Reading by Kindle light?

I’m in the home stretch of reading Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief to the kids (which is great by the way, especially if you like the Harry Potter series). Even though we’ve graduated to books with no pictures, they love sitting over me and watching the pages turn as we weave through the story. The Lightning Thief is a real page turner filled with demigods, monsters, Zeus and his dysfunctional family.

My husband got me the Amazon Kindle for Christmas. It’s fantastic! I’ve been complaining about lugging books and magazines on the ferry everyday but resisted buying it because the price seemed far too exorbitant. After you spend 5 minutes with this easy-to-use wonder you will quickly forget about the damage done to your bank account. Books, magazines, newspapers, blogs and the classics for $.99!

So, here’s my conundrum. As we come to the end of The Lightning Thief, do I buy the sequel on the Kindle? It’s certainly the more eco-friendly option and I’m sure the kids can get used to the interface (after all, they mastered the Wii in a day and I still can’t figure out how to turn the thing off). It seems strange, almost wrong to read to the kids from the Kindle. Call me a purist, but my instinct is to keep buying and reading them real books. Anyone else have a perspective?

The Tao of Paul

I suppose it’s a good problem if the only thing taxing your mind is what to get your kids for Christmas. I seem to always suffer from selective memory, forgetting all of the hard earned mistakes that I’ve made in the past like buying a train set for Maxwell when he was 2 only to find out he was much more interested in the bubble wrap sheet from the box of See’s Candies or buying Natalie a Play-Doh set only to have every color of the rainbow irrevocably stained into the carpet and the rest dried up and thrown away by the middle of January or the starter laptop that Aidan destroyed last year by ripping out all of the keys.

Paul and I instituted the $15 dollar rule this year. We’ll see how it goes. It was much easier than I imagined to get them some cool stuff under the price point we set. As usual, Paul is completely nonplussed. “If they don’t like what we got them, too freaking bad,” he said. I’m sure I’m fretting for nothing. Must remember to invoke the Tao of Paul.

Barbara Bush Promotes Precious

There was a time that I NEVER thought I would utter the words Barbara Bush is cool. My fascination with her began in 1993 when she gave the commencement address at my graduation from Pepperdine. Far from an old biddy in a polyester skirt suit, she was warm, effusive, self-deprecating and dare I say it again, COOL! She even hi-fived a couple of our basketball players (Doug Kristy amongst them!) on their way off the stage.

I just read an article that she wrote for Newsweek where she endorses the movie Precious. Yes, that’s Precious, the movie produced by Oprah and Tyler Perry about a 300 lb black teenage girl who is abused by her mother and impregnated by her father and finds redemption in learning how to read and write. Barbara Bush heads up her own literacy foundation which has given more than 700 grants for literacy programs nationwide. While her commitment to literacy is certainly admirable, the idea that she would be so open to a story like Precious completely blows my mind.

Now, for all of you who thought I could never pay tribute to a member of the GOP, let alone dedicate a blog post to them, I go on record saying that Barbara Bush is one cool lady.

It Starts with a Closet

Dream closet producer, thy name is Paul Baillie! I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this previously, but my husband Paul is as handy as they come. He can build furniture, lay tile, hang crown molding & base trim, build built-in bookcases, lay a hard wood floor and make a toy box from scrap wood and wainscoting. He can basically build a house from the ground up. We bought a tiny little house in June with virtually no closet space and he built me a walk in closet, complete with custom shelving in less than a week. I’m not trying to brag but he is the bees knees.

I’ve always been fascinated and in awe of people that actually make things. As everything goes digital and virtual it’s becoming so rare to meet people that actually make things for a living, or even a hobby. Paul’s family has more than a-half dozen women that can knit like Michael Jordan used to play basketball, with great skill that looks completely effortless. I recently took up knitting and can tell you that doing what they do is not easy. My mother is an amazing gardener. She grows sugar cane, bananas, guavas, Japanese eggplant, sweet potatoes and the sweetest apples in Southern California. This is all the more impressive when you consider that she lives in San Diego which is basically a desert.

I suppose it’s why I got so obsessed with Project Runway (although this season was a yawnfest). In some ways, fashion is the last bastion of accessible artwork. While fashionistas may pay thousands for a great look that they saw on the runway, within a few months you can get a similar look from a midline brand at a department store and even Forever 21 (just to be clear, I never shop at Forever 21 because it makes me feel like a pathetic 38-year old hanging on to her ever evaporating youth). Other forms of art are not such an easy itch to scratch. Broadway show tickets $100+ per pop, purchasing an original painting in a gallery can cost thousands and don’t even get me started on ballet or opera tickets.

I wonder how the collective experience of being around Paul, his fierce knitting aunties, my miracle grower mom and their average baking mother will affect the kids as they get older. Paul cringes when he meets a guy that can’t hang a shelf or figure out how to unclog their toilet. He’s assured me that his boys will know how to swing a hammer, change the oil in their cars and find a stud in a wall. I dearly hope that my daughters find pleasure in some form of creativity. I dream about taking them to Italy to take classes with the Murano glass blowers in Venice.

Am I a Helicopter Parent?

Nancy Gibbs recently wrote a cover story for Time Magazine called The Case Against Parenting: Why Mom and Dad need to cut the strings (November 30, 2009) that posits the theory that the new breed of “Helicopter Parents” is hurting our kids.  She cites the work of Lenore Skenazy who penned Free Range Kids: Giving our Children the Freedom We Had Without Going Nuts With Worry who was quoted in the article saying, “10 is the new 2.  We’re infantilizing our kids into incompetence.” Do I hover?  Yes, I suppose I do.  Do I check their Halloween candy, stand beneath them while they’re on the jungle gym, quiz them with flashcards and cut up their food for nearly every meal?  Yes, yes, yes, and shamefully, yes.  The piece made me ponder the degree of my hovering.

A few weeks ago I got in an argument with my husband because he admitted that on some days, when he has all four kids in the van driving home from school, he’ll pull up in front of our local grocery store, hand my 8-year old son a fiver and ask him to buy a gallon of milk.  I was horrified.  You have no visual on him!  He’s only 8!  What if some demented person in the dairy aisle grabbed him and snuck him out the back in a delivery truck?  He did not dignify my comments with a response but gave me the “you’re a freak” look and went about his business.  The story in Time argues that coddling our children stunts their survival skills.  I hate it when Paul is right.

Should I apologize for hovering?  Do I need to pull back?  Would my kids be better off with me being more hands off?  These are not easy questions to answer.  We live in a society with 24-7 media blaring stories of missing kids that end up in landfills, parents killing their kids and stuffing them into the trunks of their cars, peanut allergies and swine flu. I want to be hands-on. Is that so wrong?

Skenazy also notes in the article that people like Dear Abby recently endorsed the idea “…that each morning before their kids leave the house, parents take a picture of them.  That way, if they are kidnapped, the police will have a fresh photo showing what clothes they were wearing.” OK, now that’s just crazy! So it seems that while I have to admit to being a helicopter parent, I’m clearly not on the “wing-nut” end of the spectrum.

Thankful for Cats and Bacon

The kids love Saturday mornings because that’s the day dad goes out early and gets them bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches. Saturday mornings are special to me because on most days, I leave the house before dawn and I love being able to have breakfast with the kids. While they were munching on their sandwiches I said “Since we just celebrated Thanksgiving I want to go around the table and hear what you’re thankful for.”

