Where's Your Crisis Nursery?

The little guy loves his time on the farm.

The irony of it was not lost on me when I had to bug out of a Maryville Crisis Nursery tour a few minutes early so that I could drive the two-and-a-half hours north to the nearly-half-way point between my home and my inlaws' farm to pick up my 2-year-old.

That was just after Halloween.

Eight weeks later, I'm readying myself for another trip to pick up the tot. I admit to getting pretty greedy this time. Eight weeks ago, Andy spent three nights with grandma and papa simply because we'd met at our half-way point for another purpose and it seemed like a good idea to 'take a break.' Plus, it meant Halloween night for our two older boys without the stress of having to get 'the baby' down by 6:30 p.m. and then worrying every time the door bell rang.

This time, it's been four nights for my little break. It was going to be three nights, but then I realized how much more I could get accomplished during these fast, last days leading to Christmas, without Andy underfoot. And I had a timing challenge on our originally scheduled day. How was I going to drive the five-plus hours to get there and back and still be back in time to pick up the middle guy from his standard two-and-a-half-hour preschool day?

So I asked for the extra night, and my wish was granted. And did I EVER accomplish great things with my extra day (mostly sorting out/wrapping Christmas gifts that have been shoved into a crawl space, the only hiding space I think is still unknown to the boys.)

I consider my inlaws my "crisis nursery." When I'm drawn in too many directions or simply feel I'm getting sucked into a vicsious parenting undertow, I know I have dependable and loving people in my life who will throw me a lifeline and keep me afloat.

I'm so lucky to have these generous people in my life.

Many parents are not as lucky, which is why the Maryville Crisis Nursery opened five years ago. Whether their crisis is like mine (but x10) -- or one of a more dire nature, such as hospitalization of a parent or sibling, some parents have no one they trust to care for their children.

I first discovered Maryville Crisis Nursery nearly five years ago when we'd moved (back) to the area and (incorrectly) thought we were done having children. I was looking for a worthy place to take all my old baby gear, and discovered the nursery, which could either use my stuff in its facility or sell it at its resale shop.

Halloween without the youngest brother. Scary.

Many parents are not as fortunate. Many parents have no one to care for their young children if tragedy, simply a hard turn, or plain-old exhaustion befalls them.


They may be single parents, young parents; they maybe parents who are trying to stay away from trouble that seems to come knocking at their doors on a regular basis. They may be parents just like me, but with no one to depend on. It doesn't matter. They are parent who care deeply, who love their children enough to know they need a little help.

They're parents, just like me, a Mom who needs a little help from time to time, no matter the reason.

I soon learned the the Maryville Crisis Nursery:

• is a short-term shelter for children when parents are in crisis
• provides care at no cost to families
• is the only crisis nursery in Chicago and one of only six in Illinois
• can show that 98% of families who use the Crisis Nursery indicate they are better parents through its use
• have had  more than 3,000 admissions since it opened its doors five year ago.

I'm so very thankful that my inlaws can take care of any (and sometimes all) of my children when I need them to. I'm just as thankful for the Maryville Crisis Nursery to provide the same comfort to other parents. That's why our family chooses to support Maryville Crisis Nursery.

Cheers, and happy holidays!

Getting to the Art of the Problem

When my oldest was little, and for the nearly five years he was an 'only,' every art project his brilliant, creative hands and mind engineered was a Picasso. Sometimes we could even determine what it was 'meant' to be (unlike most Picassos, which leave me scratching my head).

Many of his Kindergarten and 1st grade creations are framed and adorn our otherwise art-less walls.

But then more "art" came home from school. While the "art" didn't really improve much in the past few years, we added two children to our family, both of whom create equally beautiful one-, two- and three-dimensional artworks at preschool and with their talented babysitters. That's a lot of art.

I view them; I appreciate them. Entering any of my children's bedrooms, you will walk into a gallery of beautiful, unique and often curious works. What doesn't get Scotch-taped to the bedrooms' walls, I usually toss into the recycling bin. I'm usually narced by Someone. "You're recycling THIS?," Someone cries regularly. So I've had to get sneaky about getting rid of all the artwork, but get rid of it I do.

