Politics and Loss

Since the birth of my children, I admit that I have been more an armchair citizen. While I’ve voted in mid-term and Presidential elections, paid my taxes, and donated to the local campaigns, I have not been a hugely active participant in political life. I made the laughable attempt to encourage my children to sit through the last vice-presidential and presidential debates (promises of Doritos and Sour Patch Kids were made) with mixed results (my daughter’s only question was, “Why does that lady keep winking?”). But now that Max is actively studying government, I thought it was time to demonstrate, by action, that being a citizen requires activism and not just passive observance.

After this weekend’s shooting, the senseless deaths of a Congresswoman’s aid, a judge, innocent civilians and a nine year-old child, I am left to wonder if I could or should continue to be active, or expose my children to this era of ugly politics. Pundits will say that this heated political climate is no different than the elections during the times of Andrew Jackson and James K. Polk. The big difference is that during those times, people had guns because they were killing food to eat or protecting their hen houses from coyotes. In my mind, and I hope in the rational minds of most Americans, there is no earthly reason for bringing guns to an event like Rep. Giffords’ Congress on Your Corner, a town hall or any political gathering. There is also no reason to advocate violence of any kind, on your website, your radio show, your blog, your tweets or at a rally.

Let’s hope for the sake of Christina Taylor Green and her parents, Judge Rolls, Gabrielle Giffords and others, this event is not squandered with a bunch of talking heads “debating” the need to change the political dialogue. These young men, and probably many other like him, have lost faith in public officials, the media and others who have tried to make politics a game of win or lose. I think we can all agree that in this tragedy, there were no winners.

Keats, Frost and the poet, Paul Baillie

We have lately been drowning in an ocean of our children’s homework. Between science projects, art projects, preschool “writing” assignments, daily math and reading worksheets, the piles of paper seem to be never-ending. Backpack exploration and binder upkeep are now daily duties that Paul must bear the brunt of.

Nothing has thrown us more than Max coming home with an assignment to write poems for his 4th grade Writing Celebration. For more than two weeks, Paul has struggled to help Max come up with an idea and write a few lines. Last night was his last day to complete two poems and I was determined to force his creativity.

I asked him about poems that he studied in class and without skipping a beat, he recited, nearly perfectly, Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. Nothing about Max has impressed me more than hearing him repeat,

And miles to go before I sleep

as if he understood the poet’s meaning. We talked about what the poem was about and suddenly he said, “I’ll write about Winter! Do you think that would be ok?” I nodded and he got to work on a melancholy piece about frozen rivers and long, dark days that he called December.

His writers block came again when I asked him to get started on his second piece. As 6PM rolled to 7 and 7 rolled to nearly 8, I desperately suggested, “Why don’t you write about an experience you’ve had?” “Like you mean football?” “Yes,” I answered, “or a trip, or an activity, anything you want.” A few minutes passed before his pencil touched paper again but he finally looked up and said he wanted to write about the time we went to the Natural History Museum in NYC. When he finished, he asked Paul and I to sit down so he could read us his finished work:

boop boop goes the ferry,
beep beep goes the taxis,
woosh woosh goes the subway
clop clop goes the horses in Central Park

Paul instantly added his ending

“Hey buddy can you spare a dime said the homeless dude on the corner.”

I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Thank goodness Max has his father’s sense of humor.

You want what for your birthday?

Aidan is often mistaken for our youngest child. He still wears a size 2T in most clothes while Paulina’s Rubinesque body easily fits into a 4T (proving that even life for a toddler girl is not fair!) He is still also challenged in the speaking department. He recently learned how to say The Pledge of Allegiance at school and while we can only understand about 6 words out of the entire recitation, we’re glad that he’s getting more and more confident about speaking in general.

When we asked the twins what they wanted for their fourth birthday, Paulina quickly, without hesitation yelled, “A Dora the Explorer guitar with four strings!” Aidan opened his mouth, paused, closed his eyes as if searching for a word or phrase and then uttered a one word answer that had us baffled for four days. Paulina, who often acts as his interpreter, just shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “I got nothing too.” We continued to ask him for another couple of days and then, right before bed time Paulina said, “Aidan wants drums for his birthday!” followed quickly by, “…and I want drums too.” Maybe it was selective hearing, maybe Paul and I need to get more versed in Aidan-speak, either way, the entire week-long episode must have been extremely frustrating for our little Aidan.