They looked up at me as if to say, “Are you kidding me mom?” (They are all getting very, very Jersey!) I started off by saying I was thankful that my kids were happy and healthy. Paul rolled his eyes. Maxwell said, “I’m thankful that the Chargers beat the Giants. In your face dad!” He ran up to the head of the table and did an obnoxious touchdown dance.

“How about you Natalie?” I asked. “I’m thankful for candy and Daisy the dog.” Daisy the dog is Paul's best friends new dog. She was clearly using the moment to lobby for a Christmas gift.

Paul was next and I tensed up thinking he might say something about ultimate fighting or candy as well. He looked up and imitated me, “I’m thankful for my happy family.” Meanwhile, Paulina was busy picking the eggs out of her sandwich. “Last night, at my school, my teacher said I was a good girl…” she launched into an imaginary story where she went to school with Maxwell and Natalie. She was so not answering the question.

Aidan was literally at the edge of his seat waiting for his turn. “How about you Aidan, what are you thankful for?” Clear as day he yelled, “Cats and bacon!” He looked up triumphantly, waiting for us to break into spontaneous applause. I think he had mentally prepared himself as we went around the room to astonish and impress us with his answer. By that time, I was the only one paying attention. “Good job buddy! Cats and bacon! Nice!”

Surrealism and Turkeys

Maxwell is studying Surrealism in art class. Yes, that’s right, Surrealism. The thought of this really knocked me out. The art teacher also explained that they are studying light, value, hue, symmetry and proportion. My memory of 3rd grade art involved paint, glitter, pipe cleaners and creating a Papier-mâché turkey. They just finished creating mobiles out of water bottles inspired by the work of Dale Chihuly. Paul thought their mobiles were inspired by a menu item at Taco Bell.

Art class has sure come a long way. It’s such a shame that not all kids get the opportunity to study art. When we left California, the state budgets were cut so drastically that they barely had a full-time school nurse on staff, let alone a good art teacher. We are so privileged to have our children at a school that exposes them to art in any form. I adore their art teacher. It’s so inspiring to meet a teacher that is so passionate about what she does for a living.

Who's Bought a Snuggie?

I have suffered in silence long enough and I just have to ask, what is with the Snuggie? I recently visited a high-end retailer that shall remain nameless (for fear that they might cut off my 20% off coupons) and there it was, a tower of Snuggies surrounded by twinkly lights and other holiday knickknacks. My son Maxwell saw the pyramid of Snuggies and said, “Those are so cool Mom. Maybe you should get that for Dad for Christmas.” Even my son has gone to the dark side.

I mean, really, it’s a blanket /glorified robe. Who is buying this stuff? The low budget commercials alone are enough to push me over the edge. Is any self respecting Giant fan really showing up at the Meadowlands wearing this? They now even have one for Rover. I admit, I am no arbiter of the next big thing but can my trend meter be this far off. Help me to understand. If anyone has bought a Snuggie, tell me why!

Wanted! Toilet Training Advice

Aidan refuses to use the toilet. No matter how much Paul and I cheer, coax or bribe he shows absolutely no interest. When Aidan started walking at 9 months, Paul and I had pipe dreams of his early physically ability signaling great proficiencies to come. While Paulina didn’t even start scooting until a year old, she has already started using the toilet regularly. We got it totally wrong.

I’ve been pondering how my parents were able to get me and my three brothers to use the toilet. I thought back to all of the positive reinforcement, purchasing of books that explain the process, songs and coaching. Oh yeah, they never did any of that. They just put us on the toilet and made us “go.” Then I started to think about all of the mentoring and words of encouragement they gave us over time to get us to do chores, homework, excel in sports and music and get A’s on tests. Oh yeah, there was none of that either, just the guilt laced with threats speech of how they sacrificed everything to come to this country and you better do well or else.

I guess that’s the curse of being first generation. We can hardly spin tales of having no shoes, no indoor plumbing and nothing to eat. The best Paul can come up with is that we used to play Pong on Atari while they have nearly lifelike graphics on every gaming system. I once told Maxwell that I used to wear my cousins hand-me-downs. He just rolled my eyes and asked if he could play on his DS. Later he asked me, “What’s a hand-me-down?”

What’s the best way to encourage Aidan? What can his brain really understand at 3? Going the route of “do it or else” seemed to work for my parents. Others keep telling us not to force it, he’ll come around. I guess we’ll continue to go through 120 diapers a month until he comes around.

"It's for the show..."

Natalie does this very funny (I know, all parents think their kids are hilarious…) dance where she imitates one of the Peanuts characters from A Charlie Brown Christmas. She closes her eyes, snaps her fingers, shakes what her mama gave her and flips her hair from side to side.

I told her that I wanted to record an HD video of her to send to her Nanay and she immediately asked, “Are you gonna put in on YouTube so that I can be on America’s Funniest Home Videos and win $10,000?” Not exactly the response I had imagined and I immediately got the “Where did my parenting skills veer so off course?” ache in my stomach. It is times like these that make me think that the age of YouTube has created a generation of kids whose sense of reality is so off kilter you are tempted to unplug the TV and the computer and throw them out the window.

Unless you’ve been hiding under a rock the last few weeks, the latest reality TV cautionary tale has played itself out in the news under the name The Balloon Boy Hoax. The nationally covered circus has not only given the wing-nut father the notoriety that he so desperately wanted (I nearly stabbed my eardrum with a pencil when I heard his self written/producer/performed theme song for his proposed reality show), but reduced his little boy to the puke on camera sensation that was interrogated by Wolf Blitzer in the SITUATION ROOM! His parents hatched a plan to their American Dream by creating a giant ghetto Mylar balloon, faking a call to 911 and forcing their kid to lie about it. Only in America.

Maybe it is I that is out of touch. Perhaps the living in reality ship has sailed and I am left on a deserted island of desired normalcy.

A Bully with a Marker

Days with no surprises are good. Wake up early, check. Take car, ferry and subway to work, check. Go home and have dinner with the family, check. Fall asleep after watching The Daily Show, check. This may seem too routine for some, but when you have four kids and a super OCD complex, days like this mean a good night of sleep and one less potential ulcer.

A day with a surprise like your daughter coming home from school with a ruined dress covered with marker graffiti on the back is bad, especially if said daughter has already mentioned that the devil spawn that did it has been bullying her and if said daughter spent 6 months last year crying everyday at school. Paul, as ever, was completely cool about it. “I’ll send a note to her teacher tomorrow.” I dropped my bag and started plotting a Kill Bill like revenge scenario.

Lest anyone is worried, I really didn’t consider physical harming my daughter’s first grade classmate, but I did decide to take the matter in person to Natalie’s teacher and principal. Paul winced as he saw my mental wheels in motion. “Snitches get stitches. If the kids find out she ratted someone out, they’re gonna mess with her.” I was unconvinced. She’s six after all, not in the mob.

I went with my gut and made my way to the school the next day. As I passed throngs of children, construction paper Halloween projects and little people furniture, I thought I would lose my nerve. Kids do naughty things all the time, don’t they? Then I thought about the long, thick stripes of indelible marker all over Natalie’s ruined dress and my resolve came back.

Natalie’s teacher reacted to the story and the dress with a mix of coolness and ambivalence so I turned on my heel and marched straight to the principal’s office. The principal, thankfully, is the kind of woman every parent would want running a school; approachable, articulate, a good listener and above all, someone who believes in accountability. After she assured me that she would be speaking to the parents of the devil spawn, I immediately felt better about the world.

