Let Them Eat Cake!

             I spend a ridiculous amount of my time in the act of feeding my family. When the kids were little I just shopped willy-nilly; no really strategy, no menu, no list, no plan. But I learned that can not only be expensive, but it causes multiple return trips for forgotten items. So now, each week I sit down with a calendar, a notebook and a pile of cookbooks and I begin the first of four lists. Using the calendar I determine which days already have events planned that will conflict with meals for that day. Monday nights we have Scouts, better cook something quick and easy; not too much prep or clean up so Dad and the boy can get out on time. Tuesday night I have school, better choose something simple to prepare, like chicken pot pies or pasta, so hubby doesn't have to put in too much effort, (also a good night for foods I don't enjoy, like hot dogs.) Friday night everyone goes out…why bother cooking at all, instead get something each person can just grab and prepare on their own-- grilled cheese and tomato soup.

            Once I have finished this first list I begin paging through the cookbooks accruing my second list-- What can I prepare that will meet each person's tastes and dislikes? My cookbooks have ratings next to each recipe we tried, using a complex mathematical system of averages and a general scoring poll of those who participated in the meal, (with an automatic zero from my younger son who hates all things beyond the sophisticated pallet of a six year old, despite his near adult status,)  as well as notes for future preparations. (I bet you didn’t know I was THIS crazy!) High ratings get put in rotation more than the lower ones. (Accidental Banana Mushroom Shrimp with Bacon has never been repeated due to massively low scores and a general gag reflex when considering it.)

            I also use this time to pursue the store ads and determine what's on sale that week. Then I organize the week’s meals for "variety" and other considerations. Can't have chicken two nights in a row. Pasta is not a healthy meal three times a week. We had that casserole last week, too soon to have it again. This child doesn't like anything with flavor, better plan a bland night so he doesn't feel left out. Saturday is supposed to be 100 degrees, plan something that doesn't require turning on the oven, etc. The point is everyone is taken into consideration in compiling these two lists.       

            Next, I comb back through the list and compile the third-- ingredients. I list all the ingredients needed for each recipe. During this time I check to see what we already have, and what we will need. Do I have 3 teaspoons of olive oil? Is that onion still good or do I need another? Do we have enough milk to get through the week? Did someone leave an empty butter container in the fridge (or a full one on the counter?) Do I even own Cumin? What the hell is "chard?" (Don't get me started on recipes without pictures!)

            Once this list is completed I create my final list by rearranging this third list into an easy-to-shop-from master list: Meats, produce, canned goods, dairy, household supplies and etceteras. This list is subcategorized in order of appearance for the market I will be visiting. Now, after about an hour or two of careful planning, demographic review, extensive research, and a quick review of my coupons, I am ready to embark on the execution stage-- shopping.

            For me marketing takes a few hours and a trip to a minimum of two stores. I used to shop just the local market, but I am enamored by our new Farmer's Market and do the bulk of my "food" shopping there, picking up a few remaining household or sale items from the grocery store (along with 15 items I had no intention of buying, except now I'm tired and hungry and have no willpower to resist suggestion.) I line-up my items on the conveyor belt in the order I want them bagged, for ease of unloading at home. Yes, I realize this is pretty anal and OCD, but don't worry, other than my anal and OCD daughter, I have never met a bagger who understands the concept of grouping. I have also never met a bagger who doesn't believe my cloth bags are made of titanium and can be loaded down with as many items as can be stuffed into them. (Two gallons of milk in the same bag? Come on!)

            Once I arrive home I frequently get a five minute break to pee while people who have NOT spent the day carefully meeting the needs of others bitch about how many bags their sibling did not have to carry because they took too long to find shoes, or who should have to make the final trip outside to close the trunk. Now I begin the thoughtful two part process of putting things away. First I pull a chair and a trashcan up to my fridge. Here I spend some time emptying out containers of leftovers and other expired items. Next I use my efficiency skills to divide my bags into things for the fridge/ freezer, and things for the cabinets (and on occasion things that need to be transported to other rooms.) Here I will reference my weekly menu to decide what gets frozen for later in the week and what gets defrosted first. Finally I cram the remaining goods into my limited cabinet space, pausing to close up half open boxes of cereal, and throw out empty bags of chips etc. I have now devoted my entire day to the acquiring of sustenance to feed my family.    
             Still, only ten minutes after I have dropped my exhausted butt onto a comfy couch, I will see a disappointed child emerge from the kitchen whining, "There's nothing to eat!" The real irony however occurs when I actually prepare these carefully selected meals. I am not one who slaves over a hot stove. I stopped trying to be creative when they started making fun of my meals and giving them clever nicknames like "green eggs and ham" and “Swedish Meat Soup.”  (Side note: It's NEVER a good idea to mock the woman who cooks your food!) What I'm saying is, I'm not trying to be Julia Child. My standards are pretty low-- if it's edible, I'm good. So I'm not trying to dazzle anyone with my culinary talents. I'm just trying to feed my family. Yet it seems that no matter what we are serving in "Chet Knell" someone is unhappy with the selection, someone is not hungry because they had a big snack after school, someone has made spontaneous plans and won't be eating at home tonight, and someone "isn't feeling well." In other words, no one is eating dinner tonight. (Return me to the day when all a woman had to do was skin and cook a Woolly Mammoth and I'll show you the last happy woman.)