Birthdays for the twins, even without the challenges of understanding what they want, are fraught with concerns. How can we make sure that each has the special experience that our non-twin kids have? Is a joint cake OK? Joint gifts (e.g., one drum set)? Should we abandon birthday parties all together and keep it small and low key? While they are still young, I’m guessing this issue won’t rear its ugly head until at least their teen years. However, given Paulina’s preternatural gift for being direct and specific, it may come sooner than we think.

Raising Extortionists

Well into my ninth year of parenting, I’m still unsure and lost about a great many things.  I still don’t know how to get my kids to eat more vegetables.  There are days when I think, will I ever get them to brush their teeth properly?  My kids are told at least once a day to put their dirty clothes in the hamper and nearly every day we find clothes on the floor (always less than 6 inches from the hamper!).

One thing that I am convinced of more and more everyday is that my old school parents got some things right.  When we were kids and my mom or dad told us to do something, they didn’t do a dance about why or give us any incentive, they said do it “or else.”  When I’m trying to get my kids to do something as simple as tidying up the basement, I often find myself doing a Braveheart style speech, explaining, often lamely, how they need to contribute to the betterment of the household or resorting to straight up bribery.  They want a sticker, a star on a chart, candy or a new IPod app for doing just about anything. 

When you look at the bigger picture, it’s disgusting how incentive driven we’ve become.  Starving kids in third-world countries go to sleep hungry and yet we give toys to kids for eating a Happy Meal.  Some of my cousins in the Philippines are just happy to have food in their bellies and I have to hear some sob story about how Paulina wanted the Strawberry Shortcake toy that Natalie got for an entire car ride and then some.

It’s no wonder so many kids have become little extortionists. The other day I asked Aidan to put his shoes away and he said, “OK, but can I have some Sour Patch Kids?” When even three year-olds are mastering the art of trying to get something for doing the basics, you know something is really out of whack. Thank goodness for Paul. To this request he said, “No, but I can give you a helping of my foot in your ass.”

The 4th Emergency

There have only been a handful of times since I met Paul that he has called me with an emergency. He has famously said that it would take “blood squirting from his body” or “one of his appendages hanging off” to deem something a true emergency. There was the time he thought he was having a heart attack (on Valentine’s day when I was 9-months pregnant with Natalie), the time he cut his eyeball with a razor knife and the time he had all the kids home sick (including the twins who were 8 months old at the time) and he thought Maxwell had chicken pox. Then, there was yesterday.

As I was checking email, I suddenly realized that I had three missed phone calls and an unread text message. As my heart rate raced, I opened the text and read, “The toilet lid just dropped on Aidan’s pecker. Call me as soon as you can!” A conversation about smashed genitals is not an easy one to have in any commuter situation. When Paul picked up the phone, I don’t know who was more freaked out, him or Aidan. It was as if he was having sympathy pain and could not even bare to talk about it. “Do you need me to come home?” I asked, “How is Aidan?” He handed the phone to Aidan. “How are you buddy? “ I asked. “My ding dong hurts!” I could hear Paul cringing in the background.

Thankfully our pediatrician said everything was OK after running a handful of tests. There was bruising but no permanent damage (I could almost hear Paul’s ginormous sigh of relief all the way from NYC). A couple of doses of children’s Tylenol and a lukewarm bath was recommended and Aidan spent the rest of day in bed watching videos. When I got home, I asked how Aidan liked his bath. Paul said he only gave him a quick shower. When I asked why, Paul got dead quiet and continued to do the dishes. Even in this emergency situation, the less Paul had to look at the bruisingon his male part the better. I guess it’s a male thing.

Ruining my sons life

Somehow I’ve missed the memo about two important things that have nearly ruined my sons life. The first one is that boys in fourth grade change for gym class. The second is that every single boy in Max’s gym class, with the exception of my son, wears boxers. “They all laughed at me because I was wearing tightie-whities!” he explained. Since Max is hardly ever prone to hyperbole, I listened intently, letting him know that I took this humiliation seriously.