Mind you, a day with a surprise like winning the lottery would definitely not suck. Now, if I could just find a really good stain remover to get the ink out of the dress.

One Gift Each

One gift each. That’s what we decided and that’s what we’re sticking with. As tempted as I was to do a Dora/Diego styled bash with tons of presents, I resisted and here we are, the morning of the Aidan and Paulina’s birthday, and we have two gifts wrapped in eco-friendly pillow cases. I wonder if their three year-old brains will recognize the wrapping from Christmas?

Unfortunately, I won’t be here to watch them open their presents. It’s a little past 6am and I have to leave for work. I told Paul it would be cruel and unusual punishment to make a huge deal about their birthday and make them wait all day to open their presents. There are times when I wonder if this joint birthday thing will someday lead to heavy angst and teenager demands for therapy. Then, I think back to the days when getting a box of crayons for my birthday was a big deal and I realize that Paulina and Aidan are doing just fine.

Giving In to Pet Demands

So it seems that my resolve to not acquiesce to the demands of my children is greatly diminished by exhaustion. At a particularly weak moment after being away for nine days, my kids complained that I have for I quote, “200 million years” promised they could get a pet. Last month, Paul had batted around the idea of getting them a rabbit. But after careful consideration, we held to our plan to not get any pets until the twins are out of diapers.

Natalie has been particularly adamant about getting a pet. She has asked for butterflies, worms, camels, llamas, ostriches, horses, turtles, monkeys and most recently cats. One would think that a cat would be the easiest. Unfortunately, since I could die from anaphylactic shock from my extreme allergy to 99% of cats, this is impossible. After feeling like a totally rotten mother, I woke up yesterday wanting more than anything to give my kids something to care for, to see if they had the stamina to step up to a dog.

We settled for Brookstone’s Frog-O-Sphere. The kit comes with two miniature frogs, a snail, live rock, and a bamboo plant all in a conveniently packaged to hopefully keep the kids from killing every thing included. It’s a self-cleaning ecosystem that just requires that the kids remember to feed the frogs twice each week. So far, they are enchanted. Max and Aidan named their frogs Snoopy and Spike while Natalie and Paulina settled for Sally and Sally (since Paulina seems to copy everything that Natalie does). Natalie nearly dozed off on a chair trying to “watch” her baby frogs fall asleep and told me I was the best mommy and she loved me two million three hundred sixty five much. Sometimes giving in to guilt feels pretty good.

Unglamorous with a Side of Bed Bug Paranoia

For whatever reason, my husband thinks traveling for business is glamorous. His fallacy consists of expensive dinners, bottomless drinks, posh hotel rooms, sleeping in and of course, lots of time to see the sights. For anyone that does travel for business you know that this could not be further from than the truth.

The reality is that business travel is the opposite of glamorous; schlepping from airport to hotel to endless meetings, getting in taxis with mildly insane drivers, bad hotel food, even worse airplane food, living out of a suitcase (for the ironing impaired, it’s tragic!) and did I mention the bed bugs?

In the last year, I have heard first hand accounts (not the garden variety urban legend from a friends of a friend’s cousin) of colleagues and friends coming home with the gift that keeps on giving, bed bugs! These nasty little creatures suck on your blood in the middle of the night leaving nasty bumps and on top of that, can hitch a ride on your clothing or your suitcase and come home with you only to infest nearly anything in your home with legions of its offspring.

Yes, my friends, business travel is the least glamorous thing in the world. Heap on top of all of this a healthy portion of mommy guilt and you will understand why during moments of weakness, I am compelled to buy guilt gifts like San Antonio Longhorn Caramel Pecan Cow Patties.

Social Contagion

Last night Paul and I watched a movie called Adventureland. A period film (the 80’s, which was altogether depressing) about a young man who comes back from college and finds summer work at a low budget amusement park, the film shows a lot of scenes of early 20 somethings drinking, smoking pot and doing nothing.

My husband and I chuckled throughout the movie but in the end, I left feeling like a complete voyeur watching escapades that I not only did not understand but never experienced. I told him I thought the whole lot of them were pretty pathetic and couldn’t understand why anyone would want to piss away their time like that. He grinned and said, “That was my life every weekend for almost 15 years before I met you.” He wasn’t joking and he wasn’t ashamed. Classic Paul.

I told him I would be highly distressed if any of my kids ended up like this, even for a short period of time. He looked at me as if to say, “get ready for disappointment.” I know he’s right.

Last week, The New York Times published an article in the Sunday Times Magazine about the theory of “social contagion”and explained that the company you keep can influence factors from wealth to weight as well as success and happiness. For example, the study posited that a person is 36% more likely to smoke if their friend is smoking. Happiness is said to be more contagious than unhappiness. Being around happy people is said to raise your good cheer by 9%.

In the end, I know that trying to influence the company my kids keep will be as difficult as Glen Beck trying to behave like a rational human being. I can only hope that my kids make good decisions and surround themselves with people that make them healthy and happy, even if a little experimentation is involved.

You Can't Deny the Big Balls

Quick! Name five prime time television shows that you would be comfortable watching with four kids under the age of 10. Now, pretend that Idol season is over, ditto So You Think You Can Dance and Dancing with the Stars. OK, quiz over. I’m guessing your list is as disappointingly short as mine, which is not to say that I advocate watching television every night, but in this economic climate I think it’s plum loco to spend over $75 to take the kids out to the movies.

This summer when I returned from a longer than usual business trip, I watched my four kids pile into bed with their dad to watch ABC’s Wipeout. I was not familiar with show but trusted (probably at my own peril) that my husband had already screened it. As I unpacked I could hear the giggle fits and shouts of “Owww, that’s gotta hurt!” coming from the bedroom. They are now obsessed.

I’ve recently discovered there’s a secret society of Wipeout fanatics all around us. They’re lurking in every corner, old friends, new friends, business acquaintances, co-workers, the postman, my CPA and my gay hairdresser. It seems there is no demographic profile for this show, only the common factor of people enjoying watching other people take huge spills for the chance to win money.

My husband has kidded that he wants to audition for the show. This elicits cheers of, “DADDY! DADDY! DADDY! My daddy is going to win and buy me a pony!” The truth is that my husband cannot spin around three times without hurling so I’m guessing his chances of winning are slim to none. So much for that new pony.

There is no try

We thought we were out of the woods with Natalie’s crying fits. The first day of school went off without a hitch and we thought, wow, if she didn’t cry on the first day, it’s smooth sailing from here on out. That week, a four-day school week mind you, she cried 3 out of the 4 days culminating in a trip to the principal’s office. Oh yes, I’m officially out of my mind.

We have tried it all; one on one time, nurturing, coddling, positive reinforcement (Yay! You only cried two times today at school, not five!), bribery and the number one choice of Catholics, straight up guilt. At one point I was even ready to promise her a horse if she would just stop with the waterworks. I know that she’s just trying to get a little more attention but at what point do you say enough is enough? It happened again today and when I returned home from work defeated, I asked Paul, “What should we do now?” Without skipping a beat, he said, “Easy, I already told her that for every day she cries I’ll cut the head off of one of her stuffed toys.”

