Where Traditions Go to Die

I wouldn't call my Christmas dinner a complete fiasco. I mean, people ate, drank and, with the exception of one son who thought he could eat a bowl of M&Ms for dinner, were merry.

But it wasn't the Norman Rockwellian picture I'd painted in my mind.

It came down to drunken carrots and deviled eggs. They sure sound like a pair made for each other, don't they? Drunk veggies and evil protein. The nectar of Lex Luther and his kin, most likely.

I'd worried for a week, unable to find my mother's recipe for brandied carrots, or what we'd called, drunken carrots -- carrots cooked with brown sugar, brandy and butter. My mother made them for every holiday meal I can remember. And my cousin, Eric, who was joining us for the very first time since my Mother died, always raved about them.

He didn't just say he liked them; he talked up these alcohol-soaked carotene-rich root veggies so much, I wondered if I was making a mistake by hating them.

But he had a rare Christmas day off from policing the mean streets of the big city, and he and his wife of only a year were coming to our home to celebrate the holiday. I had to make the carrots.

I found a recipe online that sounded a lot like what I remember my Mother following, so off to the liquor store we went to buy brandy. Wine and whiskey we have. Brandy, not so much.

Then as we all stood around, not eating the buffet of too-many appetizers for just 10 people, Eric confessed he never liked those carrots. He was just being polite all those years. I'd been hoodwinked.

Back to the appetizer table. No one was eating the deviled eggs I'd painstakingly prepared. I'd polish silver for four hours before having to peel a dozen hard-boiled eggs. Deviled eggs flew off the table at my Mother's dinners. Turns out, no one really likes those either.

Next year, Kevin & I will cook the dinner we want. I'm glad the truth came to light. Some traditions are just meant to die. R.I.P.

Visited by the Ghost of Christmas Cookies Past

Here we are, Christmas Eve, dawn, and I sit in my kitchen not baking Christmas cookies.

My mother is up in a heavenly kitchen waiving her heavy, browned krumkaka iron in the air in a threatening manner and cussing me out.

Christmas cookies were always a highlight of her year. I can't even name all the varieties she baked. Thankfully, I have her old, yellowed, framed copy of the Beverly Review, which did a full-page feature story of her back in 1972 that tells me she used to prepare 15 different types of cookies for Christmas.

Krumkaka (pictured), sandbakelser, pepparkakor, sugar, rosettes, forgotten kisses (merangue), sprut (spritze); those are the seven I remember because they were the seven I liked. There were others I remember that had jam in them, and then others that have completely left my memory altogether.

Come to my house today, just hours away from our Norwegian-styled Christmas Eve festivities (although we'll thankfully skip the lutefisk until we celebrate with Kevin's more traditional Norwegian family), and you'll find a few varieties given to us in decorative tins from friends.

I've hidden a few sugar cookies that my friend Nancy and I baked a few weeks ago. But that baking venture was more of a social call as I hadn't seen her in ages, and the cookies not hidden or given away to Nancy to share with her husband were quickly devoured by the four boys who live in this house. (I'm including my husband in that count, mind you.)

I want to have a beautiful buffet of cookies to serve tonight and tomorrow and to give to my patient neighbors and loving friends. I've crowded a corner of my kitchen counter for a month with my cookie sheets, flower, sugar, cardamon (a popular Norwegian spice), chocolate, sugar sprinles, vanilla, baking soda, baking powder, my Kitchenaid mixer, mixing bowls, wax paper, parchment paper, as if having all my materials out in plain sight would somehow help me carve a few afternoons or evenings of baking into my month.

But it hasn't happened. I have no idea how my mother did it all. I know I was a perfect angel as a child, so I'm sure that helped. But she did have my two trouble-making brothers to handle, too.

I hope to get at least one variety baked today, maybe two, and while the boys all play tomorrow with their new whatevers that Santa brings them, maybe I can get another done.

Next year will be different. This year, well, I'll just have to deal with that angry ghost who haunts me. Sorry, Mom.

Keeping the Faith

My almost-8-year-old had asked his dad earlier this month about Santa Claus. From Kevin's report, it went something like, "Dad, Santa is really you and mom, right?" I'm not sure what Kevin said to him, but my experience with Luke since Kevin told me about his query, has been 100% faith, no doubts; so whatever he said, it worked.

I know the day is coming, but just like his "Mom, what does 'sex' mean?", I am unprepared to handle these questions. I thought I had a little more time to overthink it all.

What I could not have anticipated was a precocious 3-year-old son-of-an-over-the-top-granola pair at The Choo Choo Restaurant tonight point-blank informing my son that "Santa is not real."

My two younger boys were too busy admiring the model trains to notice the conversation, but Luke heard them, and me, not possessing a poker face, reacted in horror. It was Luke who went for the save, saying, "Oh, he must mean the plastic Santa over there by the train."

But did little Malcolm (yep, that's the guilty guy's name), or his mother, leave it at that? NO!

Little Malcolm wanted to make sure we understood what he was saying. He continued, "No, my Mom told me that Santa is not real." I remind you, the kid is 3!

Still off balance, I turn to the mom, begging as only a mom's eyes can beg, to make this right.

But what did she say? In a louder-than-necessary voice, she said, "Oh, Malcolm, not every Mommy has had the conversation with her children about Santa not being real. We'd better talk about not bringing up our little conversation with everyone."

Luke and my eyes filled with tears, for different reasons, of course. I slid back into my booth and pulled myself together. Luke whispered, "What do you think he's talking about?"

Clearly, whatever information he received that brought him to question Kevin on the topic was mixing with this new 411, and from the looks of it, he really wanted to believe. I know that he needs to believe just a little longer.

So I punted, again, and answered, "Oh, you know, it's like in Elf, where not everyone has Christmas Spirit, and Santa needs Christmas Spirit for his sleigh to fly and for the magic to happen next Friday night."

Then the train came into the station with our diner fare, and the topic turned back to Luke accusing me of being an ogre for not letting him and his brothers drink soda.

But there's no erasing what happened tonight. I know Luke is up there, on the top bunk, tossing and turning and worried.

I know not everyone believes, and I know that if you don't, this time of year could get quite annoying. But this was just plain mean. Malcolm and his mom don't just lack Christmas spirit, but a human spirit that keeps us exchanging "Good mornings" to complete strangers, even when our mornings are anything but good.

In my house, we're keeping the faith.

Santa, Got Disco Balls?

Dear Santa,

Apparently my boys want disco balls for Christmas. Yep, I'm talking about the shiny, reflective glass balls that hang from the ceiling at weddings and class reunions and that can be viewed in movies from my youth, such as Saturday Night Fever.

Sure, they want some other, more typical goods -- DSI games, books, pillow pets, Ariel underpants (ok, so middle guy's going through his princess stage), a puppy. But this disco ball thing keeps coming up. It made it onto their letters to you, which I confiscated today only temporarily to help with my own recon before I shop.

Just one disco ball should do it, as they share a room. But, you know, anything the older boys have, the 'baby,' wants now too, even though he still can't say much more than "shoe," "more" and "night night." But if the Geico folks need someone to voice over the caveman grunts, this guy's their man!

So I guess I'm saying, we'll need at least two disco balls. One for the older boys' room and one for the playroom. Luke said when he gets his disco balls, he's going to blast his music and dance. I'm sure while slapping his butt, as is his style.

Oh, and about that puppy. I'd like a medium-sized one that I can run with, doesn't bark much and won't shed. I've been good, really.

Love,
Me

I Believe in Angels

I believe in angels, and every Thanksgiving, I shout out an extra special 'thank you' to mine.

My Angel and many like her roam the same Earth we do. One may be sitting next to you on the bus or standing in front of you at the grocery checkout. She may even be your mother or grandmother.

My Angel is my middle son's birth mother, and she doesn't wear wings or any other special designation advertising that she's my Angel. In fact, no one but a few people may even know she's an Angel at all.

I should know the statistics, but I don't. But I'm sure there are hundreds of thousands of angels like mine in the world. And no matter what circumstances brought them to the place where they needed to decide "to be an angel or not to be," each and every one of them is so very special: special to that child whom they gave life to; special to the adoptive parents to whom they gave the greatest love to; and special to the world, who owes them a very big thank you for making a selfless sacrifice that creates an exponential joy in it.