            Were I a lesser woman I would take to the internet to complain about this…. Ok, I’m a lesser woman, what can I say? But it is only through this loathsome practice of calling my family out on Facebook that I discovered two important things: One, I’m not the only mom with this problem, and Two, I’m a freakin’ Genius!

            As several other moms commented with their similar experiences I happened on the most brilliant idea to hit Momkind since the Papoose! I call it "The Fellowship of the Leftovers." (One meal to serve them all. One meal to cook them. One meal to feed them and in their hunger, save some time and make some extra cash.) Here’s how it works. Find six friends who are equally tired of being unappreciated. At the beginning of the week you each shop for and prepare ONE meal. Serve it to your family, who will refuse to eat it. Pack up your leftovers and pass them along to the next friend on your list (like a chain letter of food!) Serve the next meal, and repeat. At the end of the week you have saved hours of time, tons of cash, and you only end up throwing out ONE meal. Genius, right?

Princesses, Puppies and Paying Attention

            Right after my youngest turned three I took her shopping for the first Halloween costume she would choose for herself. It was also the first year none of them were wearing home-made costumes. As we browsed the isles at Party City looking at all the pictured costumes she was certain of one thing: she didn't like the scary stuff. Finally she settled happily at the end of one row and stared at a costume bag for a long time.

            "I want to be that," she said pointing at the costume.

            I  bent down to see the picture. It was a dog costume; pictured on the front was a yellow cocker spaniel dressed in a pink princess dress with a pointy hat. Ok. A Princess. We can do that. I lead her back to the people costumes and started looking for an affordable princess. The best ones cost too much for a one night event but I found a pink one with a tiara and pulled it off the rack.

            "Here's one." She frowned and shook her head. "Let's see what else we can find. They have Belle. Do you want a yellow one?" She examined the picture on the front of the bag and shook her head. I showed her three or four others and she started to look sad. The corners of her little mouth turned down and her big brown eyes looked at me like I was crazy. She walked back to the dog costume and said again,          

            "I want to be that."

            "Ok. But that one is for a doggy. You need a little girl costume." She sighed heavily and looked like she was going to cry.

Ok. Time to try something different. "What do you like about that one? Is it the pointy hat? I can make you a pointy hat." She shook her head.

            "I want to be her." 

            Suddenly the whole thing was clear.

            "You want to be a puppy?" She nodded her head and started to smile. "You want to be a puppy princess?" Her whole face lit up and she nodded with a dreamy look in her eyes. She could see herself as that Cocker Spaniel princess.

            I explained to her that the puppy costume was FOR a puppy, and not a costume OF a puppy, that she could be a puppy, or a princess, or some combination of them both, but that it would not look like the picture. She would still be a little girl dressed as a puppy/princess.

            She was slightly disappointed and abandoned the idea of being a princess if she wasn't going to look like the dog in the picture. She eventually settled on a little Pocahontas costume. When Halloween came she happily carried her bucket around and gathered her candy and never thought twice about her disappointment, but I have always recalled how sad I was that I couldn't make her into a puppy princess.

            We've had a lot of rough times over the years and the kids have often had to deal with the disappointment of not getting the things they want most. But they have always recovered quickly. Quicker than I have. As some sort of compensation I have always tried to make them whatever they wanted to be for Halloween. This year, she came to me and asked me to make her and a friend Native American Indian costumes. I ended up making hers and three others-- they're a  whole tribe now.

            So you might think the lesson of this little tale is about dealing with life's disappointments, but it's not. What I learned most that day was that even though you think you know exactly what is going on inside your child's mind, you never really have a clue. I learned it's important to slow down, take the time, listen, and not assume I know what's going on, just because it seems obvious. How many times has a teenager told me "You don't understand!" And they are right. I probably think I do, but really I haven't got a clue.

            Two weeks ago an acquaintance of the kids tragically committed suicide. Another friend ran away from home (and thankfully returned after several days.) I have been reminded to remain vigilant-- to pay attention and listen better, because sometimes the princess is really a puppy and I don't want to make that mistake again.

It’s Not Stalking. It’s Relationship Reconnaissance.

Remember when you were young (I’ll give you a minute…. Got  it? Ok.) So, anyway, remember when you were young and you first discovered you were becoming attracted to someone?  Not actually dating them yet, just discovering that you were getting the makings of a wicked good crush. Remember that stealthy way you started getting to know them better, without actually making contact? Watching them from afar, until they glanced in your direction, then quickly looking away; pretending you were actually deep in thought studying that tree/ bathroom door/ flyer for the math club/ bare wall etc. Remember changing the way you walked to class so your paths’ would “accidently” cross, even though you didn’t have class in that building? (That school.) The casual way you would “wander” by them at nutrition, lunch, the bus stop (…their house at 1am in a headlight free car with your best friend? No? Just me then?) If you were really brave, and had the right kind of friends, you could find yourself bumping into your new obsession in the mall, the movies or the local hang out afterschool or on the weekends.