Do I feel guilty?  A little. I'll get over it. I hope they do too, someday.

To the many artists I am proud to call my friends, cheers! I wonder if your Moms kept everything you created as tots?

"He Didn't Do His Farming at the Tavern"

Earlier this week I dug into the box of family history salvaged from my mother's place when she died nearly five years ago. I'd never bothered to look at it before Wednesday, the day before my 4th-grader's Ellis Island project was due. 

I always work better with a deadline.

My favorite line from a letter written by my Grandma Anderson, when my Mom and I were compiling the histories more than two decades ago, was the one about my Great Uncle Jack Martin, who, according to his niece-in-law, my Grandma A., "never lost any money farming because he didn't do his farming at the tavern." I'm not sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or simply a slam on the relatives who lost their farms in the Depression and the years following, all who and ended up becoming successful railroad men.

The box is rich with history, although there are a lot of holes I need to fill. I'm hoping an uncle on my Dad's side can fill in the details for the Bennetts, but it'll be a little more difficult for the Thompson/Anderson/Hogle side of the family, as my mother was an only child; her mother had been adopted (although we do have stories of her biological mother, including the one of her stealing my grandmother, forcing my great grandparents to move from Minnesota to North Dakota to try get away from her!); and my grandfather was also adopted, but never legally, after his biological mother died a few month after giving birth to him, her 10th child, in the flu pandemic in 1914; so things are a bit of a mess here).

For Luke's project, I sent him to school with a picture of the trunk, pictured here, that my Great Grandmother Anderson (then a Hansen) brought with her on her voyage, alone, from Norway to America at the tender age of 17. She came in steerage and went through Ellis Island, according to the notes I've discovered.

I also sent with him the same woman's wedding dress. Her actual wedding dress! Why was that in a Sharper Image paper sack in my flood-friendly basement?! Horrors! (I am now in the market for a dress dummy I can use to display this simple but beautiful $6 JCPenny dress worn in 1910 in Ransom County, ND.)

Luke was required to include 'three interesting facts' about his ancestors in his report. He included a story of his great, great, great grandfather (Thompson) who was shot to death and robbed of $300 of gold he'd withdrawn from his bank before walking 28 miles to Fargo, ND, with the intention of buying farming supplies. He included a story of my great great grandfather Anderson, who is said to not even be an Anderson ... that his name was likely a form of Buvick when he came to America but was allegedly told there were too many people already with that name, so he had to change it. We don't know if this is true, but I've heard of similar stories of immigrants having to change their names upon entering the country. And he included the story of my Nora (Hansen) Anderson's emigration from Norway, with said trunk, with a job lined up as a farmer's wife's helper in North Dakota.

So a routine 4th grade project has reignited my interest in my ancestry. Of course, this family tree project will have to get in line, right after pulling together my boys' baby books, cleaning out my linen closet and learning to knit.

Wish me luck. I might just be successful, if I can keep away from the tavern.

Cheers!

Memory Road Trip

Of my most vivid, positive memories of growing up the only daughter and middle (favorite) child of John & Luella, our weeks-long, summer road trips are among my favorites.  Granted, I'm not sure I thought so at the time. My father didn't meet a roadside historical marker he didn't want to stop to see. My mother wouldn't let my father pass a greasy, local diner where she might find a reputable BLT or piece of cherry pie. (This picture is from one of those trips, but none of my folks' slides -- which I recently had digitized -- were dated or marked in any helpful way, so I have no recollection of where we might be.)

These were the days before straight-jacket-styled car seats and booster seats, so my two brothers and I were free to annoy one another in the back seat of our purple-ish Ford LTD (complete with "UffDa" license plates and stickers in the back window of every state we'd visited). Lines were drawn dividing the back seat into three parts, but, with a brother younger than me by nearly eight years, difficult to enforce. We enjoyed the requisite road trip games, including trying to spot license plates from the most 'foreign' state, or, even, crazy as it seemed then, from a province of Canada. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall was sung. A lot. (And no one thought it might be inappropriate at the time.) No hand-held computer games, no cell phones, no I-Pods. Not even much radio, considering all of our trips started in Chicago and ventured west. Lots of dead air there. 