It was a warm Thanksgiving Day four years ago when we picked up our newborn baby boy, and, speaking for every member in our extended families, none of our lives would have been complete without him. So, a few days late, I'm sending out to the universe, to my Angel and to all who have made the same choice of hope: thank you.

Putting Lipstick on a Pig

I'm less than/greater than 42-years-old, which means I've been dabbling in make-up for 25 years or so. As a teenager it was mostly concealer, and, as it was the 80s, blue eye shadow. I remember myself as a pimply teenager, which may or may not have been accurate (I also remember myself as chubby, but looking at old pictures corrects this memory.) So I remember "covering up" blotchy skin and "enhancing" my blue eyes as my two make-up goals.

I have never been good at it. I envied two types of girls as a teenager. Those who could put on makeup and look just plain pretty, and those who who looked just plain pretty without putting on any makeup.

It's the same thing with wardrobe. As the only daughter of a man whose life was Sears Roebuck and whose mother would actually wear a moo-moo to dinner parties, my formative fashion years were pathetic at best. Toughskins in sixth grade when everyone else was in Gloria Vanderbilt's? Yeah, I had a complex.

But I'm pushing mid-40s, my youngest child is nearly two, and I'm thinking it's time to put a little gloss on the ol' image.

It's not been easy.

I bought a blouse ... not a tech shirt or t-shirt or hoodie ... at a local boutique recently. Wore it to church, but snagged a big ol' long thread on it when the Velcro on my double-wide Bob stroller got caught on it.

So I figured, ok, maybe I'm not ready to implement the WIP, wardrobe improvement plan, just yet. Let's work on the face.

I believe, ok, I've read, in about 38 different magazines while waiting at various medical appointments, that what a woman really needs to look put together is lipstick.

I've actually made it my sole New Year's resolution many years in a row: wear lipstick every day.

Some people have loftier resolutions, I know. Not me. The sad thing is, I've failed, every single year. I barely make an effort.

But Monday of last week, I found myself at a cosmetics superstore, and I said to myself: Karen, you will wear lipstick. Every. Single. Day. No. Matter. What.

So I bought a lot of lipstick, hoping something would work.

Monday: Wore it, despite the funny look I received from my babysitter and my oldest son, who upon returning from school, asked, "Why are you wearing makeup, Mom?"

Tuesday: wore it to spinning class in the morning. Re-applied appropriately all day.

By Tuesday night, I'd come down with some kind of cruel stomach flu and could barely put myself in bed at 8 p.m. (I do not blame the lipstick.)

Wednesday: I actually put on the lipstick to walk the kids to the park, even though I felt like Mike Tyson had used me for a punching bag. Clearly, I need to negotiate for 'sick days' in my Mom contract. Because it was not pretty, lipstick or not.

By Wednesday night, I was good as new (apparently there's a 24-hour bug going around), showered and re-applied lipstick to go to a school meeting.

By Thursday I was a failure in the lipstick department. I went running with the kids in the double-wide, but didn't get to shower until late in the day. Or did I shower? Hmm. In any case, the lipstick remained in its case.

Friday I downgraded to tinted lip balm as I ran into my Body Pump class. Never reapplied. Failed again.

Saturday and Sunday went a little better than Thursday and Friday. So I'm feeling hopeful right now. I have a friend who, like soap opera stars, wears lipstick to bed. Said it is a good moisturizer. I may begin to try that, just to help with making this lipstick habit stick.

Even if it is just putting lipstick on a pig.

Kiss. Kiss.

When Misophobia Comes to Call

Everyone is working for the weekend, right, even us stay-mostly-at-home Moms? Well the weekend is here, and my house was clean for about 10 minutes between the time I finished cleaning and my weekend house guests arrived.

I am thrilled one of my best friends/college roommate is here, with her awesome husband and darling girls (who dove right into the childcare role, leaving me actually able to visit with my friends and have adult conversation. Wow.).

We've already made it to downtown Chicago today, the train ride always being a destination in itself for my boys.

Tomorrow, my friend and I will run our fastest 15Ks ever, because there is chocolate fondue at the finish line. At the "Hot Chocolate" race's expo this morning, we both bought tech shirts emblazoned with "Will Run for Chocolate."

Later on Saturday there's sightseeing to partake in and a circus to attend. Maybe Chicago pizza delivered or a grown-up dinner out. Haven't decided, and I sure don't know what kind of shape my stuck-in-a-meeting-all-week in San Diego husband will be in. He tends to crave home-cooked meals and movie nights with the boys after these extended trips.

Never mind that; my point is the weekend is here, and it's already great and is only getting better.

Getting to the weekend was a lot of work, though. My housekeeping standards have fallen to an all-time low the past couple of years. My standards remained fairly high after having Luke but lowered a bit after Toby joined our world; and, well, post-Andy, they sort of fell through the Cheerios-caramel dip-dehydrated peas-and-dried-out-spaghetti-crusted floor.

I see myself as more of a Mom and a writer than a housekeeper. Given the choice between cleaning my floors and building the greatest Lego creation ever, I choose Legos.

But my friend, with whom I also worked as a Resident Assistant back on the Mizzou campus decades ago, was known for her misophobia, her fear or dirt or germs. Staff sweatshirts we both still have picture her with a "no dirt" sign. (Of course, this same sweatshirt pictures me with a "no babies' sign, so I know people do change!)

Still, a clean freak is she, even though she swears her standards have also lowered with three girls at home.

But I've been to her house. And it was clean. So I needed to give my house my best college try this week. I think I did ok, if we don't count the boys' bathroom, which I should have just barricaded with 'crime scene' tape.

So now it's time to sit back and enjoy my friends. And the chocolate.

Here's to the weekends! Cheers!

Morbid Marketing

In honor of Halloween, I thought I'd spend several hundred words on the topic of morbid marketing.

I made up the term for all the direct marketing I still receive for my late parents. Sure, it's slowed down. The National Rifle Association's appeals to my father finally stopped altogether. They must have gotten the message that I did not inherit my father's interpretation of the 2nd amendment after I kept writing nasty things on their postage-paid return envelopes.

But the direct marketing still comes. The most recent appeal came this week, addressed as such: "Luella, Call Fast." It continued inside: "The Most Powerful Anti-Wrinkle Secret in History. No Surgery! No Syringes! No Prescription!"

Well, no luck! And might I suggest you spend a little more on your leads list? Cuz Luella's not worried about a single wrinkle, fine line or dark circle in nearly four years.

But that's an example of the lousy, lazy lists-makers of the marketing world.

It's the personal appeals from companies who did business with my parents and who knew that they no longer were customers because they are dead that really rub me. And, oh, yeah, I'm calling you out.

Allstate Insurance. Just a few months after canceling my parents' car and condo insurance, I received, addressed to my mother from her long-servicing agent, a smartly taglined letter: "Life Changes. Your Insurance Should Keep Up."

So should you, Dan the Insurance Man. Because your appeal that "every time you reach a new milestone in life, it affects everything ... including your insurance," doesn't really apply in, well, death. Unless you mean I should cancel the policies, which I did.

Another, sent to my mother about six months after she died, was from Christ Medical Center. Its appeal: "Please Help Christ Medical Center Continue to Save Lives!"

Umm, need I remind you that mom was your patient, and she died just hours after I drove the two hours home to Wisconsin because your doctors assured me "there seems to be nothing wrong with your mother ... we'll keep her overnight, but she'll get to go home tomorrow most likely"?

Yeah, she went home all right. Home to her Maker.

So, sorry, her estate is not in the mood to give you a 'special tax-deductible gift of ... ".

But my all-time favorite morbid marketing example is a note from Palos Health & Fitness Center. This is where my mom took her water aerobic classes and made new luncheon friends. Because for Luella, lunch was life.

I called to cancel her membership as soon as I realized it was an automatic debit in her checking account. When I did, the woman who took my call asked why I was canceling. I very clearly explained that my mother had died and would no long need her membership.