However you chose to do it, you probably spent some time in your youth aim-fully wandering around somewhere, hoping for a chance encounter where you would do absolutely nothing, except pretend that the encounter was chance, if you even acknowledged it in the first place. Casually appearing on the radar. Notice ME! Remember me! Think about me just before you fall asleep at night! PLEASE!

                Until recently I was unaware how much having adult children is like being back in the pubescent world of stealthy pursuit. My two oldest moved out a month or so ago. My excitement for their adventure has not waned. I'm not pining for them. I'm not wandering my empty halls at night, holding discarded pillowcases or items of clothing, in order to reconnect with their particular smell. I know that description sounds a little too on target for someone not actually performing these actions,  but I swear I haven't gotten there yet. (Yet.)           
              Mostly I don’t do this because I have two other wonderful children still at home, so the emptiness echoes less. Also, because in their desperate escape they left no stone unturned. (At least no stone I’d like to wander around sniffing.) Still, I've been able to avoid intruding on their new found freedom, mostly. I've managed to limit the Skype sessions, (one apiece in a month) and the phone calls, to “necessities.” I sent a few cute post cards, to keep in touch but not annoy. I’ve been doing great. I don’t know what everyone was so worried about. This is not that hard. I hardly even notice they're gone. On the other hand I feel I have a great advantage over my predecessor generation. The internet.

Thanks to this wonderful modern invention I find myself on Facebook a little more frequently (if you can imagine that possibility.) Each time I go online, I nonchalantly glance at the list which indicates “who’s online now” just to see if they’re there, you know, in case of a chance encounter. I wouldn’t say I check it frequently, so much as more frequently than before.  I casually look over the status updates to see if they posted anything about their day, their classes, their job hunts--scanning for new photos, added friends, their high score in Bejeweled; pretty much any crumb which creates a connection to them.  

I've had to be stealthy though. I don’t want to smother them or be accused of cyber stalking my child (the new ultimate sin of invasion visited upon youth.)  So there I was last week, in the middle of a response to one of my son’s Facebook statuses, when I suddenly realized it was the fourth or fifth I had made that day… ok, that hour. I was about to blow my cover and get caught. (Quick…look at a wall, duck into the first open doorway, RUN!) I went back over his page deleting my comments; carefully editing myself back out of his day, leaving a couple of noncommittal comments and smiley faces. Just enough to remind him I’m here. Still here. Just, you know, hangin' out and stuff. (Psst. Notice me.) God! I so thought this part of life was long over!
            For now I’ll have to settle for reminding myself, that it’s enough just to see them from afar. Love them secretly from here-- hiding out in the Facebook bushes, where I am carefully planning my next coincidental collision in the cyber corridor. It’s not stalking. It’s relationship reconnaissance. Totally different!

Tight Rope: Life's Ups and Downs

            Watching your children head off on their own into the world of adulthood is a lot like watching a high wire act. You are filled with excitement and anticipation as well as the underlying feelings of fear and doubt. Consumed by this mixture of horror and awe, holding your breath, you gaze up at them, eyes wide, as they take those first pensive steps-- establishing their grip on the tight rope, wobbling slightly, focused and intent. Part of you is confident that they have been properly trained to work without a net; that no one in their right mind would just let them out there, so high and alone, if they didn't have the skills to complete the performance. The other part of you maintains its full grasp of reality-- shit happens.

            This was of course my exact feeling as I hugged my child goodbye and drove the 400 plus miles home. You spend a lifetime preparing for that moment, and there is so much you want to impart to them in those last seconds. You wish it was like the movies, where you are able to give them some profound piece of advice which will guide and protect them on their new adventure-- words of wisdom. Father's give practical advice: Keep your doors locked, Turn down the air conditioner at night, Park close to your apartment. Fatherisms, meant to subtly convey love and concern. Moms are faced with a particular dilemma at this point-- how to give last words of advice without sounding like a mother.

            As mothers we are plagued with the awareness that everything we say at this time in our children's lives is discounted as overprotective evidence of our inability to "let go" and often met with an eye roll and an impatient sigh-- the universally renowned,  wordless communication of "Let me go." One day these words of wisdom may be sought out by frustrated adults who find themselves in one of a dozen situations, and their cry for help will always begin with one simple word, "Mom." But in the meantime, there I was, standing there as each family member hugs goodbye, my turn coming closer and closer, pressure growing, knowing this is it-- my parting words. As everyone stands by impatiently waiting to get going I hug tightly and say, "I love you." Hoping it says it all, and knowing it will never be enough. Disappointed I couldn't come up with something better.

            A few nights later I came across some old letters I thought were long gone. A decade or so ago, when they were all still young, I was going to have major surgery and I was very nervous. I was concerned that if something happened to me my children would be without a mother. They would miss out on all the important motherly advice beyond "wear clean underwear" and "brush your teeth." I would never have the chance to teach them the really important stuff they would need to know about themselves and life. So I wrote them each a letter, trying to tell them everything they needed to know about growing up, and being a good person. I remember I felt the same writing the letters as I did saying goodbye-- like it was too much to cram into one moment.