Central Kansas was always on the route, given that's where my father's family was. North Dakota was usually on the itinerary, to visit with the few members of my mother's family. In between these requisite family visits we saw the Badlands, the Rockies, Yellowstone, Mt. Rushmore. I didn't appreciate any of it at the time (just being honest here), but I do now.

What I do remember valuing was staying at various Holiday Inns and Howard Johnsons, where we would eat puffed Cheetos and drink root beer poolside with my Dad. My mother didn't like the water. She'd spent too much time, and money, on her hair to want to ruin it. But my Dad was all about the end-of-the-day swim with my brothers and me. Like most dads of that era, he spent a lot of time at work and not a lot of time doing dad things, non-disciplining dad things, that is. 

Monday would have been his 78th birthday, if he hadn't died too soon at 69. I'm not terribly sentimental, but I am very sorry my sons didn't know him. And I do miss him.

So, to John R., cheers.

A Simple Lesson in Humanity, Or is it Insanity?



Mrs. Mouse, before her parole.

I've come to accept that the occasional mouse in my 100-year-old house is to be expected. I'm even able to swallow my initial scream at the sight of such vermin if my boys are nearby, with the intention of not making them scaredy cats, too.

However, while I've accepted that rodents will find their way in to our home, I will not provide them with unlimited room and board. When identified, they must be, well, evicted.

Which brings us to our recent removal/replacement of a 30-year-old, over-sized basement fridge that led to the discovery of a mouse, of the dead variety. The kind delivery man calmly asked me for a plastic bag, and he disposed of the corpse. I didn't give it another thought.

... Until later that day when I started down the basement stairs only to be met with an excited, confused, grieving Mrs. Mouse. I called to Toby, my middle guy, who was nearby, to share my excitement.

"She's soooo cuuuuute," he responded, "can we keep her, you know, as a pet." [read: because Dad won't let us get a dog.]

Me, "Oh, yah, she is cute, you know, but, I really don't think she'd be happy in a cage. Why don't we help her get home, to her mouse friends?"

To the garage I went, where, miraculously, I remembered we'd left the Live Mouse Trap, given to me a decade ago by the woman after which my parents named me, when we were plagued by mice at a previous home. Karen died many years ago, and we'd moved many times since the original mouse problem. Never had the heart to tell her that we poisoned the life out of those mice, but I also never had the heart to get rid of the "Humane Mouse Kit."

Seriously. The packaging on this contraption includes, "Teach peace. Be Nice to Mice!" Also fun is the illustration of a mouse peeking out of a traditional mouse door and the words, "Mommy, must we kill the mouse?" ... "No, Honey. The world is big enough for all of us."

So I recently made a trip to an undisclosed location just outside my sleepy suburb, where we released Mrs. Mouse.

Live long and prosper, Mrs. Mouse. Just don't come home to visit any time soon.

Returning for a Bite of the Big Apple

Somehow I had managed to not return to New York City, a city I 'heart,' but a city I fled just as soon as my employer could get me a rental car after the horrific events of 9/11 ten years ago. 

At first I simply couldn't. I didn't want to leave the safety of my townhouse, which we were readying for the birth of our first child. I didn't want to travel anywhere, much less to the epicenter of the nation's worst (current generations') nightmare. I was scared. And like everyone else, I was sad and even a little shell-shocked from what I witnessed that otherwise-perfect fall Tuesday morning.

Like most of us, I got over it. When conversations turned to the attacks, sometimes I shared my story, but sometimes I was just so bored of it I couldn't imagine anyone would want to hear it. I still tear up or worse when I catch news coverage or when I quietly and truly reflect about all our country and our world lost that morning.