Apparently the message was not conveyed to the 'membership team,' because she received a note from said 'membership team' just one month later, saying: "We miss you!" ... and ... "We hope you are keeping up with your health and fitness goals. We know you had specific reasons for leaving us but hope that your situation has changed over the last few months. To help you get back on track, we are offering zero enrollment until April 30th, 2007... What a great way to come back."

And on Halloween, I just wonder if Mom's not doing some kind of special Luella haunting on the Palos Health & Fitness Club, just to spook the crack membership team.

Happy haunting!

Hairy Kari on a Monday

Sunday morning I chatted with a dad of a nearly-2-year-old girl with beautiful blond hair that has yet to be cut. We laughed about our apprehension of cutting our babies' hair.

Half jokingly, I warned him that my friends with daughters have shared that girls, before first or second grade, usually just days before school picture day, cut their own hair. Just to see if that's perhaps a career direction for them. I don't know why.

Sometimes it's just the bangs, sometimes it's more of an all-over cut. Always it takes a genius of a hair stylist to 'fix' it.

I'm remembering such a scene recently on Mad Men when the young Sally did a number on her hair, to a harrowing response from both mom and dad.

I don't recall ever doing it myself, but who knows, and who could tell me now? Plus, the pixie was the cut I was famous for during my youngest years. Not much to cut.

With three boys, I really didn't think I had anything to worry about.

But if you've read any smattering of this blog, you may be familiar with my middle son, TJ. And you already know what's coming.

Yep, the boy with the gorgeous dark brown curls walked into my bathroom this morning with a handful of hair, proudly showing me. Having recently cleaned out hair brushes, I hopefully asked, "Were you playing in the garbage?"

He answered no, bringing the scissors he had in his right hand closer to my eyes, which had yet to be reacquainted with their contacts so early on a Monday.

"No, Mommy, it's my hair," Tj boasted. And to add insult to injury, "Isn't it cool?"

Although I inherited my dad's time-bomb temper (I'm working on it), I am no Betty Francis or Donald Draper. I calmly told him to put the scissors back, throw out the hair, and get ready for breakfast.

And after he left my bathroom, I laughed.

Remembering Dad

My dad died much too young, which doesn't make me special. I know lots of folks who've lost a parent way too young, or even a spouse way too early.

It's been just over seven years since my Dad died. It was July 2003, and our oldest son, Luke, was just one. We still lived in the city, and I had just left my full time job to stay home with him.

It had been so hard for me to tell him I was quitting, or as I put it then, "taking a sabbatical." He had always been the parent who encouraged my career goals. When I quit a corporate job to return to my first love, newspaper reporting, even though it meant a serious change to my income and lifestyle, he was the parent who told me I was right to pursue my dream. When my dreams changed and I decided to return to corporate work and to pursue my MBA, it was Dad who gave me a copy of economist Diane Swonk's autobiography and told me, "You will enjoy this."

So of course when I told him I was leaving my job to mother Luke full time, he was genuinely thrilled and told me I'd accomplish great things in life, that I didn't need a six-figure income to do that.

It took me a long time to figure out it didn't matter what I did in life, my Dad would encourage me and be proud of me.

So I'll never forget what one friend wrote in a note to me after he'd suddenly left us all behind, wondering what exactly his dreams had been. She'd written, "You made your father very proud."

I hadn't known until that moment that making him proud mattered so much to me.

My dad was not a perfect father. I was not a perfect daughter. But his love for me, my brothers, my cousins, his God and his country (82nd Airborne!), was perfect.

Today, Sunday, October 17th, would have been his 76th birthday. I thought I'd share this photo of four of my seven cousins, my brothers and me (that's me in the red top and green shorts, always a fashion icon), at my aunt & uncle's home one Memorial Day weekend, where we all gathered yearly for the Indianapolis 500.

Your family, and many others, miss you, Dad. Happy birthday.

The Girl With the Angel Wings Tattoo

I'm not a big fan of tattoos. A few of my family members and a minority of my friends sport one or more.

Of course, more friends may have tats that I just don't know about, and if that's the case, I probably want to keep it that way.

Not being a fan of tattoos in no way reflects a judgment on my part about people with tattoos.

Tattoos can be meaningful. Tattoos can be clever, cute, beautiful, artistic, tasteful.

Kevin and our good friend Paul almost got "Packers" and "Bears" tattoos, respectively, many years ago. I'm thankful that Paul, who by then had an infant daughter, came to the conclusion that maybe he didn't want to have to explain to his daughter, 18 years down the road, why it was ok that he got one but she shouldn't.

I've thought about it. Something small and cute on my ankle maybe. But, frankly, I'd rather avoid needles unless medically necessary.

Disturbingly, I have seen a few tattoos on women at my gym ... women who are great grandmothers ... women who I'm sure thought the tattoo was meaningful and a good idea, at the time. Fifty or 60 years ago.

I see a lot of tattoos on women in my yoga classes. The other day I was mesmerized by a tattoo on the young woman holding a perfect tree pose in front of me. Tattooed on her back were angel wings. Not too large, but large enough. And, I'll say it, quite beautiful. Through my exhaustion and sweat, for a moment I thought an actual angel was standing just two feet from me.

But I know she's not an angel. Real angels are too busy saving Chilean miners and doing that sort of amazing work to be doing yoga on a Monday morning.

Thanks, all you Angels out there.

Boy, Crazy

In what used to be a guest room in my home, I have a dresser drawer labeled "Spy Gear," and another marked "Weaponry."

No, I haven't joined some paramilitary group nor am I a secret double agent Angelina-Jolie-type-movie-character spy disguised as an ordinary suburban mom.

The dresser is in our guest room-turned play room, and I am just an ordinary mom of three young, active boys. In fact, I remember long before becoming a mother I said I wouldn't allow toy guns in my home.

And just yesterday I told my oldest son that walking by his and his brothers' bathroom makes me want to barf. He asked me what 'barf' meant, and I said I was shocked he didn't yet know all the synonyms for throwing up. At that point, his visiting friend and I came up with about eight different ways to say 'puke.'

And I laughed at the fact I just initiated a conversation about vomiting, and wondered, "How did I get here?"

This certainly wasn't my plan, being married 13 years (to the same man) with three boys, a house in the suburbs, volunteering at my kids' Sunday School.

Nope. I vividly remember an essay I wrote in 6th grade. I don't remember the assignment exactly, but it must have had something to do with 'what I wanted to be when I grew up.'

I wrote that I was going to be foreign correspondent for a major newspaper (c'mon, this was the late 70s when newspapers were relevant), get married and have twin girls (always was interested in efficiency and figured two kids, one pregnancy = smart) but have a nanny or a husband who stayed home with the girls while I trotted across the globe covering war and uncovering scandal, exposing scoundrels.

My teacher, Miss Wall, gave me a decent grade but commented in the margins that I shouldn't try to be so specific, that we don't necessarily have control over everything in our lives. She warned that thinking we had such control would only lead to disappointment.

Then there was college. I could have earned a minor in Women's Studies given the number of classes I took in that department. All the literature I read and lectures I listened to about changing the world, about not settling for the status quo, about not doing the things society expected of me, just because society expected it.

Those lessons, along with other life lessons, created a person who, when I met my husband, was not going to get married. I certainly was not going to have children. (He likes to remind me of this every once in a while; he thinks it is very funny.)

But I did marry him, and after many years filled with foreign travel and rat racing, we did have a child. Liked him so much we adopted another. Then had another after him.

I haven't given up on changing the world, however. I have three smart and talented boys to raise into status quo-bucking, rule-breaking, society-influencing men -- three men who will know how to clean their own bathroom.

Their first lesson begins promptly at 7 a.m. tomorrow.

Hope It Gives You Hell!

This could have been titled "I Heart TV."

I'm just giggling over a strange technical glitch I experienced today. In the process of burning a couple dozen CDs for our Sunday School families, I found that on the first five I made, instead of starting with "Let Their Be Light," a little ditty about that first chapter in Genesis, the CD's prelude was "Hope It Gives You Hell," from last season's Glee soundtrack.

It was followed by a few other songs sent to me by my SIL Jen to resuscitate my DNR running playlist. That's the one I haven't gotten around to changing since it was my 'labor and birthing' playlist 18 months ago ... yep, a pretty sad compilation ranging from Enya to Barry Manilow to some Kid Rock (clearly to help in the final stages).