            Curiosity caused me to open the letters and read what great wisdom I had left for my children in the case of my untimely demise. I don't know why, but I was surprised to find it was all the same things I had wanted to say a few days ago. Although, I was happy to see that while I had missed the opportunity to say them out loud, I felt confident I had managed to impart them in other ways. Things like: don't doubt yourself, value family, laugh as often as possible, don't waste time with anger, make informed decisions that represent you well, be open minded, treat people well, always do your best and help others do the same, don't worry-- accept change as a gift, always look for the silver lining, never let others define you, don't grow up too fast, it's ok to be vulnerable, you can always come home, unconditional love is limitless- pass it on, follow your beliefs, if it's worth feeling- feel it passionately, speak up- you have a voice be heard, and remember I am always with you. All the meaningful advice had already been given.

            A tight rope walker has to count on a lot of people and factors before they ever set first toe on the rope. Not only do they rely on a lifetime of training, but they have to be able to count on the guys who set up the rigging, the guy operating the lights, the rosin they used on their shoes, even the participation of the audience is key. Everything has to come together in perfect harmony for the show to end successfully, for the performer to avoid plummeting to the ground. That's a lot of pressure, a lot of "ifs." As I reflected on my feelings saying goodbye, and those involved in writing the letters, I am faced with a new revelation: I am the tightrope walker.
(and I made it!)

Come Over to the Dark Side.

          I have spent the last few years trying to lure my sister into joining the social networking community. (Come on. All your friends are doing it.) Her response is always, “I don’t have time.” Which is a legitimate excuse, considering how much of my time is sucked up by the internet. Although, upon reflection, I have found this reason lacks accuracy and understanding of the social networking phenomena.

          I began my foray into social networking with a MySpace account. I joined so I could keep track of my teen and preteens as they hitchhiked along technology’s superhighway. After all, you wouldn’t just drop your kid off on the side of the freeway and hope they get home safely (although admittedly that has crossed my mind on several raucous family outings.)

          This was back when you just had a plain profile page, no cool backgrounds, creative fonts, or colorful texts—simply a picture of your face and just enough personal information to get you into trouble. Then my daughter, techy that she is, redesigned her space. Well, that looked kind of cool. I’d like to give MYspace  a fresh new look, just for fun. I could do that…couldn’t I?

          No. I couldn’t. What I knew about computers at the time was that they were glorified typewriters/encyclopedias. I learned binary in high-school.  Oh so useful in real life, (especially to a dyslexic.) Technically speaking I think I should actually say I was SHOWN binary in high school. I learned nothing. So I went to the source, asking my 14 year old question after question. How did you do that? Where do you find that? Why is it doing that? Did I just enter the atomic launch codes that will begin World War III? (Yes, I had an inane fear that I could somehow affect some serious damage by mistakenly entering the wrong data. Don’t laugh. You weren’t there. It could happen!)

          It was not long (about 10 minutes) before my daughter discovered two important details. One, I was an idiot. And two, without her help I had less of a chance to stalk her every teenaged move. It was at this point she adopted the “teach a man to fish” philosophy. Except her version was more “give a guy a pole and throw him in the river, then laugh while he struggles to survive.” Needless to say, I was on my own.

          I spent countless hours poking and prodding my Myspace. I had never seen HTML, the new language of computers. I still have only a loose grasp of its form and function. But slowly I discovered how to change a font, add a background, place glitter graphics as section heads.  And I felt wonderful. I felt young and accomplished and a little bit smart. I had conquered the internet, and along the way I had “friended” a few fellow moms trying to keep track of their own kids. I had wished Happy Birthday to a few people I probably wouldn’t have conveyed the sentiment to otherwise. I had shared a few laughs at a Youtube video or two and checked out photos of my friends’ families doing a myriad of activities.

          And so I was rolling along, enjoying my new found creative outlet and feeling accomplished; spending more time catching up with my own friends and refurbishing my home page than monitoring my kids, when I realized, someone was missing. Where was my teenager? Why were her posts fewer and fewer? Why were her friends commenting less and less? Why was my newsfeed getting shorter and shorter?

          Facebook. Yes, as soon as I mastered (and I use the term in the loosest sense) the world of MySpace the children disappeared down the rabbit hole into the land of Facebook. Dutifully and begrudgingly I followed. This new land was sort of plain and I didn’t “get it.” It wasn’t personalized or creative. Other than the fact that your parents weren’t there yet, what was the big draw? Statuses? Really? That’s it? Just random status updates about what your friends were eating for lunch, or what weird thing happened on the way to school? But this is where my kids had gone, and so I followed.

          Soon I started getting friend requests from the other parents transitioning over from MySpace. My high school reunion started taking shape and requests came from people I had not thought of in years. Most I didn’t care to become reacquainted with, but some were just lost in the shuffle of growing up; misplaced with the other youthful playthings I had cherished but set aside as memory while life unfolded. My Facebook exploded, albeit slowly over time, with the faces and voices of my past and present; merging into one hub of collective ruminations.