But still I didn't go back. It started to become a 'thing.' Kevin would suggest I join him on many of his NYC trips for work, and I always had a good reason why I couldn't (starting with one, then two, then three children).

As this much-hyped 10th anniversary approached, I decided I would return. Whether it would be an emotional, gut-wrenching journey or simply a great couple of days and nights in the Big apple, it would be done.

So last month, with the boys under the loving care of my generous in-laws, we caught an early morning flight. I spent my time in the air reading a Fodor's history of Manhattan, which gave me wonderful perspective of my walking tours the next few days. While I'd been to NYC many times prior to September 2001, mostly for work commitments, I never approached it like I did this time, with eyes, arms and heart wide open.

The morning started with a walk to The City Bakery for pretzel croissants (the maple-bacon biscuits were sold out) and gazpacho. Yummy. I was back in love already. Kevin left for his meetings, and I started my journey uptown, to the Museum of Modern Art. Six floors of art! Looking out the windows was a feast for eyes alone. 

So far, all I felt was excitement and gleefulness for my good fortune to be out-and-about in NYC. I started to walk back toward Gramercy Park, where we were staying, but stopped at the Lego Shop at Rockefeller Center. I asked the clerk why they were cordoning off the plaza. Was someone really famous coming to NBC? No, in fact, he explained, there was 'a jumper.' Someone was about to jump off the building. Why, I asked were thousands of people standing around with their cameras, then? Sick! Just 10 years ago people were jumping to avoid being burned alive, and now this sad soul was jumping, and worse, people were standing around waiting to capture it on the cell phone cameras? (A New Yorker friend of mine said that things weren't so bad, that before 9/11, people would have been shouting "jump!")*

I moved on, enjoyed a great evening of drinks, dinner and grown-up conversation with Kevin and his team, then started our next morning with a run to and around Central Park, wondering why we didn't live there. We stood at the bar at Antica Bottega del Vino for a creamy, very traditional cappuccino, then a little bit later enjoyed lunch, if you can call it that, at Doughnut Plant in Chelsea. Carrot cake, coconut creme, creme brulee, chocolate chip cookie. This was no Dunkin'.

Then it was time to visit Ground Zero. To take in as much of the city in as short of time as we had, I insisted we walk from our hotel to Ground Zero. It was also because I was very intimidated by the subway system. Above ground, I don't get lost. So we managed to take in most of Mid and Lower Manhattan's highlights as we strolled to the memorial site.

At the memorial preview site, we read individuals' stories and viewed a chronological photo and video essay of the morning's events. I cried, just a little cry. We made a modest contribution to the memorial fund, peaked at the beautiful fountains, still under construction then, and it was done. It was moving and cathartic to stand on those streets and bump elbows with a menagerie of the human race. But it was done.

It is done. New York City is as wonderful as its advertising claims. I look forward to many happy returns.

Peace.

*The man did jump, but I'm happy to report that NYC's rock star firefighters caught him.

Camp Mom Closes for Season

Whew. Summer's over.

I know there's an entire month of meteorological summer ahead of us, but as my only school-aged child left to meet his 4th grade teacher this afternoon (and the preschooler started last week), summer is over at our house. This means that Camp Mom is now officially closed.

Like parents everywhere, I have mixed emotions about the start of another school year. I'm sad to see go the lazy days when we had no particular place to be at any particular hour. The sometimes impromptu, often loosely pre-planned, picnics, playground outings, museum visits, swimming excursions, bike rides to DQ, train rides to nowhere in particular ... I will miss those.

I'm also not sad to see them go. Because at my core, despite my desire to embrace this chaos that is my life, breathes a woman who thrives on structure.

And the school year, with its four Rs -- reading, 'riting, 'rithmitic and rules, gives us structure.

And, honestly, it gives me a break for a few hours. Because the thing with three boys at home, if you take one of them out of the equation (we're back to 'rithmitic), the two remaining boys get along so much better. It does not matter which boy, or factor, if you will, is removed, the outcome remains the same. A little bit of sanity. Of peace ... no quiet, but peace.