So, while I found it hilarious that what's supposed to rock out The Books of Moses to our sweet kids in Sunday School would have instead, rocked their parents in the wrong way, I am sure glad I decided to check the CDs before labeling and distributing.

Back to "I Heart TV."

I am not a big TV watcher. I have a few time limitations given my lifestage, but I've come a long way the past few years from trying to be all elitist and pretending I don't watch it at all, or boasting at a playdate "I don't let my kids watch SpongeBob."

Please, if it were not for SpongeBob, my kitchen would never get cleaned up after a meal (and with three young, growing boys, there are no fewer than eight meals a day served here) or, as was the case tonight, the lawn would have gone a second week without a mowing. C'mon, it's not like those boys don't get appropriate sensory stimulation and music, literature, athletic, etc., exposure during the other parts of their days. I'm just saying, for a half hour here or a half hour there, I heart SpongeBob, Scooby Doo, Johnny Test and anything on PBS. Love my Window To The World.

Then there are MY shows I've come to look forward to this TV season.

I really liked summer when TV was bad (or just repeats) and I would curl up with a book, instead of in front of the TV, before passing out from exhaustion at 8 p.m., but I really enjoyed those Emmy Awards a few weeks ago (Jimmy Fallon ... heart, heart, heart him and his team of writers ... and, please, do not forget the writers). And I'm really hopeful for this season.

Mad Men has not disappointed, especially with the focus on Don's desire to change the trajectory of his life and on the show's female characters, the few whose sole purpose is not about mattress testing. Glee, well, yummy! And THANK goodness I'm neither back in high school nor remember my own high school experience to be so, well, cruel.

I'd started watching DWTS last year for RESEARCH for a writing project I had, but I got hooked. I'm not so sure I'll be hooked this season, but, like a train wreck, I have a feeling I won't be able to help myself.

I like my brands: CSI, Law & Order. Mad Men and Friday Night Lights I love partly because Kevin & I like to watch them together. The Office and 30 Rock is our Thursday night date night. Sad, but realistic, again, given our lifestage, or really, the age of our children.

While I'm sure I'd be better served reading up on the latest developments in foreign policy, tonight I'm going to go see what's new on TV.

We Interrupt this Marriage

It happens every year, without fail, as summer comes to a close.

This year it began slowly, quietly. An hour here, an hour there, gone. Then there was this past weekend. Bam. Practically an entire weekend, gone.

Gone to football, that is.

Saturday: college football. Game after game after game. Sunday, 3:15 p.m., The Game. Then Sunday night, more games. And on Monday, what was this, two NFL games on a Monday night?

I didn't realize it until it was too late that we'd missed our Sunday night date night. It's just the two of us, appropriate cocktail in hand, parked in front of the TV, watching Mad Men. (Listen, with three small kids and an already-stretched-thin babysitting budget, watching a TV show together, uninterrupted and with intention, is a date night.)

Thank goodness for DVR; we should be able to get our fix of a wickedly dysfunctional family and pickled work environment later this week.

I'd made an unforgivable error in judgment Sunday, though. I'd left to run a few errands around 4 p.m.: I returned a playdating child to his parents, went to the grocery store for milk, wine, bananas (the basics), and stopped at the library for the newest John Krakauer book, the one about Pat Tillman. Tangentially about football, the book is for my football-loving husband who's about to embark on a very long overseas flight. Thought he'd like it.

But later that night I heard: "you left me with all three kids for, like, two hours in the middle of MY GAME?" Ok, I did stop for a coffee before my library visit. I could have been gone just an hour.

It's not like I didn't know life would be like this. I mean, the men in our wedding switched from the church-approved, color-coordinating vests to "Packers" and "Bears" vests for the reception.

In fact, our vows may very well have included a phrase about 'interrupting this marriage for football season."

And that's ok. As Kevin likes to point at, "at least" he isn't in a fantasy football league. And it's true. I fully accept having to plan our life around the Packers schedule. And that's all he truly cares about, football-speaking. Yes, he'd like to catch a Badgers game or a few select NFL games, but it's three, sometimes four hours, every week, from September through January.

It makes him happy (as long as the Packers win). I'm willing to interrupt this marriage for a Packers win.

Unless they're playing the Bears.

Tolerate This Topic, If For Just a Moment

Am I the only one who cringes as we approach the "anniversary of 9/11?"

It's not that I don't want to honor those who lost their lives on 9/11.

I'm just tired of the poorly trained pundits, the publicity-seeking pastors and the pontificating politicians.

To them, I'd like to say, "shut the *(&$ up."

For me, 9/11 is a memory I'd like to erase, but know I shouldn't.

That gorgeous boy in the picture? He is my first-born, and he was just a three-month-old fetus when those planes went into the towers. He and I were just blocks away that Tuesday morning.

My trip had been a poor one already. My flight had been delayed, and when I stepped out of my cab in front my hotel in Midtown near midnight on Monday, September 10th, I stepped into a puddle of puke.

Not the welcome to New York I was used to. (I heart NYC.)

Skip to late morning on Tuesday, after we realized just how serious things were, when we all really thought the world was coming to an end. When I really, in my heart of hearts, thought I'd never see my family again. When I holed up in my hotel room, alone. My asthma kept me indoors and out of the smoke and soot in the air, and my pregnancy kept me away from the bars.

As terrible as all this was, something awesome was happening. Do you remember?

People gave blood. People met their neighbors. People helped strangers. People stopped at stop signs and let the other guy go first. People were nice. People came together. Not against something evil. People came together, united, to help one another. People realized the greatest thing they had was their humanity, and that all that mattered was how they treated the person next to them.

Today. Oy. Today. We've got people wanting to burn the Koran. We've got otherwise-reasonable-people defending one's right to burn a holy book. Seriously, when did "... but he did it first" become an appropriate defense past the age of 5?

We've got people using a terrible day in our country's history as a reason to be unreasonable.

The media forces us to remember 9/11; could we instead remember 9/12? When the world, not just the ol' USA, was united ... when religions and races and ideologies and generations stopped thinking about what made us different but what made us the same?

Because I love that little guy in the picture, and I'm quite certain that someone thinking that burning the Koran is a good idea loves his or her child just as much.

And I want that 9/12/01 world back.

The Toe Truth On MultiTasking

Study after study is telling us that multitasking actually does not save us any time. In fact, some studies have said multitasking may, in fact, make us less productive than if we just focused on one thing at a time in our lives/days/minutes/etc.
I suspect those studies were funded by the Couch Potato Institute or perhaps the Lazy Man's Society. Whatever, it didn't matter if I believed them or not. My life was dependent on multitasking and I wasn't going to give it up without a fight.

With my toe.

Anyway, I'll try to finish writing this before I pass out from the pain.

I was doing a little multitasking today.

1. Defrosting a freakishly frosty freezer (culprit finally found: a yogurt tube was smashed into the freezing unit, apparently causing the whole freezer to freak out ... it was not pretty, defrosting the freezer and freeing the yogurt tube, which of course, burst berry belicious food-like goop all over the freezer. Now I'm just waiting to see that the freezer is still freezing before I put our best pig and steer parts back in there.);

2. Caring for (feeding/cleaning/playing with/keeping safe, etc.) three boys, two of whom were in school when the, um, fight happened);

3. Various volunteer-related communications;

4. Various roof-replacement communications;

5. Writing a press release for a client;

6. Billing a client for work completed; and

7. Removing and destroying a broken-down dresser-type piece of closet furniture in an 'old' part of our house to replace with something of a little more, uhmmm, quality.

It's this last item that broke the camel's back, or at least, the idiot's toe (or maybe just toenail). I was having a grand old time swinging a hammer, breaking this bad boy apart. I'm thinking I need to get on this show that my oldest boy likes, something like "Build, Destroy, Build." Because I really surprised myself by how much I liked tearing apart this dresser with a hammer.

Andy, the baby, was safe in the playroom, a few feet from me, when I realized he'd created a bit of a diaper issue for me to deal with. I said, "Andy, be right back and I'll take care of that diaper ... I'm going to just carry this drawer down stairs."

The drawer didn't make it in one piece. It fell apart on the way down, and I painfully soon realized why construction workers do not wear pink flip flops to work.