Of course he was kidding (at least I hope he is), but I am seriously out of solutions and hanging by a very thin thread. I’ve gotten advice ranging from, “It’s time to whoop that ass,” to “Just take her out for ice cream and make her feel special,” to “It’s time to cancel Christmas!” I’m not looking for an easy answer, we’re willing to be disciplined and consistent, nurturing but firm, and always all about letting her know that we’ll always love her.

As I was putting her to bed, she asked if I was still mad at her. I told her I was really disappointed, not mad. She said, “I’ll try very hard tomorrow not to cry.” I invoked my inner Yoda and said, “Do, or do not. There is no try.” She just rolled her eyes and went to sleep. When I got down to my office, I found a piece of paper on my chair. It was a crayon written apology complete with a line drawing of she and I holding hands. She’s good. It seems the student of guilt has now become the master.

Our Children Were Mortified

It sounded so cool, a concert and dinner without the kids in NYC. Once the tickets were purchased, we knew we would have to make all the necessary arrangements including selling it to the kids. On the morning of the concert, everything was set except for breaking the news to them, which seems to be getting more and more difficult as they get older.

During breakfast, we played a few songs by The Cult and Paul and I demonstrated our “coolness” by banging our heads and jumping around to show them how excited we were to see them in concert. Nothing underlines being uncool more then watching your kids look at you completely mortified. They simply slung their backpacks on their backs and asked if they could eat candy at Nana’s sleep over.

Once we got to Terminal 5, it felt like old times, except that we immediately scanned the room for chairs hoping that we could sit for a portion of the concert (pathetic, I know). The crowd was mostly men, some with beer guts and faded concert t-shirts, mid-forties women with faded blond hair, roots for days and a smattering of young music heads. I even saw a guy with his son, not much older than Maxwell (tacky, and maybe even illegal given that they were serving alcohol).

When Ian Astbury (the lead singer) came out, I didn’t even recognize him. In the late 80’s-early 90’s, Ian had a mane of long, straight black hair down to his butt and seemed tall, sinewy and larger than life. He now had curly hair, a Charles Manson beard and what looked like a beer gut himself. Through more than half the set, he either forgot the words or couldn’t be bothered to sing them. I nearly started crying.

It’s easy to forget the things you used to enjoy before you had kids. I don’t regret my big night out but it certainly made me feel my age, which wasn’t bad but I think I’ll forgo any more 80’s nostalgia for the time being.

Have they lost their minds?

Watching the President address a special joint session of Congress last night on health care I was reminded why so many politicians are loathed by Americans. I have never witnessed a group of more petulant, arrogant, rude and downright unruly people in my life. Grown men scowling, waving papers, shouting “You Lie!” These wingnuts have lost their minds! Has anyone ever seen this level of disrespect in our government? Articulate, draft a counterproposal, argue your points but don’t sit in chamber with your GOP friends and act like complete hooligans. It was like watching one of those English soccer matches gone bad. I am horrified. The GOP has become less than a joke. They now represent a party of legislators that exist only to tear things down and risk the future of this country.

During the primaries, the GOP stirred up a hornet’s nest when they saw that the then candidate for President, Barack Obama wasn’t wearing an American flag pin on his lapel. Given what I witnessed last night, I cannot understand how they could have ever questioned his patriotism.

Rah Rah School!

I woke up in cheerleader mode this morning for my kids first day of school. In my mind, it was my first day of school as well and I had a stomach ache and sleep deprivation to battle in addition to my own guilty feelings for having my kids start at yet another school. On our drive over, my palms were sweaty and I was glad I took a swig of Mylanta before we left the house.

Silence in our mini van comes around only once in a blue moon. If the stars align and they all take a nap on a long car trip, Paul and I will experience a quiet so rare that it makes us uneasy. I could sense that Max and Natalie’s nerves were getting the best of them but couldn’t think of anything that would not solicit any eye roll so I stayed quiet. Paul reminded them it was only a half-day and that he would see them at noon. The tension lifted.

It was a flurry of kids and cameras, backpacks, strollers and lunch boxes when we arrived in front of the school. The parents seemed to outnumber the children and they all knew each other; handshakes, pats on the back, hugs and conversations about yoga classes buzzed in my ears. Our newbie status was confirmed when several teachers walked up to me with that look of pity, you know the one that people give you when one looks like a fish out of water.

As I watched Maxwell march up the steps to his new school, he looked over his shoulder with a half-smile, the one he gives me when he is trying to reassure me, rather than the other way around. He wasn’t in cheerleader mode but he was clearly more ready than I was for the first day of school.

We Could Have Lost Our House

I recently sent a note to the CEO and COO of my employer, thanking them for providing a great health care plan for their employees. It sounds like a total kiss ass thing to do, but I swear it came out of a very pure place. A few months ago, Aidan got walking pneumonia and was so severely dehydrated they admitted him into the hospital and he spent two days on IV.

That wasn’t the first time that Aidan had spent an extended period of time in the hospital. When he was less than a minute old, they rushed him to the neonatal ICU and treated him for wet lungs and what they thought was a heart murmur. Paul and I were scared out of our minds, but also had to take care of his twin sister, Paulina. Eight days later, when Aidan was finally discharged, we had to bring him to a pediatric cardiologist for more tests and more follow-up care. Between my one-month hospitalization for going into preterm labor, the C-Section for the birth of twins, Aidan’s time in the ICU and with specialists, I flinched at the thought of our deductible. Had we not had good health insurance then, we probably would have lost our house.

In a year when health care reform is a bullet or update on every 24-hours news service, not a day passes that I don’t think about what this proposed bill could mean for my children and for my children’s children. Being the daughter of immigrant parents that lived in a country where only the wealthy can afford any type of health care, I have never taken health insurance for granted.

It is truly staggering to think that nearly 50 million Americans do not have health coverage. It takes only one freak accident, one genetic anomaly, one bad cell to turn into the C word for the livelihood of a family to be turned upside down. In the dire moments of a catastrophic prognosis, when all one wants is for those they love to be well, billing can become an even greater nightmare. As Congress returns after their August recess, I can only hope that progress can be made on a sensible health care bill.

She ate what?

I just read an article about the trend of women eating their own placentas after childbirth. I don’t know if it was the combination of my preternaturally strong gag reflex and the mildly strong rocking of the ferry this morning but I nearly threw up all over my neighbor’s Wall Street Journal. The article went on to detail how after the subject had her baby, her husband brought the placenta home in a Tupperware and gave it to a woman who specialized in cooking women’s placentas and turning them into super hormone pills. The placenta lady said business is booming. Who knew that creating placenta pills was a recession resistant business?

For me, this goes against the rules of nature and sanity. I’m no doctor but I thought the placenta is meant to dislodge and be expelled from the body after birth, having done its job of providing oxygen and food to the fetus while still in the womb. Nobody can convince me that saving it and ingesting it is somehow so beneficial for the body that I should fry it up in an iron skillet, dehydrate it and then ingest it in pill form (the article also said that some women drink it in shake format which is just so nasty I could hurl). So, go ahead earth mamas of the world! Get your placental freak on. This mom is definitely going to pass.

Deathgrips and Older Sibling Syndrome

Being the oldest sibling in a large family can really blow sometimes. Yes, you are the oldest, so you get that fleeting few years (or months in some cases) of getting the undivided attention from your parents. But, then the circus comes to town and nothing is ever quite the same. Since I’m not an oldest child, but the middle kid from a family of four siblings, I was always on the receiving end of, “Hold your sisters hand. Keep an eye on your brothers and sisters while I run to the store. Grab a diaper for me. Hold your sisters jacket. Take your sister to the bathroom.” No wonder my brother used to put the death grip on my hand when he walked me across the street.

