of an old navy blue one.)



So, why a fruity solar system breakfast? "Because," Zach led them on, and they all finished in unison, "you are the best mom in the UNIVERSE!" I hope that's true, but if it is, it's because they make me so. After all, they are my whole world.

Hair of the dog

I want many things. I want an addition on our house to add on a new bathroom, enlarge Colette's room and bring the guest room upstairs. I want Yard Crashers to crash my yard and make it over in spectacular style. (That just reminded me to make my daily entry for the DIY network America's Most Desperate Landscape Giveaway.) I want to go on a trip, without kids, to the Greek Islands yet at the same time manage to NOT miss them. But then I'd feel guilty for not missing them. So let's add guilt-free onto that as well.

But right now, what I REALLY want, is a dog.

I can't get past it. All it takes is one person posting a picture of a rescue dog and the longing starts all over again, even in the face of Colette's "moderate to severe" dog allergy diagnosis. I vacillate from looking into labradoodle breeders, to "well we had a dog until she was 2 and she was fine so she'd probably be fine with a regular dog, we'd just have to test it out," to ditching the idea altogether, and back again. It's a neverending cycle. I'm always somewhere in it, but the desire to have a dog again never goes away no matter at what point in the cycle I find myself.

Tonight I found three labradoodle siblings on Petfinder - "The three stooges," as they're called. Four months old, SO cute, but not guaranteed hypoallergenic. The puppies in the ad are "too young" to tell, said the rescue in their description. Which I believe is another way of saying "We don't know who the parents are, and we don't know if the dog is third generation or more, so we just have no idea." That started it up again. I started talking to Zach. Maybe we could get one that we could return if it doesn't work out... come up with a story to tell the kids that we're dogsitting for one of Zach's coworkers just in case she has a reaction, and if not we could just say "Surprise! This is our new dog!" A true YouTube success story video. It could work.


One of the stooges in question.

So tonight, while making the bed, this is how the conversation between Zach and me went.

Me: You're getting me a labradoodle for Mother's Day, aren't you?
Zach (laughing): I'd have to hate my sweet baby girl an awful lot to do that.
Me: Why? Lots of people who have allergies are not allergic to labradoodles!
Zach: Well, then find one and let's start testing her out with it.
Me: That's what you were supposed to have been doing all these weeks leading up to Mother's Day.
Zach (laughs): Yep, that's right, I did. I've been keeping the dog in the basement. I hope it's ok, I haven't heard from it in a while... (gets into bed)
Me: Goodnight, evil dream killer. I hope your conscience lets you sleep.

Now, I can't stop staring at these dogs on Petfinder. Two male and one female. They're in NJ, too, through Oodles of Doodles Rescue, which is good because they won't adopt them out farther than a 50-mile radius. Maybe it's worth going to take a look at them.

I remember the old days of trolling Petfinder, searching for the perfect pet. I always wanted a lab, around 6 months old, already housebroken. I got that dog, or at least a version of it, in 2000 when I adopted Lily. She was a lab mix, and it turns out that what she was mixed with was maniac. She looked labbish, but didn't act it - she was fairly high strung and hated strangers and strange dogs. So several years later, after she died of liver disease, I started poking around on Petfinder again. In the beginning, it was just to look. After about 2 years had elapsed since her passing, we decided we were ready to start looking in earnest. That's when a visit to a local shelter ended up with Colette in hives after a dog's mouth touched her face, and suddenly our search for a new family pet came to a screeching halt. It was a sad, sad day, and a trip to the allergist confirmed my fears: moderate to severe dog allergy for Colette.


Alexander and Lily

The thing is, I'd never seen her have a reaction before. She was already 2 years old when Lily died, and while I never allowed her to roll on the floor and be covered in slobbery kisses by the dog, she never had an allergic reaction just by being in the same house as her. She never had a problem when visiting friends with dogs. And, if you want to be technical about it, I'm allergic to dogs too - it's mild, but it's there, and I knew even as a kid that I couldn't lie down with the dog too long and allow myself to be covered in her smell and her sloppy kisses. Because in my case, I knew that if I would lie with dogs, I'd get up... with hives.

A recent episode of Dogs 101 profiled the labradoodle, which immediately turned Alexander into a fan the moment he heard "good for people with allergies." Poor kid really wants a dog, and from Snoopy to Scooby Doo, Marmaduke to every dog that comes to school at pick-up time, his devotion has not waned. A few days ago, while searching On Demand for a Saturday night family movie, I stumbled across the old movie Beethoven. The kids, of course, loved it and I have a feeling it will wind up in our regular rotation.