The majority of the drawer fell on the big toe of my left foot, then broke apart in about eight pieces, falling the rest of the way down the staircase.

I felt pain, saw blood, eeewwwaaaa, didn't see a toe nail.

As a long-distance runner, I am fortunate to have kept my toes in tact all these years. Many friends have not been so lucky.

But I can no longer say that. My big toe's nail on my left foot is gone, baby, gone. So is a lot of skin and flesh, which I suppose accounts for the volume of blood.

Lesson learned. Focus. Don't multitask. At least not in flip flops.

*please note that today's picture does not remotely relate to the topic. I put in a cute pic of one of my guys when I don't have an appropriate picture. I did a random search of 'pictures of toes,' and, well, the result was not what I was looking for. Ever. In my life. It's a weird, weird, web out there ....

Out of the Frying Pan & Into the Fire

My tank was dangerously near empty this a.m., having been sucked dry by my boys this week, and when Kevin returned from a 13-miler, he noticed.

I was a bit, well, cranky. Or, crankier than usual.

So, being a smart man, he said "I got the boys ... why don't you get out of the house for a spell?"

He didn't really say 'spell,' but I knew what he meant, so off I went and didn't let the door hit me on my way out.

As futile as I knew it would be, I walked right into my local nail salon and asked for a manicure and 15-minute chair massage. Futile because paint on my nails lasts about three hours before chipping, and a 15-minute chair massage is a mean tease to the ol' kinks and knots.

But, it was time to myself, and I wanted the hour calorie-free indulgence.

So did a gaggle of preteen girls, apparently. Gangly and awkward and cute all at the same time, the five were there for one of the 11-year-old's birthday party. Pedis and manis were being rendered. The party was going to continue with a stop over at the birthday girl's house, where a few other girls were going to join them, then off to see a movie, then out to eat, then back to the birthday girl's house for a sleepover.

Whew. Lucky girls. Crazy, not to mention generous, parents.

Apparently it was a close call between Ramona and Beezus or Cats and Dogs. (Could I recommend The Other Guys to you girls? Hilarious! I, too, learned to dance sarcastically. No? Mom won't letcha? Yeah, she's probably right.)

That conversation was weaved into several others I was able to listen to during my pampering, including an enlightening discussion of the merits of lip gloss, and a debate about whether a $3 eye shadow was a legitimate 'emergency' and appropriate to be purchased with the $20 one girl's parents gave her for 'emergencies.'

Lightheaded from my massage and with pretty red, clean, short nails, I continued my walk in town, running a few kid-free errands, and was home within two hours of leaving, feeling refreshed and calm.

And while I enjoyed my peak into the world of girls, I was very thankful to be mothering three boys. I've never been much into lip gloss or eye shadow.

Pass Me The Bubbly!

Kevin tells me that this is known in the "marketing world" as "Moms' New Year."

Kids are going back to school, and it all starts anew for parents, especially those of us who "stay home." (The stay-at-home moniker cracks me up. Who 'stays home?' Moms and Dads everywhere are out running here and there or, on a good day, playing in a park or a pool with the kids.)

So, happy new year, parents of school-age children! Pass me the bubbly water. I'll pass on the real bubbly until we get through this transition. I need all my faculties to survive this week and the next few.

For as wonderful as it is to label all those folders and pencils, the move from the free-for-all summertime to our keep-on-schedule school year is as tough on me as it is the kids.

I am thrilled, of course, that my oldest, a third grader, is riding his bike to and from school and that my middle (three-year-old) is relatively happy to go to preschool a few hours a week (is it too late to sign up for a few more hours?). There is a bit more calm in the house for the baby & me. We even got in an hour of much-needed shopping this week.

My productivity, so pathetically low all summer long (inversely, my fun-o-meter was as high as it's been in years), has not yet improved. I suppose I should cut myself a break, it's only been a couple of days. But I'm staring at piles of 'to do' lists, not just piles of things to do, but piles of actual 'to do' lists: roofing quotes, Sunday School planning, closet cleaning, house cleaning in general, filing, picture framing, budgeting, billing for my "paid work" completed over the summer (surprisingly a few projects did get done) ... I have to stop, I'm just stressing myself out now.

And the kids of course have their own stresses. Will school be hard this year? Will I have any friends in class? Will my teacher be nice? Will I be able to tie my shoes? Will Mom remember that I'm coming home for lunch and be there waiting for me?

I guess this is a lesson for my kids and for me ... take a deep breath, focus on one thing at a time, one day at a time, and try to enjoy the moments. Because I'm seeing a number of friends drive their children to college this month, and I know that day is just around the corner. And as much as I find this stage of parenting stressful, I'm so not ready to let my babies go.

So, forget what I said about the bubbly water. Pop open a bottle of the good stuff. These are special times!

Cheers!

Karma, Naturally

May be it is tonight's viewing of Furry Vengeance (the painfully bad but giggle-producing movie with the charming Brendan Fraser and the smart, funny and gorgeous Brooke Shields ... don't knock it until you've watched it with 8-, 3- and 1-year old boys), but I definitely get the feeling Mother Nature is getting back at me.

Back at what me for what, you, naturally, wonder?

Well, on my recent drive to a friend's cabin in way-up-north Wisconsin, my friend clocked a chipmunk, or similar small furry but clearly slow animal. We both felt terrible, but then giggled at the ridiculousness of it. Of course, we were nearing the end of our eight-hour trip, with an SUV full of boys who just wanted to be playing in sand and water, not twiddling away the hours in the back two rows of my antiquated non-DVD-player-equipped vehicle.

So taking out a chipmunk seemed kind of funny.

You had to be there.

That wasn't the worst of it. During what turned out to be a 10-hour trip home a few days later, I was behind the wheel this time when I saw the car in front of me swerve. I couldn't see what it was serving around, until it was too late.

What had to be a five-foot snake, give or take a foot ... the big, thick, coiled kind, was lounging in the sun on this two-lane country road. Lounging, that is, until my front right wheel caught it. Then it was thump-thump-thumping in my wheel well.

Oh, did I feel terrible. Until I looked at Susan, my friend and co-pilot, who started to laugh. Then I laughed. But, honestly, we both felt guilty for hitting the snake, and for laughing about it.

We had just been enjoying all of God's beauty that week up at Susan's cabin. The sunrise, the sunset, our children and those of two other friends playing in the clear lake water. It really was breathtakingly beautiful up there. Naturally. Untouched by modern man, for the most part.

And here we were taking out God's creatures, one by one.

I really was sorry then.

I really am sorry now.

In the past seven days, I've been stung by three bees.

I had not been stung by a bee since I was a little girl stepping on my neighbor's flower garden. I probably deserved it then, too.

So I think the word got out about me and my killing ways.

And Mother Nature is getting her payback. And giggling, naturally.

Societal Neglect More to Blame?

I really don't want to get "political" in this blog, but "political" was the day's word in my house Tuesday.

Motivated by some continuing ed my SIL Jen, a 5th-grade teacher, recently took, my boys and I are much more attuned to our vocabulary.

So Tuesday's word, chosen by Luke, was 'politics.' (Sunday's was Chimera, Monday's was emporium ... this is going to be fun!).

But I digress. And I might even have made the wrong word choice. Maybe this issue isn't 'political,' but I can't seem to find the right word.

Loaded. Maybe that's it.

One of the "news" stories I recently caught up on since returning from vacation disturbs me. Now, that's not true. Nearly 100 percent of the media stories I've read since returning from vacation disturb me, but I'm only commenting on one right now. I'll try not to comment on any others, actually.

I read this particular one in Sunday's Chicago Tribune.

I grant you, it is not a great bastion of journalism, but it reflects society's temporal idea of "news."

The Trib reported of toddler twin girls' deaths. They died in their over-heated bedroom ... no ventilation, no air conditioning, filthy and underweight (Thirteen pounds at 13 months). The 22-year-old mother, who has three other children including one recently born prematurely and still hospitalized, was charged with neglect.

I'm not disagreeing with the charge or that the mother's actions weren't criminal.

The twins were said to have died from, among other causes, "failure to thrive due to maternal neglect."

The 19-year-old father had no comment.