Yesterday, I saw another oldest sibling caught in the middle of childhood and family duty. I was in an airport bathroom in St. Louis waiting in line for a stall when I noticed a little girl, not more than 6 years-old, carrying what looked like about an 18 month-old toddler. She was holding her like I would my own kids, shushing her and rocking back and forth in the mommy-rock trying to get the baby to calm down. A few minutes later, her mother and three other young children emerged from the handicap stall. Classic oldest sibling scenario.

It did not dawn on me how much we relied on my son Maxwell to help us with the other children until yesterday. I told him I was going downstairs to grab my briefcase and asked him to keep an eye on the twins. He looked at me and said, “You just asked me to practice guitar and now I have to watch the twins, again. It’s not fair. I’m always watching the twins.” There was no rebuttal, no witty remark mixed with Jedi-mind trick flair that I could come up with. I only looked at him and said, “I’ll just be a couple of minutes and then you can show me what you learned at your lesson.”

Yes, Maxwell does get the short end of the stick in many situations but he also gets to go on the big boy rides at Disneyland, stay up later, swim in the deep end of the pool, play videogames, see Marvel comic movies and sometimes even spend the night at his cousins’ house. So yes, I acknowledge that sometimes he’s forced to be the third parent but like all other older siblings, he just has to deal with it, and sometimes, hopefully not often, enjoy giving one of his siblings the death grip when he walks them across the street.

Seen and Not Heard?

My mother often reinforces how loquacious I was as a child by retelling a story about me at the age of three going into a retail store with her and pointing to a woman and yelling, “Mommy, why is that lady so fat?” I’m sure you’re cringing, I’m certain my mother still is, though she seems to get a modest amount of glee from telling the story.

My husband and I have grown up seeing too many painfully shy kids become so clingy, that we’re convinced that their social skills never quite catch up. You know them (come on, you know you do!), they’re the people you get stuck sitting next to on public transport and who immediately strike up an awkward conversation about their bunions.

We’ve made it a point to expose the kids to social interaction of many forms. Paul, surprisingly, is very committed to making sure that we have children that not only know how to talk to people, but that are fearless in social situations. Now, fortunately or unfortunately, if a stranger so much as makes eye contact with my two older children they’ll start telling charming stories about the color of their baby sibling’s bowel movement or start prattling on and on about the scab that they are picking and how they got it.

Now the twins are getting into the act. Imagine a night out having some pizza when my sideshow enters the restaurant. Try to eat a meal while a two-year old boy yells, “Hey! Heyyyyyy! Hiiiiiiiiiii! Hiiiiiiiii!” across the restaurant until you make eye contact with him and wave. Then, there’s Natalie, honest to a fault. We were once in Loews price comparing porch furniture when a salesperson walked up to us. “Can I help you?” she asked. “No, mommy only shops at Home Depot cause dad used to work there.” Maxwell is getting better at knowing when to speak in hushed tones. The other day we were at Target and a little boy was having a melt down in the toy aisle. Max waved me down to his level and said the following in my ear, “What a nightmare, right mom?”

Things sure have changed since the days of children being seen and not heard. I suppose I’ll take all of the awkward and slightly mortifying moments over my children never speaking up.

The Season of Germaphobia

For those of us who are a bit germaphobic, traveling in the summer is a super-deluxe icky experience. First, there is the indignity of de-shoeing in the TSA line that requires us to put our bare feet on the nasty floor. Then, there’s the funky people you have to sit next to on airplanes that for some inexplicable reason have not deemed it necessary to wear deodorant or antiperspirant, even though they’re traveling to a place that they know will be 100 degrees (don’t even get me started on the wingnuts who think it is OK to take off their shoes after their feet have been sweating all day). Finally, there’s the horror of the airplane bathroom.

Whether due to budget cuts or criminal insanity, some airlines have stopped providing toilet seat covers. Isn’t it enough that we live in a world of bed bugs, flu strains named after animals and a seemingly endless barrage of investigative reports (all utilizing black light technology) to uncover the nastiness left behind in hotel rooms? I mean do the airlines really expect us to just plop our bare ass on that flimsy little toilet and not concern ourselves with the thousands of other asses that have been there before? My mom says do the hover method. She has clearly never been in an airplane bathroom in turbulence.

If a surcharge must be assessed for a toilet seat cover, I’m happy to pay. Hell, I would even be OK with a toilet seat cover gumball machine. I beg you airlines to re-install the toilet seat cover holder and provide us with a little bit of the piece of mind we flyers deserve.

Curse Free Zone

After hearing my two-year old daughter say, “Who left this crap on the table?” I approached my husband to see if we could make the house curse free, just for a month. Paul’s response? “No fuckin’ way!” Of course, he said this with a great deal of charm and his tongue firmly implanted in cheek but the truth is, asking my husband to stop cursing is like asking Rush Limbaugh to stop being divisive.

Cursing has been a subject that we’ve battled about since Maxwell was born eight years ago. I’ve argued that you can’t ask the kids to not use curse words when you curse in front of them. As progressive as my husband believes he is, he counters with the oldest disciplinary line in the book, “I tell them do as I say, not as I do.” He tells me that he only uses the F-Bomb once in a blue moon and that crap, shit and ass don’t count because they’re in the dictionary.

So, it turns out, cursing is good for you! According to a study in the journal NeuroReport, “…the F word can do more than vent frustration: it can actually reduce physical pain.” The study went on to say that “…cursing reduced the perception of pain more strongly in women than in men.” For the record, I’m not advocating that anyone start cursing away in front of their kids (I have already hidden this issue of Time Magazine away from my husband). But, in the broad spectrum of things, there are worse things we could do.

Colin Powell Saved My Sanity

One of my best friends scolded me this week for my shameful reaction to my son earning an F on his report card. I deserved every bit of the criticism. When I opened his report card, I went berserk. It was the classic not guilty “by reason of mental disease or defect” moment that is described on all of the Law & Order shows. The walls started closing in, my ears started ringing, I started saying things I’m too ashamed to repeat (thank God Max was still at school). I blamed my heavy travel schedule, too much TV, my husband, the school, my long commute, his DS, too many Oreos, Cartoon Network, winter, moving to NJ!

As usual, my husband told me to calm down. “He’s in second grade. He’s not applying for colleges next year. What’s the big deal?” OK, it was ON! My breaking point was coming and in my head I was preparing my legal defense for throwing a big object at his head. “You better calm down before Max comes home. You’re going to scare him and he’s going to hate school.” Checkmate! I knew that my own baggage of being a perfectionist was totally coloring the situation. Layered on top of that, it underscored that all of my children were not going to be like me; a neurotic self-starter that was too afraid to bring anything less than a B home to my strict parents.

The grade was a result of him not completing a writing journal. I asked him why he didn’t finish it. He told me that “writing is too hard.” I could hear myself subconsciously channeling my father with stories of striving to be the best and not giving up just because something is hard. He looked at me, nervous and on the verge of tears. My disappointment was filling up every inch of space in the room. My husband came to the doorway and ushered him out. I’ve been uneasy all summer. I could not reconcile my need to get my kids to make education a primary focus while also giving them a chance to have a balanced, neurosis-free childhood.