Which is good, because while I was running (and enjoying) Camp Mom this summer, I woefully neglected a few responsibilities around here. So I'd better get back to them now.

Cheers to a happy and productive school year for children and parents (and all of you who put up with us)!

Celebrate Good Times, C'Mon!

So it's my birthday and the 1st anniversary of my blog.

TJ & Luke get along, if only for my birthday.

I started Chaos is the New Calm to meet a need I had for a certain creative release, even a level of mental discipline, lacking in my life. Days filled with laundry, meal planning, prep and cooking, cleaning, and, ultimately, caring for three small boys was making me a bit cranky, and I did not want to be a cranky person. So this blog was born to help me embrace the life I was leading, not the life I thought I should be living.

Though I sought order in my life, chaos was the norm. I gave up fighting it, embraced it and made it my calling card.

Andy enjoys today's picnic.

Today was no exception. Years ago I might have pouted or whined about not being wined, dined and otherwise catered to on my birthday. I think birthdays are a big freekin' deal, whoever is celebrating, and whatever birthday is being celebrated.

My day was chaotically awesome. The boys and I hit the gym early (where I got a workout and an awesome massage, just what the doctor ordered after a 3-week-long respiratory infection); we had a picnic at a local park, created DQ-enviable sundaes at home (on a Tuesdae, TJ pointed out), napped, hit the pool with our long-term b-sitter, Christine, followed by dinner at Noodles & Co., found a flower arrangement at home, left by my husband who was busy with in-town board meetings, dinner and other work chaos all week and read numerous text and FB messages from friends far and wide. After the little guys' baths and stories and bedtimes, Luke & I enjoyed the first hour of the sixth Harry Potter film (we've never seen them but are trying to get them all in before Friday's big game).

Life, and this birthday, are good and worth celebrating.

Cheers!

Surrender, Dorothy!

Back when I was a *Perfect Mother,* that is, before I had any children, I had several rules by which I planned to live my life when I did become a mother.

1. I would lose my baby weight within three months after delivering baby.
2. I would not yell at my children.
3. I would not wear sweat pants outside my home.
4. Only PBS would be allowed on the TV.
5. Snot would not be left hanging from my childrens' noses.
6. My children would not leave the house in dirty clothes, wearing their PJs or without shoes.
7. Toys would be relegated to a play room and/or the childrens' bedrooms.

That first one has become "I would lose my baby weight before my 25th high school reunion (coming up in two short months)."

I did ok with the second rule until the bonus baby showed up; yelling has since become the only way I can cut through the noise clutter around here.

Numbers 3-6 were dropped somewhere along the way.

I held fast to #7. I bunked two of the three boys together so that in our 100-year-old house, whose basement is simply that -- a basement, not a usable space for a kids' play -- we could use a large bedroom as a 'play room.'

But bunking together two boys, nearly five years apart, and centuries apart in personality, has proven, after two years of trying, to be a failed experiment in social science.

So a toy purge began in the play room. Toys and books were divided among the three boys' bedrooms, the family room, the living room, the dining room, the porch, the backyard, even the basement took a few donations. So now I have toys everywhere throughout out my house. Yes, they're in pretty baskets and behind frosted glass cabinet doors, but they are everywhere.

And as the middle guy, the guy who has moved happily into the former play room, said, "Now only you and Daddy have to share a room."

Like a Good Neighbor ...

We have been very fortunate in all our moves to end up with good neighbors. Our neighbors now are no exception.

It was one of my neighbors whom I ran to for help and who got me to an ER when I put my hand through a paper shredder one afternoon; the same neighbor trucks my oldest kid to and from school on those days not nice enough for him to walk or to ride his bike.

Another neighbor regularly invites my middle guy to walk her giant of a dog with her, knowing that those 30 minutes that I have one fewer boy on my hands might make the difference between my making it to 8 p.m. without a major breakdown or not making it.

The guys with the snowblowers start clearing the walks those mornings those of us without snowblowers don't get outside first.

Everyone closes garage doors when it seems one has remained accidentally open; everyone brings in the neglected newspapers when left out on the sidewalk, before it can signal the random opportunistic thief that no one is home.