I am so sad to hear of the twins' deaths. Any child's death, at any age and for any reason, is going to make me cry.

I take issue with the "maternal neglect" phrase. Legally, and morally, I get it. A mother's first objective is to keep her children safe. It's not always easy; it's usually not fun. But it is our job.

But didn't the twins actually die from society's neglect?

The personal responsibility argument aside (I get that, too; I do), I feel this is a woman tragically lost somewhere between being a girl and being a woman. Between being a daughter and becoming a mother.

This mother and her story are from just a few blocks from where I grew up. Maybe that's why this particular tragedy, not unique in our culture, is hitting me harder than the others.

According to the article, one of her children was "staying with relatives" and another was in the custody of the state. That left the twins, apparently in her care, and the newborn, born too early, still in the hospital.

My question is: Who thought this woman was capable of caring for 13-month-old twins if one child was already taken in by relatives, another by the state, one born so early she was still hospitalized, and the mom, herself, still recovering from childbirth? Anyone?

We are so quick to label. Bad mother. Broken home. Pro-choice. Pro-life. Conservative. Liberal. Anti-this. Anti-that.

But what if just one person made a difference in this young woman's life, or this young father's life for that matter? What if that very day the girls died, someone had helped that mother rather than judged her?

What ifs. Ugh. They don't do much good.

While we are all in a place and a position to make a difference in just one person's life today, I'm going to plug one of my fave charities right now. It's Maryville's Crisis Nursery in Chicago. Check it out for yourself if you are around here. www.maryvilleacademy.org/subpages.asp?id=33&parentid=2

As for me, I'm going to try a little harder tomorrow. And pray a little harder tonight.

A True "Family" Dinner

My first idea for this blog entry was something like "cuke sandwiches, cuke salad, cuke ... puke ...".

Cucumbers grow like weeds in a garden, don't they?

That was a day or so ago, before attending to my own urban garden, which had been neglected pretty much all summer since planting but very much so this past week while we were on vacation at the family estate, or more specifically, the family farm.

Of course, I refer to Kevin's family estate/farm. They are farmers, by profession and by lifestyle.

Long ago, far way in Norway, and more recently a generation ago in North Dakota, my maternal ancestors were, too. Farmers.

But the only thing my immediate family knew how to grow, and kudos to lil' bro Paul for being so ahead of his time as an urban gardener, was, ahem, a special kind of tobacco used mostly/legally for medicinal purposes. He cultivated his crop in my childhood sandbox out back by the garage. (Sorry, Paul, for narcing you out back in '87, but I really was shocked to come home from college to see that, ahem, crop in my own, socially and economically conservative, Republican, parents' backyard.)

So my in-laws are retired farmers who remain on their farm, which means 'retirement' is merely an adjective they use to describe themselves. They still have animals, although they no longer milk cows. So retirement apparently means, to them: Yeah! We no longer milk cows twice a day.

Cows still reside on property, which is awesome. I'm so glad my boys are growing up calling baby cows "calves" and not "baby cows," which I still do. Now my in-laws breed cows for their calves, which they then sell to farmers who still want to be dairy farmers.

There is still a lot of land, some of which is rented out to other farmers. On some other land, close to the house, is a most bountiful garden. Sweet corn, cucumbers (they call them pickles), tomatoes, potatoes, onions, rutabagas, green beans .. and on and on.

As a gift to their children (and their families, thank you!), my in-laws still raise a steer or two each year that become the most delicious hamburger and fine beef cuts you will ever taste. (I'm sorry, vegetarian friends; I always say, like a lapsed Catholic, I am a lapsed vegetarian ... I believe in the vegetarian diet/way of life/philosophy ... I just can't stop eating this meat!)

Last year, expressing our concern about modern farming/food sourcing, we mentioned how great it would be to get pork from a trusted source, i.e., Rodney & Linda. We ended up buying a couple of piglets (naively named by Luke & TJ -- Bacon & Pork Chop) who they fed and cared for and who, ever so slowly, became ready for market.

Which brings me to our dinner: pork chops (from the farm), beans and corn and whipped potatoes (from the farm) plus salad (red leaf lettuce, cucumbers, tomato, all from our urban garden).

The whole milk for the baby and skim milk for the rest of us, plus goat cheese to complement our salad, were all from our Trader Joe's, which, I'd like to point out, we were able to walk to, completed our meal.

Now that's what I call a family dinner!

It's Like Falling Off a Bike

I slowly but successfully completed my half marathon on August 1st as planned, despite my injured foot. So it was time to give my foot a break and not run for a while. For eight days, yoga and swimming took the place of my long, quiet runs.

Then vacation happened.

I'm at the inlaw's farm, and there is no yoga or swimming. I have my yoga mat, and I will do a few downward dogs, but it is not the same as Carlie or Karin at Sun & Moon. And there is a municipal pool, but there are no 'lap hours' at 6 a.m. like at home. I figure it's because the people up here work, so there is no need to work out.

So I set out on my husband's fancy bike the other day for a long, quiet ride. Lance Armstrong's no softie, so bike riding must be a real sport. I'd sweat; I'd work some muscles; it'd be good.

We didn't bring my bike up because of physics. My bike's set up for hauling two children, so attaching it to the bike rack is a challenge. And with the hills up here, who wants to be pulling around two children? It would be long, but it would not be quiet. Plus, I'd have trouble enough pulling my four cheeks and three chins up these hills.

Kevin's bike proved to be a challenge to ride because I needed to borrow his special bike shoes that clicked right into the pedals. Despite being five sizes too big, the shoes were no problem.

Until it was time to stop. I was reaching the point in my ride where I wanted to turn around and head back to the valley.

I didn't really know how to unclick the shoes out of the pedals, but I'd slowed to a near stop. Those pesky physics again. What happens when you stop pedaling, panicking because there are cars coming at you?

You. Fall. Slowly.

Ever. So. Slowly.

Down. A. Ditch.

But you are too embarrassed and proud to admit there's a problem, so you hike right up out of that ditch with your hands above your head to tell the drivers, who have slowed to see the joke that is me falling with a bike attached to me, that all is ok.

"No problem here; I'm ok. Please, please, please, don't stop." That's what my hand gestures tell the drivers, the only two I've seen in 30 minutes biking to the top of this crazy hill.

As far as falls go, this one is awesome, meaning only a few bruises and no permanent scars.

I am a runner because I am a loser at all other athletic attempts. I'm not good at anything else, really.

As far as biking is concerned, I'm well known for two great falls.

One when I was about 8 years old. I was trying to mimic my older brother's 'pop-a-wheelie' up a curb at the north end of our block, right by the funeral-home-turned-library.

He rocked. I hit rock.

Screaming, I returned home bloody and bruised, with a concussion that prevented me from performing my role in South Pacific that weekend at the Beverly Arts Center. (I'm sure my acting career would have turned out much better if that performance would have gone on as planned.)

I still have a fake front tooth to show for that fall.

The next major fall was when I was riding home from work one night in the rain. I jumped the curb to avoid the Halsted/North/Clybourn intersection in Chicago but then got whopped with a restaurant door opening. I flew into the street, into oncoming traffic, but survived with just a few scars on my hands.

I'm just not that good at riding a bike. Good at falling, but not riding.

So I will try again after the pain subsides. The hour riding was a better workout than the two hours golfing the day before. Even with the fall, I'm still a better biker than I am a golfer.

Save the Curls, Save the World!

It was going to have to happen someday. I wasn't going to go the route of Celine Dion and let my son's hair grow to Samson-like lengths.

I made it past the first birthday, which was longer than I thought I'd get away with. But as 13 months, 14 months, 15 months, 16 months passed, I thought I might make it to his second birthday.

I just didn't want Andy to lose those blond curls.

Sure, everyone thinks he's a girl, but he is pretty! I didn't care!

But Kevin did. A lot.

And the hair-in-the-face was clearly beginning to bug Andy. Or maybe it was the breakfast in the eyes (and nose, and hair, and...).(See photo, above!)

I don't know. I just knew a change was needed, and I wasn't going to be able to hold out until month 18.

So Andy took Toby's appointment today with Heidi at Salon Dolce, a sweet shop just two blocks away. She's been cutting TJ's curly locks for years now.