Colin Powell did the full hour on Larry King last night. On the segment, he talked about being a poor student and having his family constantly push him to do well in school. He said that his family expected him to go to college, it was not a discussion. He reluctantly enrolled at New York City College and graduated with a 2.0. He earned his highest grades in ROTC (Reserve Officers’ Training Corps) and upon recognizing his talent for strategic planning, problem solving and leadership, he joined the military. He went on to become the first African American on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, National Security Advisor and most recently Secretary of State. Not bad for a mediocre student. The interview gave me the much needed perspective that I’ve been searching for all summer. Motherhood. You never know where the next teachable moment will come from.

Taking it for the Team

Is it just me or is Ann Curry always getting the short end of the stick on The Today Show? This week, Al Roker and Matt Lauer have the “dangerous and challenging” assignment of wearing God awful Hawaiian shirts on Today Goes on Vacation, live from Key West Florida. Cut to Al and Matt drinking Margaritas, Matt peddling a Rickshaw type bike with Al chillin’ in the back and Al blending Margaritas (such engrossing TV).

Last November, The Today Show sent Ann Curry to Mount Kilimanjaro for the Ends of the Earth program. While I get that it was probably an amazing experience, it was painful to watch her suffer from altitude sickness, gasp for air while she continued to educate the audience about the expedition, and in the end have to quit short of the summit. While Ann is running from killing field to war zone, visiting countries like Darfur, Rwanda, Baghdad and Afghanistan, her co-anchors are jaunting around the U.S. to do Golden Globe post-show coverage, a tour of Neverland Ranch and a behind the scenes tour of Churchill Downs.

In addition to Ann Curry’s morning duties, she is also an anchor on Dateline and sits in for Brian Williams on NBC Nightly News. Really, is this some kind of sick hazing ritual known only to NBC news employees? Why can’t my Emmy Award winning Asian sister get a few assignments that allow her to sit and drink a few margaritas every once in awhile? I’m just sayin’…

Moms Gone Wild

For all you voyeurs, there is no accompanying photography with this article so if you want to drop off now, I’ll wait. OK, for those who’ve stayed, I was just sitting here thinking that I never remember my mom going out dancing when I was a kid. In fact, there were no girls nights out, no trips to get mani-pedi with her friends and no long weekend Yoga retreats. She was all about the “need to do” and her life revolved around her four kids. It’s funny to think that I’m exactly where she once was. Times have certainly changed. It makes me appreciate her everyday and twice on Sundays.

I just got back from two weeks of work meetings where I was with some of the brightest, most fun, most energetic women I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. We worked hard during the day, stealing away to call our kids, husbands or boyfriends during breaks and before dinner. We spent the evenings laughing, telling stories, and dancing up a storm. When I say dance, I’m not talking your garden variety office party where people are sipping drinks, still talking business while doing the side to side shuffle to bad music. I’m talking about a dance floor that could have been in any club in NYC. Dying to know which ladies danced all night? Oh yeah, it was the moms! Big ups to the mommy club gettin’ down! Suffice it to say there are photographs and probably even some video floating around. Bribes have been paid to keep these out of public consumption.

While I totally respect and admire the women in my mom’s generation, there’s something amazing about being a mom in a time when it’s OK to still have strong connections with friends and colleagues, to still do the things that you loved to do when you were you and not just mom. At the end of the day, we all still missed our kids. But, I’m sure if you asked any one of these moms, having the opportunity to have the best of both worlds helps us to strike that work-life balanced that keeps us happy, healthy and loving moms.

I Heart Apple

I’m not an Apple snob. I’ve never looked down my nose at PC users and I’m getting a little weary of the Apple commercials featuring that guy that Drew Barrymore used to date. Lest you think I’m lying, I present Exhibit A. For 7 years I have owned an IMac G4 that limps along so badly that it now crashes each time I try to look at a Google Map. Exhibit B is my 2GB IPod Nano that literally does not contain a song released after 2007 because I ran out of memory long ago.

I hate being forced into buying something new just because of a new operating system or because a company makes the older version so prehistoric that you literally feel like a loser for even carrying it around. So, it was with more than a little trepidation that I approached buying a new IMac for the family. I am, however, overjoyed to report (yes, I used the word overjoyed) that the experience from soup to nuts was amazing.

First, no pressure; no swarming sales people, no annoying people talking that annoying techie talk, thinking they can confuse with promises of RAM, fast processors or new ways to enhance my kids photos (yes, I did bring them with me, all of them). There was simply a lovely, twenty something girl that walked me through everything I needed to know. She then asked if I wanted my data transferred. I sheepishly pulled out my 20 ton artifact and said, yes, I would love it if she could move all of my stuff over. No problem, she said. I raised an eyebrow. Sign on the dotted line and a tech would be more than happy to help me.

When I got home, I took the monitor/CPU out of the box, plugged it into the wall, attached the USB for the keyboard to the monitor and voila! Everything was just how I left it – all of my pictures now available on their souped up version of IPhoto, all of my music ready to sync with my new IPod touched (so I splurged a little…). They even transferred over my screensaver and saved all of my bookmarks from Safari! If you think I was happy, Paul was over the moon. He thought a new computer meant the slow death march of having to learn how to do things over again. He even stayed up late making new playlists!

So, no, I won’t be carving an Apple symbol into the back of my son’s head or sticking Apple stickers on the back of my car. But, I will sing their praises to anyone that wants their computer purchase served with a side of gloriously easy.

The Giving Tree Jersey Style

The Giving Tree was the first book I bought for Max. It’s pretty ratty now from being passed down from child to child after being chewed, ripped, stained and read a gazillion times. We sat out on the porch the other night and had Max read the book to Paulina, Aidan and Natalie. When Max finished the story, I asked the kids what they thought the story meant.

Paulina continued playing with the Citronella candle on the table. Aidan was busy trying to launch himself from Paul’s lap. Natalie seemed to be paying attention but didn’t really offer an answer. Max said, “It’s about a tree that loved a boy.” I then asked, “In the end, do you really think the tree was happy?” They both nodded.

Paul looked up from trying to hold on to Aidan and said, “Why would the tree be happy? That boy never did a freakin’ thing for that tree. Not even give it water!” Max looked up and said, “That’s true.” Paul continued, “That tree gave and gave until it was a shriveled up trunk and still the boy came looking for something. Kids, unless you are willing to give back, don’t go around asking for favors. And, please don’t wait 20 years to do it. Look at the picture of that guy. He waited like 20 years every time to go visit that tree. The story should be renamed The Taking Boy.”

I’ve never quite seen The Giving Tree from that perspective, but it certainly puts a new spin on it.

At least Alaskans have something to celebrate...

Oh Sarah Palin, why can’t you just go away? You’ve taken the cover of Time magazine, yet again, and for what? Quitting your job? If the GOP really feels that you are their messiah for 2012 then they have not only become irrelevant, they moved to the crazy column. At the very least the people of Alaska can breathe a tiny sigh of relief.

No matter how you slice it, quitting it lame. Not getting her agenda accomplished? More time with the kids (wasn’t she the one that went back to work, by choice, a week after having her youngest)? More time to strategize her maverick plan to take the White House? None of these reasons is enough to abandon the constituents who voted her in office, nor is there any true excuse for someone who is a wife, a mother, a daughter and an ambitious politician to use quitting as a stepping stone for a future built on a house of cards. Another lame move for one of the most visible women in politics…

Natalie Crushin' on a Werewolf

Settling into a new house can feel like a never ending process; finding the perfect spot for the take out menus, choosing and hanging curtain rods, figuring out how to fit too many plugs into too few outlets, organizing the baking utensils from the serving utensils from the grilling utensils (OK, so maybe it’s only maddening for OCD people like me). One of the things I do enjoy is hanging pictures. A house doesn’t feel like a home until you have photos of the ones you love surrounding you.