I mean, we're all quite neighborly.

But I became very self-conscious after receiving two notices in the past week. The first notice came from someone who just bought a house two doors from us. Before moving in, they were going to be doing some flooring work and general decorating. They just wanted to let us know and apologize in advance for any noise or inconvenience this might cause us. Very neighborly; can't wait to meet them and their young girls (I'd been hoping for boy playmates for my guys, but I'm happy knowing more small children are moving to the block.)

The second came from our across-the-street neighbors who were hosting a high school graduation party for their daughter. They warned there 'might be extra cars parked on the street' and that it would likely 'be noisy later than usual.'

Again, very neighborly. I mean, it's a quiet street. The noisiest things get -- outside of jumbo jets using the newest O'Hare runway -- is the occasional summer backyard party.

But after the second notice I wondered if we shouldn't send out notices to everyone in a three-block radius, apologizing for the noise that begins in our backyard at about 7 a.m., and, when the windows are open, the ruckus going on indoors all day long. Try as I might, I have not figured out a way to bridle my three boys, to keep them quiet at least until 9 a.m. And it's not just them. My voice tends to rise in order to get the boys' attention or when I join in the games.

So, neighbors, if you're reading, my apologies. There's always, and will always be for the foreseeable future, a cacophony of giggles, cries, yells, screams, growls and other unsettling sounds coming from our home and yard.

Why not come over and join in the fun?

A Funny Thing Happened on The Way to the Remote Control

Crazy things happen on Tuesdays and Thursdays in and around our house. Thursdays have been designated as "tech-free Thursdays" since last summer; and this summer, we, meaning, I, decided Tuesdays would also be free of TV, Wii, Nintendo DSi, Leapster products, computer, etc.

It's not that I dislike any of these forms of entertainment. While I still don't 'get' video games, whether they come on an Atari machine or I-Pad, I see value in them, just as I find value in parking my boys in front of Elmo or Johnny Test for 30 minutes so I can shower or make dinner or take a phone call.

But the oldest of my three boys is, how do I put this, nicely? He's intensely focused. If he's reading a book, he will not notice that his baby brother sitting next to him is on fire. I've been told by "experts" that this intensity will serve him well in life; but I find it bothersome when he's watching TV or playing computer or any of his other electronic pursuits and I cannot get his attention without switching off the main house fuse. Left to his own, this son would be plugged in from when his 6 a.m. internal clock goes off until we force him into bed in the evening.

Hence the daily limits. Everyone has limits. But the totally tech-free days started out as a bold experiment, one that has gone so well that I decided to expand it to two days a week, much to my oldest son's chagrin. (The two younger boys can pretty much take or leave the electronics.)

Rainy days, or bitterly cold days, pose more of a challenge than the nice days. And mornings, especially if I have to do something other than the usual dress/feed/cleanup routine, can also start out rough.

But a funny thing happens every tech-free day. My boys end up playing with each other. Maybe that's what you'd expect them to do, a 9-year-old, 4-year-old and 2-year-old. But they don't. It makes me crazy, especially when the younger ones beg, beg so enthusiastically, to get their big brother to play with them. On a day that he can turn to his electronic crutches, the big brother does. But on the days he can't, well, he eventually gives in and I observe creative play at its best.

Sure, the house usually ends up a complete wreck, with sofa cushions used to build forts or as landing pads, blankets turned into super hero capes, multiple games' pieces strewn about the living room and Lego creations in various forms of completeness littering my dining room table.  

But that's a mess I'm happy to clean up, any day.

Reading is Fun .. da ... Mental

Grandma reads to Andy.

Reading is fundamental.

Fundamentally ruining my life, that is.

I love to read, but I don't have a lot of time to enjoy a good book.

Right now, I'm supposed to be reading The Hobbit so that my 3rd grader and I can discuss it (he's reading it at school.)