I'm sure there's a solution in here somewhere (aside from the obvious), but I think it will take some more digging, some more exposure, some more brainstorming to find it. Maybe I could pray to a saint about it. How about St. Francis of Assisi? Isn't he the patron saint of animals? I don't know... maybe St. Bernard would be better.

the fear of the many and the cleverness of the few

I never thought I would go to church this morning.

I never imagined I would have gone to church last week, either, or the week before. Three weeks in a row. I don't think that's happened since I was about 17.

There was no life-changing, traumatic experience to suddenly bring me to my knees. The approach of mid-life has caused me to ponder many things - has life ALWAYS moved this fast? Do my kids see me as old? Why does everyone around me seem to be getting so old? When did they start making a Mercedes that starts under $30k and when can I get one?! However, I can't really blame this middling period of my life for my return to church, either.

Instead, it was fueled by - as so many things in my life these days are - the kids. Well, Alexander in particular. We had been considering Sunday school for him for quite some time. As a very literal, logical child, who curiously began asking in recent years many questions about God, we thought that a little theological schooling would be good for him. Zach, who by all accounts (ok, his and his mom's) unabashedly abandoned religion as a teenager and never returned, was in full support of Sunday school for Alexander. As was I; I was eager to introduce the concept of a higher power, a comforting one that is not seen but (hopefully) felt, into his life.

Not that he hadn't had any background at all. I had told him about God, that he created everything on Earth including ourselves, and that people go to be with him in Heaven after they die. The whole "Heaven" concept first arose when our dog Lily died 3 years ago and I was looking to comfort him. But his religious knowledge didn't venture far past that. I wanted it to, but whenever I was struck by the desire to do so, I became frozen by not knowing how best to explain it. ("Jesus is God's son? So which one do we pray to? Wait, Jesus is God's son AND he's also God?! What? Who is Jesus's mother? Is God Mary's husband? Who is Joseph then?" I could just see it now.) I was afraid that I would be faced with such questions that I couldn't adequately answer and ultimately decided to leave it to the so-called professionals.

I told the kids we were going to try something new – going to church and learning about God and also doing some fun things like crafts with other kids. Their interest was piqued, and Colette in particular was very excited about making crafts and playing with other kids. So breaking the news to them was the first challenge. The second challenge was asking Zach to accompany me, and I knew it wouldn’t go over well.

As expected, it was met with a fair amount of groaning and “Really? I HAVE to go?” I asked if he would PLEASE accompany me just for the first time, since it’s a new experience, it would make me feel better. He relented.

So on Sunday morning, with me vacillating between envisioning of a 1950s-style Rockwell-esque painting and flashbacks of getting ready for church from my own childhood, I got out my “good” pants (when you’re a stay-at-home mom who hasn’t worked for years, you typically only have one pair) and helped Colette pick out a dress, brush her hair, and instruct my son to change out of his sweatpants. Even Zach donned his regular weekday work wear, and suddenly, we were all very impressive in our Sunday finery as we climbed into the car.

Thankfully, the ride to the church is not far, so I didn’t have terribly long to dwell (see: worry) over how things would go. We followed a few other people through the door marked “Sunday School” down to a basement-style structure with several rooms. First up was the children’s chapel, which is for children from kindergarten through second grade. We entered the small room with a miniature version of an altar in the front, lines of tiny orange plastic chairs for the kids. Colette immediately went up to the second row from the front because she’d spotted a girl she wanted to sit behind. Alexander shunned the orange chairs in favor of a piano bench behind me as close as possible to the back wall. I encouraged him to move up and sit next to his sister, but he refused. So I asked him to at least sit in one of the children’s chairs next to me. He picked up the chair, moved it up against a big plant and did his best to camouflage himself, shrinking down into his jacket.

The children’s chapel was really cute. I didn’t get to see too much of it since the woman in charge of Sunday School, whom I’d spoken to at length on the phone the previous week, came by the class and I went out into the hall to speak to her. Apparently I missed some fun which Zach filled me in on after chapel was over and the kids were in their individual classes. When the girl heading up the chapel asked if anyone was sick, Zach said, Colette raised her hand and informed everyone that her mom & dad are sick (we were not). And when they asked if there were any birthdays, Alexander raised his hand, thinking of his friend from school whose birthday party he had just attended the night before. The girl asked his name and he replied very quietly. “Great! When’s your birthday, Alan?” she asked him. Fun times in the children’s chapel.