          Being a stay at home mom can be isolating. It’s not your fault. It just happens. And in my case, because I started my family so far ahead of all my friends, I had lost contact with most of the adult world, unless it pertained to one of my “mom” activities: school, scouts, little league etc. Everything I knew, everyone I knew, revolved around the lives of my children, and to a lesser degree my spouse.  Now, suddenly, through the wonders of modern technology I was connecting and reconnecting. I was existing as an individual.

          I have read some articles about how social networking is stunting our ability to interact in reality. In my case my life has been enhanced by social networking in a way I can not imagine living without. I am more connected than I ever could have been without it. I converse almost daily with two sisters I had barely known in their childhood. I have followed my niece’s pregnancy updates with excited anticipation, despite only having seen her twice since she turned 16. I met up a few weeks ago with my cousins and a family friend who I have not seen since my wedding 20 years ago.

True, with great effort these things all could have taken place in the real world, but I live in the real world and sometimes, I’m only available at 4am. How nice to know I can leave a thought for you without waking you up.  And in the real world, I couldn’t have shared in the joy of that new birth, or dance recital, because in the real world you are 12 states away and neither one of us can afford to travel. Social networking is just more convenient. It is the pen-pal of our generation.

Sure, I have spent countless hours posting photos or silly updates or quoting a particularly funny thing I heard that day. I have lost an entire day connecting little colored jewels, and rolling virtual dice, although I have never tended a crop or traded mafia equipment with anyone. I have spent entirely too much time reading YOUR updates, commenting on your photos, and laughing at the memes you shared. (I even learned what a meme is!) But I have also discovered a support network. When my day sucks, you’re there to give me a boost. When I am excited I have someone to share it with. When my husband had his heart attack, you knew about it right away, and I didn’t have to call 100 people to give them updates on his condition, I could do it in one 30 second post. And you could respond, send well wishes and prayers, offer assistance, in a way you could never have done before.

          This year I received almost a hundred birthday wishes. I probably sent at least as many. I was a part of your life. I watched your kids grow up a little. I saw your cool vacation photos and little Suzie’s first ballet recital. I heard about the demise of your Great Aunt Tilly and the family turtle. I have seen your new haircut, your new pet, your new house, your new car, your new husband. I invited you to a show and then actually got to hang out with you in person after a 20 year hiatus. I reconnected with old relatives (and yes, I meant “old” both ways.) I have taken and given advice with you. I have laughed with you and cried for you, and generally wondered what the hell you were thinking. What I have not done, was waste my time.

          I know you better now. I have invested in our friendship. I may have left a few real world chores undone while I did it, but I consider it time well spent. So I will continue to extol the virtues of social networking to my sister, and anyone else I’m dying to spend more time with, in hopes that we can share a little more, be a little closer, drift a little less. Resistance is futile. Come over to the dark-side. It’s a hell of a lot of fun.

One of us. One of us. One of us…..

Become a Fan of this blog on Facebook 

A Geek Among Goddesses

            I'm an LA girl, born and bred. I've lived here my whole life. Only, my LA is not the LA you see on TV. I live on the outskirts of LA in "The Valley." The Valley is the suburban terrain occupied by the near-normal residents of the LA area, meaning-- no one I know accessorizes their giant designer  purse with a miniature dog. We still have giant knock-off purses …and tiny dogs, but not usually as matched sets. We are the part of LA which spawned the dreaded Valley Girl of the 80's-- and yes, they were real. If you look close enough, you can still find a few. In other words, we breed a unique idiot of our own here, separate from those nuts over the hill.

            Basically my life has been typically suburban, with a few star sightings tossed in along the way for flavor. I was never one of those "Lifestyle" women; with their business-casual day and their cocktail-party night-life with the girls.  I went to PTA meetings, and Scout meetings, and council meetings. That's where my ladies hung out. I had some pretty wicked Friday nights with the girls…all 17 of them in their little uniforms, selling cookies door to door. We were a force to be reckoned with, I tell you.

            Then one day,  into this mundane little universe, an idea was introduced, and I was just restless enough to try it. I had this new friend, who was not from The Valley originally. She was one of those elusive, bohemian  "California Beach Girls." And typical of her kind, she made friends with all sorts. She knew a group of LA Ladies, and one of them was having a party, and she invited me to go with her. I was a little intimidated. It was "A Goddess Party." (Did I say a little intimidated? I meant a lot. )

            My first instinct was to decline the offer because I didn't really need any sex toys or lingerie. However, as it was then explained to me, these lovely LA Ladies just got together for a fun evening of relaxing music and wine and conversation-- just a "girls night-in." No purchase necessary. They celebrated their womanhood by taking time out to appreciate themselves and woman-kind, in a way only a woman could.  It sounded kind of interesting, (albeit a little like a tampon ad.) A night with a group of adult women, that didn't involve kids and husbands in any way. It could be fun. And I was ready to embrace my womanhood…figuratively speaking that is. So, I agreed to go.

            I was a tad overwhelmed. I was a small fish headed for a big ocean. I knew I was going to be out of my league. I am not a Goddess. I'm barely a minion. I fussed about what to wear, and how to dress, and how to do my hair. I didn't have a hairstylist, unless Super-Cuts counts (which it doesn't.) I didn't think Wal-Mart sold anything that anyone else would qualify as "designer." I rarely wore make-up, and what I did wear came from the corner drug store-- on a classy day, otherwise that little compact that came with Barbie would do in a pinch. I didn't travel, or have an interesting job. I couldn't imagine what I would say to these women, and despite determining that I would go, I wasn't at all certain there would be anything relaxing or refreshing about the evening.