In my defense, he wasn’t technically wearing tightie-whities. I’ll admit they were regular boys briefs but they were gray and really not so very tight. The entire episode delighted Paul to no end. When it was time for dinner, Max brought up the subject again and begged that we buy him some boxers immediately. As I was babbling out another apology about how I had no idea that all little boys wear boxers Paul looked up and said, “It’s no big deal Max. If they laugh at you again just say, Hey! I’m hung like a horse and I need the extra support.” As Max contemplated his father’s suggestion and I nearly spit out my Edamame, I wondered how other moms with 9 year-old boys learned about the boxer trend.

I didn’t have to look far to find out. When I got to the office, I brought up the episode to a couple of my female co-workers. As I neared the end of my story, our male colleague in the next office yelled out, “My sons both wear boxer briefs!” I immediately entered his office to learn more and he said that his boys decided that they wanted to wear what their dad wore. So, in a way, this is all Paul’s fault. From now on, he’s going to have to be the purchaser of all boys undergarments to save me from ruining my sons lives.

Born with aggression?

During Max’s first regular season football game, the opposing team’s running back turned the corner and made a break for his end zone. Max crossed the field, along with a pack of his team mates, and looked as though they had the angle on him to save the touch down. My heart raced as I watched Max get there first and hoped he would get low and tackle him. A few feet short of the runner, he slowed down and I watched as his two team mates took the runner down. Paul looked at me, shook his head and said, “You know, this is your fault.”

As the oldest of four kids, Max has spent his entire life hearing me tell him to be gentle. It’s true that he has never been encouraged to be aggressive in any way and my nagging has obviously influenced the way he plays football. After the game, I asked him why he slowed down. He told me he wanted to give the tackling opportunity to his team mates. Paul looked at me, gripped the steering wheel and said, “Next time, he’ll probably pat him in the ass as he runs into the end zone.”

Later that night, I sat down with Max and asked him if he liked playing defense. “Yeah, mom, I’m just learning to be a beast.” He seemed nervous, like he knew that the conversation in the car caused some tension between me and his father. “Did dad talk to you about the game?” “Yes, mom. He told me I need to be more aggressive.”

After watching him practice and play for a month, I wonder if children can actually learn to be aggressive or if it’s something you’re either born with or not.

Awkward Pauses

I recently had dinner with two male business colleagues who marveled at the fact that I was a stat-spewing football fan and loved The Star Wars trilogy (the original, mind you, not the ones featuring Jar Jar Binks). You would have thought I told them that I was the secret love child of Sid and Nancy by the way they went on and on about it. They told me my husband is the luckiest man in the world.

“What does your husband do?” asked one of them. “He stays at home with the kids,” I replied. The awkward pause seemed to go on for hours in which time one of them decided to hit the chips and salsa and the other one tentatively asked, “How’s that going (read: how did you get him to remove his testicles)?” “Great, I said, he’s really enjoying the opportunity to be there for them.”

Encounters like this occur pretty frequently when I tell men that my husband is a stay-at-home dad. Men act like they’ve just found out that Paul is a Minotaur, followed by an awkward pause and then the inevitable change of subject. For some, it’s like the idea itself is too strange to even contemplate even though the numbers of stay-at-home dads is increasing exponentially.

As Paul’s tenure as primary care giver reaches its third anniversary, it leaves me wondering how our arrangement will be viewed in ten years or even twenty. Will he be part of a growing fraternity of men that will see the lasting impact of the dual benefits of hands-on parenting? Will the pendulum swing resulting in more women wanting to stay home? Who knows? As long as I can continue to come home to safe and happy kids, I will continue to endure these awkward pauses happily.

Hook 'em Horns!

So, some people have accused me of being a crazed Chargers fan. Having spent time in Austin this week, I say you don’t know for super fans until you visit Longhorn country. It’s as if the city has a little bit of burnt orange splashed all over it. Football in Texas is not a spectator sport, it’s a religion and unless you are the converted, don’t even begin to have a conversation with a Longhorns fan about college football.

Having experienced the fanaticism, it got me thinking about whole populations of a city, state or county being rabidly engaged and invested in a football team. I’ve spoken to some who think that sports fans have just lost their marbles, worshiping blindly at the altar of what at the end of the day is a game. I freely admit that there are weekends during the NFL season where I will spend an entire day, in my pajamas no less, watching back-to-back-to-back games. Does it make me feel like a slovenly pig sometimes? Yes. Do I still plan to do it come late August during pre-season football, hell yes!