(I didn't trust his head to the neighborhood barber, no matter how much we like the guy. But a bald barber? You wouldn't go to a toothless dentist, admit it!)

Even Luke ditched the barber a few cuts ago, too, and is a Heidi fan now. I'm not sure if it's all about the haircut for him, or all about him being an 8-year-old boy and Heidi being, well, really very nice and much prettier than the bald barber. She also gives out pencils and lollipops.

Andy didn't care about pretty vs. bald, boy vs. girl, pencils vs. lollipops. He didn't want to sit, not even in my lap, for a single hair to be cut. (He's Momma's boy, that one!)

But Heidi is a skilled technician and wonderfully patient, and she got the job done.
Hair's no longer in Andy's eyes (as he likes to show in this picture), and the back and sides still sport cherubic curls. The cut might not be short enough, or manly enough, for Kevin, but Heidi saved the curls.

My world is safe, for now.

Mamma Said There'd Be Days Like This

Oh, really, it's not that bad. I was just struck by the truth spoken by my 8-year-old as I tried to compare and contrast the benefits and deadly drawbacks of a myriad of fly-killing contraband at our local Ace this afternoon.

I noticed a few flies in my family room yesterday and quickly blamed the kids for leaving a door open one too many times.

But this morning when I drew open the blinds in the formal living room (for the first time in days as it was rather dark and dreary, and we could use the extra natural light) I came across an active civilization of flies. Twenty or 30 were flying about, some stuck between the window panes and all very slow, slow enough that I could swat them with a magazine.

The flies at the farm are faster, and we rely on my MIL to get them. Believe me, if fly-swatting were a professional sport, Linda could have her own LeBron James-style free agency media circus.

I conducted a little research and learned I probably had 'cluster flies' on my hand. They look like common houseflies but behave as if they'd been hitting the fermented grape juice a little too much. Slow or not, I didn't want them in my house, so off to Ace I went to pick their poison.

And while holding the cans and containers a good arms-length from my face (as I did not bring my reading glasses and the warnings about how the products might forever affect animals and small children are printed in the tiniest type allowed by law), Andy was busy pulling off everything from the bottom shelf, then doing his soon-to-be-famous-spin-in-place dance; Luke was repeatedly accusing me of lying to him, as we were supposed to go home right after swim lessons and this stop at Ace was not part of the morning's plan and if we didn't stick to the plan well, then, he would just fall apart (he did by 4 p.m.); and TJ was running from aisle to aisle, barely missing old men while very accurately stepping on women's toes before finding the candy aisle and constantly asking, from half way across the store, if this candy or that candy had soy in it (he can't have soy, and it's in almost every packaged food, especially chocolate).

I took a deep breath and wondered if I'd find in the Pest Control aisle anything for my current infestation of small boys.

That's when Luke said it: "Wow, it seems like being a Mom is a hard job."

Yes, Luke, some days are harder than others. That's why Husbands promise to meet us out at our local Mexican restaurant for margaritas, I mean, dinner.

Thank goodness for Husbands who get it!

Starving the Rats, One Car Wash at a Time

Took the family truckster in for a good washing today. I mean, a good washing. The kind you can only do with no children in tow.

I took out all three car seats before I headed over to Royal Touch Car Wash in Rosemont (conveniently located next to a drive-through Starbucks and across from a Target, making for a perfect kid-free errand trifecta).

Last week's trip to our friends' cabin (posts on that to come), with a stop at the family farm on the way up and back, meant a total of 970 miles and 20 hours in the truck (and by truck I mean SUV) with my friend, one of her children plus my three. That's a lot of snacks -- string cheese, shredded wheat, grapes, bubble gum, juice boxes and pretzels -- consumed en route by children whose opposable thumbs do not appear to be fully developed.

Also picked up along the way was sand, lots of sand.

We also were beneficiaries of my in-law's garden during our farm stops, so bags of freshly cut corn (seriously, picked 30 minutes before our arrival), green beans, onions, potatoes and cucumbers, were shoved under and over and in between everyone in the truck.

I found a rogue cucumber and corn silk under the baby's car seat when I was cleaning out the truck before heading to the car wash. And that wasn't the oddest or most startling discovery.

The workers at the car wash earned their tips today, and the rodents of Park Ridge will just have to find someone else's family truckster to dine in tonight.

Our all-you-can eat buffet is closed.

Only One Suit Will Do in this Heat

I know it's pathetic that I'm only two weeks into this blogging thing and already I've been reduced to writing about the weather, but c'mon!

This is like the summers of my childhood ... spent primarily in Wamego, Kansas with Grandma B and a variety pack of cousins, or in Carmel, Ind., with my Aunt Jan & Uncle Bill, again with any mash-up of siblings and cousins.

Those were some hot summers when our only concern was what flavor of ice cream Grandma would scoop up after our day spent at the municipal pool. (At Aunt Jan's, it was always a root beer float after dinner. Never disappointing.)

Back then, the hotter the weather, the better. It meant entire days spent playing with cousins and 'summer friends' at the pool, slip-n-slides in the yard, Kool-aid and ice cream. Occasionally my older brother would try to actually fry an egg on Grandma's blacktop driveway.

Never once did I think about the electric or water bills. Or worry about the calories in those root beer floats or think about the damage the sun was doing to my skin.

But really, it's not even August and according to Tom Skilling, we've already had 15 days of temps in excess of 90 degrees.

And don't get me started on the humidity! Even at 6 a.m. it feels like I'm running behind a CTA bus.

Granted, there are hotter, stickier places on earth. Places without electricity or clean water. I get that. I'm fortunate to sit here in my air conditioned house writing about how hot it is outside and reminiscing about how hot it was back when it was ok that I wear halter tops and short-shorts.

But on days like these when we can't get to the pool on account of a napping Bonus Baby, the only thing to do is what TJ did yesterday. Put on the old birthday suit and play in the sprinkler.

Keep cool, friends, and see you in the back yard!

Falling in Love, Again

I know I'm a bit prejudiced having been born here, but I love Chicago. I mean, I love, love, love her.

I'm a lucky girl because I was able to take an overnight 'staycation' with my husband and two oldest boys into the city Wednesday.

We did more in 24 hours in the city than I've probably done in the past 24 years.

Never mind that I'm sure the city center's luster would dull a bit if I were hauling a laptop on my shoulder and catching the 7:42 every morning, as was the case until Luke's first birthday. But this summer I've been able to get to some of the city's greatest neighborhoods on the North and South sides, enabling me to fall in love with her all over again.

We caught the 1 p.m. train out of our pastoral suburb and were in the ol' Thompson Center (called something else now ... I cringe that my children know only the Willis, and not the Sears, Tower) in 30 minutes, most of them spent by my children trying to catch folks showering in the apartment buildings speeding past us.

Within the hour, we were checking into our free hotels.com 5-star hotel (which was perfectly star worthy to Luke, TJ & me but didn't meet the expectations of my travel-weary husband)... then off to inhale some Chicago-style pizza.

On to tourist-friendly Navy Pier. A skyline boat tour. Rides, rides and more rides. Ice cream. Ferris Wheel. (I'd never done that! Had never wanted to do that!) Countless trips to the bathroom for the boys. Do they go this often at home and I just don't realize it?

Then the pinnacle of our day: the fireworks. We'd planted ourselves on a park bench with a perfect view of where they'd take center stage ... We had at least an hour to kill, and it took Kevin almost that long to get back with Happy Meals for the boys. (We didn't understand how they could still be hungry until we realized they didn't overeat at lunch like we did.)

I don't know if it is the city's taxpayers or a tourist tax that pays for them, but these fireworks were the most amazing fireworks I'd ever seen. Granted, I do not like fireworks. But that may have changed.

A tired walk back to the hotel, a few hours sleep, then off to breakfast, Millennium Park and Ohio Street beach before catching the train home, returning us to our Andy and able babysitter by 1 p.m.

Like I said, 24 hours. A lifetime of memories. Getting to see my hometown through the eyes of my boys.

Kiss, kiss, sweet home, Chicago.


















*Please note the Yankees cap is part of Luke's Little League uniform ...

Frozen Golf Balls and Superfeet

It started with a whisper a few months ago, my body telling me to back off on the running. I ignored the chatter.