            My girlfriend picked me up and we drove along the hillside finally arriving in an upper-class neighborhood. She found a place to park and we leisurely walked down the hill to a little house nestled in the dark. A sophisticated woman answered the door and greeted us appropriately. She had big earrings, beautiful skin and a giant glass of wine. I followed my friend around like a lost puppy while she hugged women she knew and was introduced to women she had never met, and as we were given a guided tour of the little guest house we were all gathered in. It was decorated with love and care. Plush furniture, coordinated colors, splashes of uniqueness in every corner that said, "The woman who lives here knows herself….and she doesn't have any kids."

            I relegated myself in typical fashion to a stationary location-- the one chair I was, to some extent, confident could support my weight. The last thing I needed was to shove my fat ass through her designer wicker. Eventually a few other women would make their way into the area, and I would join their conversations, mostly listening, occasionally asking what I hoped weren't stupid questions. One or two asked about me, most just moved on to other locations with company they knew better, but I am comfortable as an observer and it really didn't bother me, much.

            I grazed a little on the exotic snacks, but I have a steadfast rule about eating food I don't recognize. I was pretty hungry by the time the pizza arrived. I waited my turn with my cute designer plastic plate in one hand and my "I'm not drinking alcohol" red-plastic cup in the other, anxious to finally eat. Huh, designer pizza. Who knew? I mean, I just always thought pizza was pizza no matter where you went. I ate pizza in Italy, it was a little different than American pizza, but well within the range of normal. I had never eaten an artichoke alone, much less on a pizza. Over-sized mushrooms and a host of other items, some I didn't even recognize, on a sauce-less dough disk. My most daring pizza experience to date had included pineapple! I was FAR less adventurous then than I am now.

            After dinner everyone lounged about enjoying their goblets of wine. Mind you, I own one wine glass. It was a free gift with purchase of a romance novel. It is the size of a "normal" glass of wine. I had never seen wine glasses like these. They were big enough to wash my hands in-- both, at the same time! This of course is when the real fun began. The hostess broke out a set of Tarot cards, and some Runes. There was a book about reading palms, and one about the mystic healing power of rocks. Some sage was burning, auras were being read and cleansed, and some new age music played soft in the background. A few hours of amateur fortune-telling, and a tureen of wine later, I was having a pretty good time. I was actually relaxed. I didn't feel fat and frumpy. I felt enlightened and rejuvenated; as though I had received a spiritual facial.

            As the night was winding down, before it was time to say adieu, the group gathered together for a Goddess Walk. Wine tankard in hand I joined the haphazard procession of women as we strolled into the cool night air and began the short journey to the end of the paved road and into the canyon, guided by the bright light of the full moon and the soft voices of my fellow Goddesses. There was an easy, slumber-like quality to the meandering, at least until it became a hike, then the soft conversation gave way to heavy breathing and snide comments about the practicalities of combining wine consumption and mountain climbing. But most of the Goddesses just ignored me and continued onward and upward.

            At last we reached a clearing and our death march ended. The women gathered in a circle together, absorbing the ethereal beams of the moonlight. "Now," our fearless leader announced, "we howl at the moon." En masse the woman began to howl. I was doing my part, by not howling with laughter, out of respect to these fine ladies who had welcomed me into their coven. When they were done howling at the moon. The hostess then encouraged everyone to close their eyes. At this point I was pretty well sure if I closed my eyes I would open them to find everyone naked…and I am never drunk enough for that game. Luckily for me they just did a little swaying and chanting. With my one eye open I peaked up at the hillside above us, at the lone house with the canyon view and imagined Mrs Kravitz from Bewitched peering out her curtains and calling "Abner, Abner! Look, they're down there howling at the moon again. ABNER!"

            The night ended there. We all wandered off back to our homes, as though everybody spent their Friday nights in the knee-high weeds howling at the moon with a bunch of Goddesses. It's one of those "only in LA" kind of things. Still, I consider myself better for having taken the ride. I could have spent that night sitting in my dark living room with my husband watching an episode of The X-Files, instead of participating in an episode of my own. And that would have been fine, but what would I have gained. No one would want to read about that. You have to embrace the unexpected adventures life offers. Most of your life will be ordinary. Some nights you just need to howl at the moon.

Look Ma! No Hands!

          A few nights ago I was out running some errands. In an effort to kill two birds with one stone I was acting as passenger, while my oldest son practiced his driving. We were parked in front of the Girl Scout leader’s house while my youngest ran up to drop off some papers, and chatting-- which is one of my favorite parts about teaching the kids to drive, all that one-on-one time they are required by law to spend with me. I happened to glance over at his hands as they rested on the steering wheel and I was surprised by how big they seemed. When taken on a whole, as they grow, you don’t notice the changes too much. Sure, over time you recognize they are now a foot taller than you, or that the round baby cheeks are gone forever, but day-to-day it is much less significant.