I’m certain to morph into the next level of scary fan. Maxwell begins football practice next week. He picked up his equipment yesterday, we’re getting him cleats this weekend and I’ve already bought purple paint to get the kids faces game-day ready come September. OK, so that last bit is a lie but I did contemplate it for a moment.

Send 3 year-olds to Find Osama Bin Laden

I am certain that if could somehow convince my 3-year old twins that Osama Bin Laden is hiding in a cave somewhere with a lifetime supply of Sour Patch Kids, I could drop them into Afghanistan and they would find him. There is something about the persistence and tenacity of children at this age that is fascinating (if not a little scary).

Aidan recently found an old Power Rangers DVD that my mom bought at a garage sale. He asked his brother to play it and he was hooked, watching it over and over and over again. However, now that it’s summer and he has to compete for DVD time, his brother and sisters are tired of watching the same 6 episodes and refuse to play it. So, when we were at Suncoast this weekend and he found a new Power Rangers DVD in the bargain bin, he begged me to buy it for him. I acquiesced and from the time I paid the man at the register until the moment we got home, he kept repeating, “I wanna watch my Power Rangers DVD!”

By the time we had dinner and got settled in for the night, it was too late to play the 10-episode DVD. Aidan had a meltdown, screaming as if I was branding him with a hot iron. Paul promised him we could watch it in the morning. He finally calmed down and went to sleep holding the DVD. Paul and I stayed up that night and watched HBO, joking about how obsessed he was with Power Rangers. At 5:30 the next morning, we heard the pitter patter of little feet and when I opened my eyes, Aidan was waving the DVD in front of my face, “I wanna watch my Power Rangers DVD!” I just hope he applies this level of persistence to other areas of his life.

Sleep in your own freakin' beds

Years ago, Paul and I made the rookie parenting mistake of allowing the first of our four children sleep in the bed with us. We’ve been paying for it ever since. I think there’s been only one night in the last nine years where we have had the bed to ourselves. Paul gripes incessantly about it, “You freakin’ kids need to start sleeping in your own beds,” he’ll say to the twins as they cozy in between us at 8 o’clock, completely disregarding his protests. Somewhere around 9PM, Paul deposits them into their own beds and says a little prayer that they’ll stay there through the night.

While his prayers are rarely answered, one night last week, I woke up at 6AM and Paul and I were alone in our bed. “Is that clock right? Did they really sleep through the night in their own beds?” I asked him. “Yeah, he said. “It’s about freakin’ time!” A minute later, we heard the pitter patter of little feet and Aidan, hearing us talk, climbed into bed.

Now that the twins are less toddler and more full-fledged kid, I realize that my days of cuddling with them are numbered. The night that Aidan and Paulina slept in their own beds, while I’ll never admit this to Paul, was actually a little sad for me. Don’t get me wrong, I do not enjoy them drooling on me, kicking me in the face or demanding juice at 4AM. I do cherish waking up and seeing their little faces next to me. Though he’d never cop to it, I think Paul enjoys it too. The morning that Aidan crashed our bed at 6AM, I saw a little smile spread across his face as Aidan wedged his little body between us.

Loud Sneezers and Migraines

There is one irrefutable fact about my family. We are all loud sneezers. No lie, when my dad sneezes in the car, the windows rattle and your eardrums bleed a little. I’m no better, and neither are my brothers. One day we might give someone that we’re walking up behind a heart attack. Paul says he’s not a loud sneezer but he’s in denial.

You never know what traits your kids will pick up. Max has allergies, the loud sneezing thing and is a bit of a worrier like me. Yesterday, I found out that he picked up another trait from me. Maxwell was sent home yesterday with a migraine headache! The nurse said he complained of a headache, was sensitive to the fluorescent lights in her office and then got nauseated and threw up. When he got home, he curled up in the fetal position in his bedroom, covered his head with a pillow and fell asleep.

I feel awful that in the spin of the genetic wheel Max got such a bum deal. Paul doesn’t have allergies, doesn’t get migraines and never worries about anything until he “sees blood.” I hope this thing was an anomaly and not the beginning of my son having to deal with recurring migraines. I once got a migraine when I was 7 months pregnant with the twins that felt like someone drove a railroad spike down the center of my head and then took an electrical wire and electrocuted the spike.