After the chapel time ended, Colette went to her kindergarten class and Alexander to his. Alexander's class was quite small, only 3 or 4 others - all girls - in the room. I stayed in the room for a few minutes and then watched intently from the hallway. As you may or may not know, Alexander doesn't relish in new situations. As expected, he kept to himself a lot, although he was quite eager to participate in the craft they made and of course shoveled the provided snack down his gullet with great abandon.

I mostly kept an eye on him, and Zach looked after Colette. Not that either one of us were very concerned about her. She was happy coloring a picture of Jesus, I think, listening to a story, and eating a snack. Sunday School for the little ones is all playtime. Alexander, on the other hand, was coming in the middle of a class preparing to make communion, with little or no religious background to speak of. Like I said, I watched his class pretty closely until the door was closed for the last 15 minutes or so. Why was it closed? Were they hiding something? I have no idea. Couldn't be due to my hallway loitering with a watchful eye.

When it was all over, we went to church. It was hard to get out of. When I was a kid, in the Catholic church, I went to CCD. (Usually. In third and part of fourth grade, I went to Catholic school, which exempted me from CCD, which was AWESOME.) But normally, I went to CCD. Which was held on some random weekday afternoon. You know what the difference is between CCD and Sunday School? Sunday School is actually held on Sundays. You know, when church is. This makes it very difficult to escape going to church. In fact, the head of Sunday School told me that "some families go to Mass at 8 am and then Sunday School afterward, some parents go to Mass at 10 and then we bring their children over to church from Sunday School when they're done, and some families bring their kids to Sunday School (insert big huge pregnant Mother Mary pause here) and then leave." The last scenario was clearly frowned upon, figuratively and, in this case, kind of literally too. Siiiigggghhhh. Looks like I'll be going to church for the next 8 years, minimum. Or at least until I decide it's ok to skip sometimes.

But for now, there we were, family of four in our Sunday finery, slipping into a pew in the back just in case Colette somehow injured herself on the kneeler and started crying, Alexander started behaving so badly the stained glass Jesus himself had to reprimand him, or Zach's head exploded. Any and all of these scenarios would warrant a quick exit.

Thankfully, none of them came to pass. There was lots of squirming and lots of "Is it time to go yet?" which is to be expected. Zach wasn't the only one doing those things, though. HA HA HA HA. Actually, Zach was very well-behaved too. He even received communion, which I quickly and teasingly pointed out to him, to which he answered, "Well, what was I supposed to do?" Now, when you go up at communion time, you can cross your arms over your chest which indicates that you want a blessing from the priest, which is what the kids and I did. I think Zach didn't find out about that option until it was too late.

It was a relief when it was over, but the thought of it is still a source of stress every week. Zach won't be going every week, which I expected, and wrangling the kids in church by myself isn't as fun as you might imagine. I also worry about Alexander in yet another school situation - like I need more to worry about - and the idea of the upcoming Communion ceremony. I can see him refusing to walk up there with the other kids. Some days I want to smack myself in the head (and do) for starting him in Sunday School so late. But even if I started him at Colette's age, who knows. He might still be the same way. He's going through a "shy" phase lately even in regular school which is making things very difficult, so there is likely nothing that I could have done to prevent that anyway.

The last part is just trying to figure out how I feel about it. Going back to church after so many, many years feels very unnatural to me, even forced. Am I a better person now that I've been in church every week? Am I "safe"? I don't know... maybe this isn't right, or maybe I just need more time to feel comfortable with it again. And, I have to admit, even though the churches are so very much alike... it feels just a little odd for the church that I find myself in to be Episcopal rather than Catholic. I have problems with the Catholic Church, and everything with the Episcopal Church has just been so EASY and they've been so welcoming, and yet... what can I say, old habits die hard.

In the meantime, we have some home schooling to do as far as religion goes. I've taken a couple of books out of the library about children's Bible stories, and we've only read a couple, but there is more reading to do to help answer some of the questions that Alexander has been hitting me with. Next up: "Why is the symbol of the church a big plus?" Yep, looks like it's time to get back to basics.