I had just completed my running comeback, if you will. Having run multiple marathons, half marathons and shorter races in my 20s and 30s, I had backed off to recover from a spring 2008 surgery to remove some rogue milk ducts; soon after that, I learned I was 40 and pregnant with our bonus baby. The running slowed to a jog.

So I was thrilled to successfully train for and run the Palos Bank Southwest Half Marathon down in Palos Heights, Ill., in May. I followed that up a few weeks later with another half marathon up in Wisconsin, which I ran just because it was there.

But then what had been a whisper turned into a "CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?" call being played every day, from the moment I took my first step in the morning until I fell into my bed at night, tucked in by my new best friend, ibuprofen.

Yep, my ol' nemesis plantar fasciitis had returned, and now my body was forcing me to listen to it. Rest would be the foundation of an ideal treatment plan, but given that I'm signed up to run the Rock-n-Roll Half Marathon in Chicago on August 1st with my sister-in-law, Jen, I was going to have to get creative.

The crazy $50 contraption I put on my leg every night to stretch out my foot while I sleep isn't much help, but the golf balls I now keep in my freezer are amazing! The massage therapist at my gym recommended it, and I love her for it! If you've got tired feet at the end of a long day, I recommend the frozen golf ball massage.

Even better is that I found my old Supefeet. If you're not wearing these insoles in your shoes, you are not walking on sunshine; you are not gellin'. http://www.superfeet.com/

I used to wear them in my running shoes, but I misplaced them about six months ago and was frankly too cheap to go out an buy another pair right away. I'm certain months of running with cheap insoles was like a big invite to PF to return.

But some basement cleaning yesterday yielded an unexpected treat: an old pair of running shoes with the Superfeet inside. This morning's run was tolerable and convinced me I will get through the 13.1 miles next month. It won't be pretty, but I'll finish.

Come August 2nd, my running will take a rest until my foot has healed completely. I'm putting this in writing, because I'm a bit of an addict when it comes to pounding the pavement, and I will need some *brave* family and friends to keep me on the wagon and off the running path.

The picture is of Kevin, Luke & me from the 2007 Gays Mills Apple Fest Race ... running is a family affair!

Summertime, and the Eats are Good!

Last night's dinner was the culinary definition of summer, as far as I'm concerned. Out on our screened-in porch, we dined on:

• Early sweet corn-on-the-cob from the Park Ridge Farmers Market; http://www.parkridge.us/farmers_market/default.aspx
• Grilled asparagus, again thanks to some not-too-distant farmers;
• Grown-in-water tomatoes, also purchased at the Farmers Market, paired with my own basil, plus some fresh mozz, olive oil and balsamic vinegar for my favorite salad;
• Steak from the local butcher;
• And an old-fashioned ice cream Drumstick.

All good, even after just reading this: http://health.yahoo.net/experts/eatthis/best-and-worst-ice-cream-truck-treats

My Drumstick fell on David Zinczenko's list of the five worst summertime ice cream treats. He recommended the "lil drum" version of the frozen ice cream cone.

Thanks, but no thanks on this one. I like ya, Dave, I try to do what you suggest, but when it comes to my summertime treats, I won't cut corners.

Bon appetit, friends!

When Things Go Bump in the Night

I woke up with a start at 4:45 Saturday morning, sure I'd heard the antique leather strip of jingle bells I keep on the back patio door give a little ring.

(It's my low-tech TJ alarm system ... he has a habit of just coming and going as he pleases, and at 3 years old, I'd like to know when he's headed out for a smoke or is smuggling juice boxes under the playset.)

I was sure I heard voices downstairs. Were we being robbed? Don't they know the only things we value are upstairs, sleeping in bunk beds and a crib?

I knew I wouldn't get back to sleep, so I grabbed the landline handset with 911 dialed and my trigger finger on the "talk" button, and headed downstairs, the 100-year-old stairs squeaking as I tiptoed. (Left a few un-repaired during the renovation ... another low-tech alarm system.)

Although the kitchen looked like it had been ransacked, I remember it looking similar when I went to bed the previous night. All was well. The only crime committed was that of an overactive imagination.

In Defense of Jumpiness

Decades ago I lay in bed, frozen in fear that an intruder was brazenly breaking into my childhood home in the middle of the night. I was probably 9 or 10 ... My parent's bonus baby, Paul, was already around, so I had to be at least that old. (Andy is our 'bonus' baby ... I highly recommend one.)

My faded yellow-flower-wallpapered room was above our Georgian's back door. I heard someone fiddling with the door knob. And I heard someone knocking on the door, first the back, then the front.

Ok, I should have known a burglar wasn't going to knock, but I was just a kid, and why weren't my parents answering the door? Had they been bludgeoned to death already?

I could hear the unanswered phone ringing in my parents' room. I figured they were already dead.

The ringing, the knocking, the doorbell, it seemed to go on forever.

Why wasn't my older brother, John, up wondering what was going on? Why wasn't Paul crying?

Was everyone dead already? Had I been spared?

That's when real fear gripped my mind and body. A ladder that had been left on the north side of the house began to move toward ... my ... window. Whomever it was on that ladder was coming after me; I was the one the Boogie Man wanted.

Oh, so young and already so self-centered.

There was a commotion outside, some loud voices then someone being raised from the dead in my parents' room. The front door opened, more loud -- angry? -- voices. Then, quiet. I wasn't dead. My parents weren't dead. My brothers were in dead sleeps but very much alive.

Story goes that my Dad* had been called to the store when its alarm was set off earlier that night. (He was a manager at a nearby Sears and used to say that when the alarm rang, he needed to get there before the cops did. There were some, ummm, trust issues.)

And he'd forgotten his house key.

Our neighbors, the Wulfs, had noticed someone lurking around the house and had been calling, trying to get my parents' attention.

I'm foggy on the details of how it all went down, but I know they somehow, after realizing it was only my Dad trying to break into his own house, were able to help him (they probably had keys).

But ever since, I jump up to investigate whenever I hear a bump in the night.

*Picture is of Dad, long before he scared me nearly to death that night.

Sorry, Son, You are No Demigod

My oldest son and I are a lot alike, for better and worse.

One trait we share is that we get absolutely lost in books. So lost that we lose track of time, of where we are and who we are, and of that line between what's real and what is make-believe.

I recently finished Wally Lamb's The Hour I First Believed, a work of fiction that chronicles the lives of two teachers, married to one another, who taught at Columbine at the time of the massacre. There were days I felt I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. (Note: Do not read this book if you really do have PTSD.)

Earlier this summer, Luke and I were totally immersed in the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series by Rick Riordan. For those of you not in the Lightning Thief demographic, the books are about a prepubescent, dyslexic New York City boy, Percy Jackson, who learns his mother, ahem, loved Poseidon, and Percy is the half-mortal, half-god son of the Sea God.

See, Percy's real name is Perseus. Remember from junior high that he was the hero who beheaded Medusa? Medusa was cursed with that snaky headdress by Athena after Perseus' pops, Poseidon, ahem, disgraced Athena with Medusa, ... how did I ever think this was boring back then?

It is a most enjoyable, imaginative series that has me interested in re-reading the Greek myths. I got into the books for Luke's sake, just as I got into the Twilight series to better relate to my teenage niece. (For those keeping score: Team Jacob.)

But I'm not about to suspect my friends of being vampires or werewolves. Luke, on the other hand, seems to think he's got some special skills in the water all of a sudden.

Percy, even before he knew of his special lineage, could swim like a fish and hold his breath under water for something like seven minutes.

Granted, Luke's a decent swimmer, but suddenly he's constantly testing how long he can hold his breath under water, to the point I feel I need to warn the pool life guards: "Do not be alarmed, this is only a test, and he will come up for air in about 15 seconds. In the event he doesn't, dive your skinny butt in there and save his."

To him, I say, "Luke, you are not the son of Poseidon. You are the son of two very mortal parents."

In fact, Kevin and I just had the discussion, again, last night as I defended the private swimming lessons Luke & TJ are now taking, about how he really ought to get himself some swimming lessons. With three children, I just think it's not about sport or recreation but about survival.

Because we are very mortal indeed.