I just hope that Paul’s genes are just dormant and waiting until after Max’s 9th birthday to kick in. I’m OK with the loud sneezing but the migraines have to go.

Smoke My Body

My husband says some outrageous things to the kids, many of which have been documented in this blog. It’s not that he’s going for shock value, he shoots from the hip and hopes for the best and many times, he truly believes that his candor and colorful vocabulary are actually preparing them for the real world. This latest instance, was not, I think, one of those times.

We were getting ready for bed and Natalie was looking at pictures on my phone. She found a picture of my grandfather, Benito, who passed away when I was in junior high. Natalie has always had a bizarre fascination with death so telling her about Tatay Benito opened up a flood of questions. As we talked about death, dying, heaven, hell and if it hurts when someone dies, Paul looked up from playing Sodoku on his IPod Touch and said, “Hey kids, when I die, I want you to cremate me, then divide the ashes between you. When you do something big, like win the Superbowl or somethin’, I want you to sprinkle some of my ashes in the end zone. Whatever you have left, I want you to smoke. It’s what the Indians used to do.”

Even the kids knew that Paul had just gone to crazy town. Max looked at me, to Paul, back to me again and nervously smiled. Natalie grinned and started to giggle, preparing the next round of questions on how exactly to smoke his ashes. Aidan looked up and said, “What’s smoke?” Paulina asked for more apple juice.

I don’t know how the kids will remember this conversation, or if it will ever come up again. I asked Paul about it later. “You weren’t serious, were you?” “Yes, I am,” he replied, “And if you’re still alive, I want you to smoke me too.”

Max is now a Bulldog

I’m not shy about the fact that I’m a big time football fan. I mean, I don’t face paint, wear football jersey’s everyday or have a big blow-up football guy in front of my house during football season (I said I was a fan, not a wing-nut!). That said, I have done the following: organized my travel to accommodate for kick-off times, cried a little (pathetic, I know) when my team (The Chargers!) has lost an important playoff game and bought NFL network premium cable service to be able to watch them on Sundays (I live in Giants country where they never play AFC West teams).

So, it’s not a surprise that my oldest son is a football fan too (and loves the Chargers, much to the chagrin of his Giants/Vikings loving father). He’s wanted to sign-up for football for the past couple of years but I was hesitant because football takes on a whole new meaning when it’s your son playing. Any mother who watched Joe Theisman’s leg snap on live television (as I did) after being sacked by the other L.T. (who, by the way, lost all street cred when he went on Dancing with the Stars) has a whole new perspective on the game of football.

As always, Paul thinks I’m being over-protective. He played football all his life and is over-the-moon that Max is so enthusiastic to play. I’ve suggested Max play tennis, basketball and golf which was met with the reaction of eye-rolling and comments of, “Any sport that allows a kid to wear a sweater during competition is out of the question!” I was on the losing end of this argument from the word go.

So, he’s officially signed up as a Rumson-Fair Haven Bulldog and he starts practice in July. Paul started to explain the equipment that we would have to buy, including a protective cup to which Max said, “I didn’t know you had to wear gas masks to play football.”

California Dreaming

My children are desperately missing California. When I told them I was leaving for a business trip to San Diego (23 whole hours!), they begged to come with me. Natalie said, “I miss California. When are we going back? I miss my Papa and Nanay.” “Yeah,” Max said, really kicking me in the gut, “I miss all of my cousins and riding my bike.” Even Aidan got into the conversation, “Mommy, take me to California. I like oranges.”

Not to have a pity party, but the move to the Northeast has been very rough on the kids. Two houses in two years, two new schools in two years, two got walking Pneumonia, Natalie spent nearly 6 months crying at school every day, the winters have been exceptionally snowy and as I’ve mentioned in previous blogs, giant, blood sucking mosquitoes seem to follow and bite them all summer long. On the plus side, they’ve seen a little bit of four states (NJ, NY, PA & MD), they’ve eaten really good pizza, bagels and subs, they’ve been able to spend time with their Jersey cousins and grandparents and they get to visit their cool Uncle Ben in NYC every once in awhile.