Paul and I decided to give the kids a little latitude in choosing what they wanted to hang on their bedroom walls. Max was easy, he asked us to find him a Star Wars (the Clone Wars) or a Bakugan (newest kiddie craze…little plastic balls that open up when you drop them on a playing card partially made of metal, who knew?) poster. Natalie said she didn’t know until we stepped into an FYE store. Before her Nanay (my mother) left last week for a visit, Natalie had a melt down in the airport so my mother did what any self-respecting grandmother would do, slipped her a twenty and said everything was gonna be just fine. Natalie had been holding on to that crinkled twenty since she left last Thursday.

As I perused the 2 CD’s for $20 section, Natalie grabbed my hand and led me over to a poster bin. She handed me the twenty, pulled out a poster of Jacob the werewolf from book series Twilight and asked if she could buy it! Color me shocked but I didn’t think tween idolatry would start at 6! Jonas Brother I get, fascination with a boy that plays a werewolf borders on a little nutty, but I go with it.

Lest you think I’m a Twilight hater, I have to cop to the fact that I absolutely loved reading the series. Natalie would walk up and ask what I was reading and I would tell her it’s a story about a girl who loves a vampire. She was hooked! Why does she love the vampire? Does the vampire want to suck her neck? Are they gonna get married? I never explained the love triangle between Bella, Edward and Jacob until the movie came out on DVD, and then she was even more fascinated.

I am clearly so not prepared for this stage. I’m not saying that I think that she fantasizes about marrying Jacob, or does she? Regardless, I never dreamed my daughter would choose as her first poster an actor that plays a werewolf in a teen romance novel. Wait until I tell her Nanay what that guilt money bought!

Never Say Can't!

It’s hard to coach your kid when he can legitimately look at you and say, “You can’t so why should I?” I can’t swim. I haven’t been in the ocean for more than a decade and rarely will step foot in a pool. It’s not irrational fear of sharks or that the chlorine will ruin my hair, I just never learned and don’t really want to now. OK, so I’m a little fearful of sharks but I digress.

So, all of my kids love the water. They could seriously stay in for 6 hours without a single break (only coming out for forced bathroom breaks by mean mommy because peeing in a pool is just nasty!). The twins can dog paddle with lots of safety gear on. Natalie has gone in the deep end this summer and Max, well Max can swim circles around me and probably everyone in my family. Paul has just started teaching him to dive, something I never learned how to do.

Paul starts by saying, “Hands above your head. Just think, hands and head in first, feet last.” The first couple of times, Max did it perfectly. The third time, he hesitated, belly flopped and spooked himself. So, several times yesterday he stood on the diving board with his hands in the air while I tried encouraging him from the safety of deck (surrounded by 4 Citronella candles, damn these mosquitos!). A few times he turned around and said, “I can’t mom.” Ever the optimist I said, “Yes you can! Don’t say can’t. Never say can’t!” He just looked at me with those eyes that said, “Get your butt out of your shady citronella fortress and show me!” What do you say to those eyes?

Wanna Buy a Cow?

My friend bought one quarter of a grass fed cow. She and her friends in Reno are endeavoring to eat more healthy so they’ve co-purchased a cow (this is her second one, the first one cost her less than $2.30 per pound) and she explained that the meat that she gets is delicious and hormone free. She then has a freezer full of porterhouse steaks, tri-tip, ground beef, flank steak, etc. She has also started a garden coop where she and her friends plant vegetables, take turns rotating soil, pulling weddings, watering, etc and then share the spoils of the harvest.

All I can say is how cool? I marvel at people that actually take the initiative to do something about the unhealthy state of the food that we ingest and hope that our bodies and the bodies of our children don’t fail us. I also think about my great grandmother who lived to be 116. No, that is not a typo and no she wasn’t in the Guinness Book of World Records. Honest to God, my mother’s grandmother was 116 when she died. She never ingested medication, no aspirin, no antibiotics, just tea, ginger root and some herbs from her garden. She ate fruits and vegetables she planted and harvested pesticide free before it was en vogue to do so. She probably led a blissfully stress-free life; no worries about nuclear proliferation, global warming, dirty politicians, bankrupt states, a sagging economy or failing 401Ks.

Other than higher prices, which if you ask most people is a pretty big deterrent; it is possible to take bigger steps to eating healthy. I have switched to organic eggs, lemonade, pasta, chicken, fruit and even some snacks like crackers and cookies. I am sure it is not enough. Though it seems a little crazy, I actually do think I’m going to investigate buying a grass fed cow of my own. Any takers?

Babies Reading at 18 Months?

After a night of cookie making insomnia, I happened upon a freaky infomercial featuring toddlers, I’m talking 18-20 months old, reading full sentences. It was so strangely compelling, I watched the program twice over on two channels and nearly bought the DVD set (thank goodness sleep finally kicked in). The next morning I told Paul about it, soliciting his opinion about maybe getting the program for the twins. His immediate reaction was, “No kid should be able to read before they can wipe their own ass.”

As much as I love our new town, I’ve also heard from some neighbors that because it’s so small, it can be extremely competitive. And, really, the game has changed. I got into Pepperdine University after a decent high school education but I wonder if that could happen now. Degrees are so closely linked to job opportunities that they have become even more coveted than they were 15 years ago. Will this little town turn my kids into Mylanta gulping stress bunnies worried about getting into Yale? Or, will Paul and I have the will and the skill to help them balance a healthy educational life with seeing life as it is, a journey with no clear cut answers, just lots of opportunity.

I stress about these little things everyday because I know that if I hadn’t gone to college, hadn’t had the opportunity to study in Europe, hadn’t had the confidence to move to NYC, hadn’t applied for grad school, I may not be where I am today; able to provide a decent life for my kids. It’s just another one of life’s little tight ropes I suppose. Maybe they’ll come out with a magic DVD program for adults that will instruct in balancing parental expectations as well as reducing one’s need to ever buy magic infomercial products at 3AM.

Our MJ is Gone

When Princess Diana died I didn’t sleep for two days. My husband thought I was a freak saying, you didn’t know Princess Diana. Who is she to you? The last 48 hours I’ve been watching news report after interview about Michael Jackson’s passing. It’s strange to feel such sadness over someone that I didn’t know and that ultimately led such a strange life, one with no connection to mine.
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Yet, here I sit blogging about it and it just hit me why. Michael Jackson was like the Justin Timberlake of our generation. We watched him grow up, leave the bosom of his group, break out on his own and become an omnipresent force on the radio and the TV. His songs could make you cry (I’ll Be There), make a wedding dance floor get way more interesting (Wanna be Startin’ Something), make running on a treadmill way less tedious (Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough) and now, let you groove a little on an easy listening station driving in the car (Rock with You). And really, who hasn’t tried at one point to learn the choreography to the Thriller video? I don’t know a single cheerleading squad or dance team that didn’t somehow copy some of those moves during the 1980’s.