            I said something to the effect of, “My God! When did your hands get so big?”  He laughed and took my hand holding it up against his to measure the difference. Broad palm, long fingers, this was the hand of a man, not my little boy. But more than that, the feeling of his hand placed in mine brought to mind a memory, from my mind’s recesses, not  so much forgotten (never forgotten) but tucked sadly away: The first time he let go.

            This particular child has always been an affectionate boy. Always ready with a hug and a smile that melts your heart. Whenever we walked his hand just naturally found it’s way into mine. I didn’t really think much about it. It was mostly habit, left over from the toddler days. I’m not even sure who held who’s hand, they just always seemed to find their way together. His skin was always warm even in winter and it just seemed to belong in mine. So there I was one day, like any other, walking hand in hand with my son, when tragedy struck.

            He was probably about 8 years old, maybe seven, maybe nine, but in that range. He had been to a doctor’s appointment or some other event which had caused him to miss the early part of the school day and I was walking him to class and chatting about whatever eight year olds like to tell their mothers. Then, almost imperceptibly, I felt his little warm hand slip from mine. Simultaneously, I noticed two young boys had rounded the corner and were walking toward us. My son never broke stride. He continued as though nothing significant had happened, just kept talking about whatever eight year olds talk about with their mothers-- their deeply devastated mothers.

            I recall lifting my hand to my face as we walked and staring at the spot his hand used to be, as though there was an answer there, at least an answer I liked better than the one I already knew in my heart. My son was “too big” to hold mommy’s hand. Somehow, without my knowing, he had instinctively come by this information. I could still feel the fading warmth of his hand, but now it felt like a burning that proceeded up my arm and into my heart. As the two boys passed us we exchanged polite ‘Hellos’ and then continued on our way, as though nothing major had occurred, but inside I was being consumed by a deep sadness. My children would out grow me. I had always known it. It was, of course, “The Plan” but somehow I had never actually been expecting it. I was blindsided.

            Not one to be daunted I decided to gently probe the situation. I wanted to throw myself on the playground before us and beg him to hang-on for just a few more years. I wasn’t ready to let go yet, but one of us had to be a grown up, and it would be wrong for me to let it be the eight year old.

            So,” I asked, “No more holding hands?” (It’s like that huh?)

            He shook his head. “No.” he answered gently. “Not at school.”

            “Ok. I get that. What about other places. Can I still hold your hand at home?”

            “Sure. “

            “How about kisses? Can I still kiss you goodbye?”

            “ In the car.” (Well, that seemed reasonable.)

            “What about hugs? Can I still hug you?”

            “Yep.” (He’s still a man of few words.)

            “Just in the car?”

            “ No. Hugs are ok… sometimes, you know?”

            “Yeah. I know.”

We reached his classroom and, following the new rules, I extended my hand to shake his. “I guess I’ll see you afterschool.”

            “Ok.” He said, and disappeared into his room.

 On my way back I had to resist the urge to punch his punk-ass little friends. I tried really hard not to cry. I made it all the way to my car. I felt incredibly stupid for being so hurt by something so natural. Of course he didn’t want to hold my hand anymore; he was a big boy-- getting bigger. It was completely appropriate. But my heart was no less broken.

            Still I had to respect the kid’s choice. I couldn’t be one of those mothers. For awhile I was careful about where and how I showed my affection, letting him lead the way. Eventually, thank God, he outgrew the dumb idea that boys can’t be affectionate. He started to snuggle while we watched TV and hold my hand, or let me play with his hair. Now, a decade later, he stops and hugs me, for no particular reason when we pass each other in the hallway, or leans against me while we watch TV. And I’m grateful every time, because I can still feel the exact spot where the emptiness began, like a stigmata, and it saddens me to remember the loss. So, sitting there in the car while he measured our hands against each other, I intertwined my fingers in his and squeezed, knowing that you never really know when it will be your last chance.

            “I love you.” I said.

            He smiled and squeezed back, “I love you too.”

Too Close To The Freeway?

            When I was around 15 or 16 years old my sister and I were good friends with another set of sisters the same ages. We would spend a lot of our time out running around together at the movies or eating out, like teenagers do. I don't know about the other girls but my sister and I had a fairly liberal curfew, although at the time I know it seemed extremely limiting. I think it was 11 it may even have been midnight, I can't recall. But within those hours we had some wonderful and ridiculous times. We hung out at the Café 50's or Bob's Big Boy. We hung out in large crowds and small groups and sometimes just the four of us. But one night has always stuck out in my mind, and it eventually became one of the best tools I have in my parenting arsenal.

            The four of us were sitting around in my sister's room which she had recently converted to her own "living room"--complete with sofa bed, end tables and spinning chair-- when we decided we wanted to go out and get some dessert. It was about 9 or 9:30 on a weekend night. No problem. Somehow I ended up chosen as the delegate sent to inform my mother of our plans. I recall finding her in the kitchen doing some never-ending mom task. I told her that we wanted to go over to Baker's Square and get some pie. She said No. Never one to really accept a "No" as anything other than a request for more information, I pressed further. Why not? I don't recall the discussion lasting long because my Mom's answer stumped me so profoundly. Her response, "It's too close to the freeway."