I was really lucky growing up. Even though my father spent more than 20 years in the Navy, we only moved twice and I was in Kindergarten when it happened so no BFF friendships were at risk. We think that living in the Northeast for a few more years is inevitable now that we’ve bought a house, but there isn’t a single day that goes by that I don’t think about our former quality of life in San Diego; no shoveling snow, no 2 hour commutes, no sea sickness, no mosquitoe bites, no driving down streets where yards are brown and trees are completely barren for months, lots of really good Mexican food and Sushi and the kids can play outside nearly every day of the year.

Paul says, “If we’re gonna make a move back West, let’s do it now so that we don’t have to hear the kids whine about leaving friends behind.” It seems we’ve hit a milestone as parents of kids ranging in age from 3 to almost 9. We just got through the diaper phase but we now are dealing with kids that have an opinion. I’ll take that on either coast.

Freezing, Wild Ponies and Poop Questions

The big build up to our Spring break trip was talking about the wild ponies at Assateague Island, Maryland. I was a tiny bit worried that we’d get there and they would be no where to be found. There are more than 115 ponies on the island, but since they are truly wild (the rangers to do not provide food, shelter or medical care for the ponies), there is not one spot on the island that they are guaranteed to be.

The forecast on our trip was all over the map. Two days before our departure, the temperature was listed in the low 70’s. When we got there, the high was a balmy 59 degrees. We got to the island early (because nothing says vacation like two three-year olds waking you up at 6:30AM!) and the fog had set-in over the coast. We couldn’t see the water on either side of the bridge as we drove onto the island and as we pulled into the first lot by the beach, there was only one other car. A very bad sign.

As we walked up a wooden pathway to the beach, the kids started complaining that they were freezing and that sand was blowing in their eyes. I started to tell them the sun would come out soon and so would the ponies but before I could finish the sentence, they had turned down the path headed back for the warmth of the van.

Paul was determined to at least not waste the $15 we had spent to park so we drove down further onto the island. We hadn’t got more more than a quarter mile when the fog opened up to a small field teeming with wild ponies! Before Paul could put the van in park the kids had unhooked their seat belts and practically jumped out of the van.

As we watched the ponies graze a park volunteer walked up to Natalie and asked if she wanted to know anything about the wild ponies. Without skipping a beat, she asked, “Why do they poop in a big pile like that?” Oh kids! The build up, the big reveal and what do they want to know about? Poop of course!

We spent the rest of the morning exploring trails around the island, seeing birds, racoons, deer and various little fish in the freezing water. On the last trail of the day, Aidan asked to be carried and slept on my shoulder the entire way. He was clearly enthralled by our little adventure! Later that night, we went out to a local Carabbas for warmth and some Italian food. As the waitress was taking our order, my speaking-challenged little boy said clear as day, “We went to Assateague Island and saw wild ponies!”

Stand and Deliver Indeed

What a profound coincidence that on the very day the House is voting on groundbreaking health care legislation, I came across an LA Times article about Jaime Escalante, the famed Los Angeles math teacher that was immortalized in the film Stand and Deliver. The teacher is battling bladder cancer and his family has run out of money to pay his medical bills. Now, the actors from the movie, including the man that played him, Edward James Olmos, are trying to raise money to pay for his care.

Actors paying medical bills? If this is not a wake-up call about how broken our health care system is, I don’t know what more evidence we need. Jaime Escalante taught and inspired inner-city kids to think about themselves beyond their gang-riddled neighborhoods. He led them to pass the AP Calculus test, not an easy thing to do, even for the brightest students in America. Now, he sits in a hospital in Reno, hoping that the generosity of Hollywood can give him the care he needs.

Just during the past few days, I’ve heard anecdote after personal anecdote about how incredibly expensive it is becoming for ordinary middle class families to pay for the most basic health care. The list is long and horrifying: $600 prescriptions, life-saving procedures denied as unnecessary (a three month old baby with a heart condition!) and 40-50% price hikes on plans in California.

I just watched a GOP congressman on the floor of the House argue that America used to be great because they required their citizens to be self-reliant, to pay their way to get their entitlements. I guess this guy’s parents are ripping up their Social Security checks and not using their Medicare benefits. These, my mentally challenged friend, are single-payer systems. If those who stand against this bill truly are standing on principal, each of them should have their parents relinquish their benefits as part of a socialist system. Each of them should have to pay full price for every procedure, every pill, every check-up they need. Each of them should have to pay out of pocket to help their parents navigate retirement with costs rising on everything from groceries, to gas to electricity.