I watched Michael Jacksons’s performance of Billy Jean on the Motown 25th Anniversary Special live. It was one of THE most spectacular performances that I’ve ever seen in my life! It was so original, so exuberant, and so effortless, you knew you were seeing greatness and you just wanted more. And, that’s what he gave, and maybe a little too much. I hope now he has a little peace.

Brownies Saved Me From Buyers Remorse

It is a truth universally acknowledged that moving sucks. Moving especially sucks when it rains for nearly two weeks straight, you have endless piles of stuff belonging to your four kids and your new home does not fit all your old junk. Moving from a rental to a home you now own is even more excruciating. You’re moving at warp speed to get your real house in order and then you realize that you have to scrub down your rental top to bottom and acknowledge that at heart, your kids are a bunch of slobs.

OK, so I may sound bitter but I’m not. Though my skin is raw from using too much cleaning product with bleach and I’ve probably inhaled enough toxic fumes to have wiped out all of the hair in my nasal passages, I’m really not. Truth be told I would have been 300% more bitter if not for the plate of brownies that arrived at my door two days ago.

When I moved from California to NJ, I went through a period of stiff upper lip catatonic cheerfulness as I soon realized that life on the east coast was no picnic when you have four kids under the age of 8. The weather stinks, mosquitoes the size of pigeons bite my children so much I actually worry about West Nile Virus and to make things completely absurd, the price of everything seems twice as much for living in a state with high property taxes, toll booths on their highways and really appalling fruits and vegetables. Suffice it to say that buying a house was not the celebratory experience that one would assume. In fact, it made me so anxious that I was gulping Mylanta like the Starbucks lattes that I used to be able to get when there was actually a Starbucks I could get to without driving 5 miles (another reason to hate NJ…cue the violins!).

So, when the deal finally closed, my anxiety did not end. I started having panic attacks a few times a day thinking that I had made a huge mistake. It was like buyers remorse but on the biggest ticket item you can think of. Of course you can return the 20th pair of cute black heels that you just had to have but a house, not so much. I was coming back from my 10th trip to the rental to pick up more junk when one of our new neighbors from across the street brought over a plate full of brownies.

Seriously, when was the last time you received moist and chewy goodies from a perfect stranger with seemingly no ulterior motive? It is perhaps the most neighborly thing to have happened to me in my life and my children were witness to the delivery which made the gesture even more special. So, yes, I’m still in NJ but a plate of brownies saved me from major buyers remorse and I’ve stopped gulping Mylanta. That’s definitely something to be cheerful about.

My Facebook Miracle

I can be impossibly stubborn when I feel pushed (cue the sounds of shock!). My brother Ben kept calling me a LOSER for not having a MySpace or Facebook page but I kept ignoring him, hoping that social networking would be a passing fad. It’s not that I’m a technophobe, but having four kids has a way of making one realign daily the things you need to do and the stuff you want to do.

Even as I created my Facebook page, I was still skeptical about engaging in the activity. Who cared what books I read? Does anyone really care where I’ve traveled? Is being a fan of Sex in the City passe? Why would anyone want to poke me? And, don’t even get me started on the status updates! I was paralyzed thinking what I could and should share. Are my kids birthdays OK or shameless? Does anyone care if I’m sitting at the George Michael concert?

A couple of months later, though I had spent virtually no time on my page, added no pictures, sent no friend requests, my Facebook page yielded the miracles and an amazing demonstration of human kindness.

I took a Dramamine on a flight from Cincinnati to Newark. Though Dramamine works like a charm for air sickness, it also turns me into a drooling zombie if my flight is less than 5 hours. I didn’t even remember that I had left my IPod Nano in the seat back pocket until I was 40 miles into my trip back home. Though I was sad for losing it, I knew that I had a better chance of winning the lottery than ever getting it back.

The next day, I got a friend request from a name I did not recognize. Normally paranoid about getting emails from strangers, something made me open it. Lo and behold, it was an email from a man who had found the IPod and wanted to return it to me! I accepted his friend request and sent him a gushing email thanking him and asking if I could pay for postage and if he could also send me his address so that I could send him a gratitude gift. More miracles! Not only did he refuse to accept shipping money from me but requested that I did not send him a gratitude gift.

My husband was incredulous. He doubted I would even get it back yet two days later, the bubble padded pack arrived with my IPod! It included a note that said that I should not be so cynical about acts of human kindness and that my music mix sucked anyway! Priceless.

Japan's Catcher in the Rye

Japan has its own real catcher in the rye according to Time Magazine (June 22nd Health Issue). As the global financial crisis pounds Japan's economy, the number of suicides in Japan has risen to 23.8 per 100,000 people, making Japan the home of the highest suicide rate in the world. The well-known place that many go to die is Tojinbo cliffs, a rocky piece of land bordering the Sea of Japan.

Since 2004 Yukio Shige, a former police detective, and trained counselor, has made it his singular cause to patrol the Tojinbo cliffs in the hope of preventing desperate Japanese citizens from jumping. He has successfully saved 188 people, talking them down from the cliffs and then counseling them to see their lives as not desperate but only the beginning of a larger, more meaningful journey. Shige has funded his cause largely through his own retirement savings and donations. Recently, the Japanese government has awarded him 100 million to support his patrol, as well as the counseling he provides.

Reading about Yuko Shige made me wonder what pushes someone to such deep despair that they are willing to leave the earth and the ones they love. The article cites unemployment and financial hardship, things that are truly devastating but can be fixed. Many fortunes have been won and lost around the world by the best and the smartest. I suppose all humans feel desperate about their lives at some point; drug use, broken heart, family arguments, losing their job, losing a loved one. I dearly hope my children never entertain the thought of ending their lives. If they ever do, I hope someone like Shige will be there to catch them before they fall or, if I’m lucky, that they’ll come to me to seek solace.

That One Thing

The urban legend about me is that I was speaking full sentences when I was 11 months old. The joke then is, and my whole family will say it in unison, “and she never stopped.” My dad used to say, “The one thing that you can do, Berna, is talking. You’re good at talking. Maybe someday you could be the Filipino Connie Chung.” This speech, repeated from when I was 10 years old, made me roll my eyes every time he said it.

The one thing? Only one thing? Today, I believe I’m pretty good at a few things. I can make a really moist and tasty Magnolia style cupcake and chicken Marsala. I started knitting after my birthday and am getting pretty good. I’m also pretty good at folding clothes, sending out Thank You cards on time, wrapping presents and playing a couple of songs on the piano.

Looking back, I wonder how much my father’s praising of the one thing I was good at affected my adult life. Did his prodding to become a professional talker make me turn my back on becoming a journalist? Did my role as the talker of the family effect the way my brothers communicate today? Or, did his speeches ultimately give me the confidence to know that I was pretty good at communicating and to try to harness this in my work and home life?

All four of my children demonstrate one thing that they seem to be pretty good at right now. Paul said, “Natalie is good at drawing. Paulina is good at taking care of people. Max is a clown and will probably get into acting or music. Aidan is good at creating mayhem and will end up in a minimum security prison.” OK, so I hope that the last bit about Aidan isn’t true. But, we do go through our days reinforcing how good they are at the things they do without really encouraging them to do other things well.

But, what happens later? Does laser focusing on the one thing make that one thing a self-fulfilling prophecy? Or, will other things pop up organically and we’ll know to take the cue when those things happen? It’s such a slippery slope. I just hope that when those other things present themselves, we’ll have the wherewithal to notice and celebrate them.