            To this day I have no idea what that meant. I'm pretty sure I argued a bit, trying to establish what the freeway had to do with our inability to obtain dessert. I know I made the point that we had been to this Baker's Square a million times, and it had always been located next to the freeway, but in the end it was one of those things I just had to walk away from without any satisfaction. I remember walking back into my sister's room and announcing that we couldn't go. When asked why, I told them "It's too close to the freeway." We all sat around for the rest of the evening hypothesizing what correlation there could be between our safety, which had to be the X-factor, and the location of a freeway to a Baker's Square. We did the math. Was a car going to fall off into the building and kill us all? Was some freeway bum going to jump us in the parking lot? Was she afraid we'd pull a Thelma and Louise squared and take off spontaneously for parts unknown, after robbing the Baker's Square? In the end the other girls left early, and probably went to get dessert, and my sister and I were left to wonder. I don't know if it has ever even crossed her mind, but for years it was one of my favorite "My mom is crazy" stories. Until that strange twist-of-fate day about 18 years later, when it all made sense.

            It was a hot summer day. The kids were all out of school. Hot. Bored. Cruising the cul-de-sac looking for something to do, when my oldest daughter, about 13 at the time, hit upon the solution. She and the neighbor girl decided they wanted to walk around the corner to the 7-11 for some snacks and air conditioning. For a lot of reasons this didn't sound like a good idea to me. It meant these two small girls would be out on the major street by themselves without any means of contact or protection (these were the pre-cell phone years.)  They had walked it before, in larger groups or with the older brother of the friend, but never alone. It was the middle of a week day. Not a lot of people out there paying attention, everyone in a hurry. Additionally, there was a tattoo shop in the same mini-mall as the 7-11. Outside the 7-11 there was a pretty steady string of vagrants and outcasts just hanging around with their brown paper bags. There were a million and one alarms that went off in my head. Not all, if any, were even reasonable, but there was that core instinct that it was just a bad idea.

            Of course the teenage girls did not share my core instinct. They thought I was over-protective. Paranoid. Controlling. Unreasonable. Crazy. Yep it sounded pretty familiar. I suggested they walk the other direction to the doughnut shop. This did not help my reputation. The doughnut shop, as they quickly pointed out, was further away. Albeit on quieter streets and with less disreputable ambiance. It only made me appear crazier to them. Every objection I had was met with a more than reasonable response. I really couldn't even argue my point successfully. It was just a feeling, how do you justify that? In the end I watched them walk away in the same confusion and frustration I had felt and there was nothing I could do about it except to call on the oft over-used "You'll understand when you have kids of your own."

            I've always tried to have good communication with my children. I've never been a parent fond of the "Because I said so," rationale-- accept in the case of my younger son who just exhausts one's ability to reason-- a parent's greatest revenge. I wasn't comfortable with this empty space left between my daughter and I, where she thought I was being arbitrary and unfair (a space I have become much more comfortable with over the years.) Later that evening I sat down to try to explain the inexplicable.

            I started out telling her my "Too Close To The Freeway" story. I explained to her that to this day I have no idea what was bothering my mother that night, but that somewhere inside her she had to have been feeling something she couldn't voice in a way I could understand. When you are young you are invincible. Nothing bad will ever happen to you. The bad things all happen far away. You are insulated-- protected from their impact. Hear no evil, see no evil…evil doesn't exist in your world. When you are a parent you know different. One mistake, one single moment in time can change the course of a life. Can end a life. Can devastate a child, a family, a community. And it all hinges on you.  That's a pretty damn big burden. And as parents, the only thing we really have to rely on is instinct. How much does that suck?

            We talked about instinct. We talked about how humans are the only animal conditioned to ignore their best instincts, often to disastrous results. We talked about those moments of intuition, those moments you hesitate and hear that little internal alarm and just know something without any rational reason. We hypothesized about why a person would suppress those feelings, what did they hope to gain or achieve? It turns out, she understood these experiences already, which was wonderful to know. We made a connection. She understood the feeling, if not my specific concerns.

            From there it was cake. I was able to explain to her that some days in her young life I would have these feelings. I wouldn't be able to rationalize them to her because they may not even be rational. I promised I would make an effort to weigh which ones really we're over-protective paranoia and which were really legitimate instincts. I promised her I would always be honest with her about what I was feeling, and I would allow her to try and reason with me, but that sometimes I would just need to say no to something because it was Too Close to the Freeway.

            Over the years it became our code for the feelings we could not explain. She generously accepted it as a response on several occasions after that, without much fuss. I generously caved on the things she could reason successfully on several occasions, with much fuss. And on one or two occasions, as she became older and wasn't ready to share a feeling, she would simply say "Mom. It's just Too Close to the Freeway." The other kids don't appreciate it as much as she did. Like always, they didn't get the full experience. But it still works. They all understand my craziness, and I can put up with their teasing, most of the time. Eventually, they all got to walk to the 7-11 alone with friends, thanks to her perseverance and "Never say never" attitude. In the end, what may have been one of the most confounding and confusing moments in my younger life, became one of my most valuable and inspirational moments as a parent.