Stand and deliver indeed. Let’s hope that our legislators have the courage to make the sweeping change that is needed for all Americans, including Jaime Escalante.

“Here’s a Fiver Mom, Happy Birthday!”

The kids woke me up this morning to wish me happy birthday. My daughter played Happy Birthday on the piano. Each of them gave me homemade cards. When I opened Max’s card, five dollars fell on the bed. “What’s this?” I asked. “It’s all the money from my wallet, mom. I want you to get a manicure or something.” I was so stunned, I didn’t know what to say.

The episode is just another surprising moment in my adventures in parenthood. While it shows that my son has a heart of gold, it also made me a little sad that he thought he had to give me money to make me happy. It’s like it’s no longer enough, in their minds, to give me a card. They're conditioned to think that a card should always be accompanied by some green backs. I will have to remind them, when I think that I won’t sound too ungrateful, that a birthday greeting in and of itself is a very, very fine gift.

The Conundrum of Healthy Eating

I have spent the last month comparison shopping my regular grocery store against Whole Foods Market. I’m sure you can guess the biggest difference. I was spending, at minimum, 40% more on whatever I bought, whether it was milk, meat, fruit, snack foods or juices. After watching Food, Inc. the movie and reading news reports about the dangers of processed food additives, hormones, antibiotics, nitrates, partially hydrogenated oils, enriched flours, high fructose corn syrup and all the rest, I was anxious to see if I could commit to buying all organic, fair trade and sustainable food.

Not surprisingly, people that work at Whole Foods, similar to those that work at Trader Joe’s in California, are helpful, conscientious and seem genuinely happy to be working there. Whether at the meat, seafood or deli counter, they are articulate, enthusiastic and good natured. They know their products and can recommend a good cheese from a sea of cheeses and a good wine from the hundreds they carry. They don’t sigh and roll their eyes when I take out my reusable bags (at every other grocery store, they look at me like I’ve just place a naked baby on the conveyor belt). On the contrary, they are elated at the end of my order to deduct the nickel a bag that I get for bringing my own bags into their store, whether or not it carries their logo. The store is also clean, well-organized and has the best hot food bar I’ve ever seen. I’ve been happy with every item I’ve brought home.

So, the question is whether my wallet can sustain a 40% increase in price for the long haul. With a family of six that goes through a gallon of milk every couple of days, I worry that attempting to sustain this change any longer, we’ll have to cancel our summer vacation plans. I’m guessing I’ll have to modify my shopping to buy only the most essential items to keep my family healthy. If anyone has any tips on how to make this transition any easier, let me know.

The Mickey Mob

I didn’t mean to do it. It just came out. As the words left my mouth my husband shot me over the look that I normally give him when he says something that will possibly upset the kids. I let it slip that the business trip I was taking was going to be at a hotel at Disney World.

Max was the first one to protest, “You’re going to Disneyland without us? No fair!” He’s right. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that for two years in a row I’ve gone to a place that the kids dream of going (OK, so I’m not a complete monster. Max and Natalie have been to Disneyland but more than 3 years ago). What they don’t understand is that other than a few hours at the park when I’m actually working, it’s not like I’m enjoying a 3-day passport complete with funnel cake consumption, roller coasters and lots of fun animatronic eye candy.

I was in the passenger seat of the van when this all erupted and for a few miles, I could feel the heat of my children’s eyes burning into me from behind. There was no way to fix it. I was going to Mickey’s house, they were staying home and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Even though Aidan didn’t exactly know what was going on, I turned to give him a wink and found him pouting, bottom lip turned up so far out that it was practically hitting his nose. He was being pulled into an angry mob and his 3 year-old brain didn’t even know it.

Paul even got in on the act. “You didn’t tell me the hotel was a Disney property. You were even there last year? You didn’t tell me that.” Way to have my back. The thing about my kid’s disappointment is that I would feel the same way. If say, I was 6 going on 7, and I found out my mom was going on a trip to Disneyworld, I would have led the angry mob.

Before I left, I promised that I would take them when mommy wasn’t working. They all nodded but I could tell they were still a little skeptical. As I walked out the door Paulina yelled, “Don’t forget to buy me a present!”