But the night after I started The Hobbit, I was already bored with The Hobbit. I think this happened 10 or 20 years ago, when I tried The Hobbit before. So when I went to put away book seven of the Harry Potter series (another group of books I read simply to understand what my 3rd grader was reading), I came across one of the hundreds of books I kept when cleaning out my mother's library. My brothers and I donated hundreds of her books to a local charity's book sale, but I kept a few hundred that I knew I'd want to read some day, some day when I could.

When Kevin asked for butter for his bread at dinner the other night, I explained that I'd mixed up a little olive oil with cheese for the bread. That's when Kevin said, "I hope you get done with this book soon so we can move on, culinarily speaking."

Yes, the night before I had made this rare-for-us heavy pasta dish with roasted peppers, garlic and pepperoni. It was de-lish-us, but totally out of my normal menu plans. Kevin had asked, "why the pasta tonight?" Pasta is a rare treat for us because neither one of us can stick to the suggested serving size.

I answered that I'd eaten very light that day, so I was craving a heavy pasta dinner. But then I realized, my desire for rich Italian food was due to the book I was reading.

Mario Puzo's The Godfather had sucked me in, hook, crook and bullet. My mother had always praised its qualities, but I figured it was just a cheap, stereotypical Italian mobster tale.

But as I dove into the book, I knew, this was one of those books that would take over my life, if even just for a few days. It would challenge me, in that it would challenge my devotion to my health, family and general well-being. I would sneak into the closet after Kevin fell asleep so I could read another chapter; lock myself in the bathroom under the protests of my sons, just to sneak in another page or two; pick the longer drive-through ATM lane to steal another hit, if only a paragraph or two.

Reading is like a drug to me. I have a list longer than Long Island of books I'd like to read, but I purposefully take a month or two off between picking up a book I really want to read. Because I know I will neglect other parts of my life -- basic hygiene sometimes -- when I get grabbed by a good story.

Sometimes I wake up from a good night's sleep not sure if I'd dreamt something, lived it or read it. I confuse characters I've met in books with people I've met in real life. I always figure it out -- reality  vs. fiction, but, still, I recognize a problem when I see one.

Rest assured none of my children has gone hungry or missed school because of my addiction. My work gets done, life, real life, goes on, and once a book is finished, I move on.

I'm looking forward to the summer. My oldest (the soon-to-be-4th-grader) and I are embarking on a book-movie club, where we'll read a book then plan to see the movie based on the book. Think Mr. Popper's Penguins (for current film releases) and Diary of Anne Frank (for older ones).

In that spirit, I suffered through nearly three hours of The Godfather movie the other night. I'd never seen it, but I'd always wanted to. It paled in comparison to the book. The characters weren't rich like they were in the book. Major story lines were left out. I'm sure I irritated Kevin, who'd seen the movie before but humored my obsession, as I would explain little side-notes throughout the movie, such as, "See, in the book, this guy was a freaky little pedophile, which makes the whole horse head thing not as out-of-bounds as it might seem ...".

Here's to a summer of books, maybe a few movies.

Now, what to read next ... ?

Q is for Quitting

There's always soccer.

I informed Luke's piano teacher last week that he has decided to quit his lessons.

His decision, and his parents' acceptance of it, did not come easily, or quickly.

Luke has brought it up a few times over the past six months, but I attributed it every time to wanting to do something other than practice. I took lessons for nearly 12 years, so, I get that. (Mom, can I sign up for cross country? No, you have to practice piano. Mom, can I go play outside with Cath? No, you have to practice. Mom, can I join cheerleading? Oh, yeah, well, I simply didn't make the cut on that one. But never mind, she still would have said I had to practice my piano.)

Luke always seems to get re-energized after a lesson, where the benevolent Ms. Anna works with him and praises him and encourages him. After less than two years of lessons, that kid is better than I am after 12. Yes, I sometimes cringe as I listen to him practice something new, but once he gets the hang of a piece, it really is beautiful.

I have memories of my own piano practices and lessons, and they are not so pretty.

First, there was the problem of our piano being situated in the living room of our modest Georgian. Although some neighbors had 'recreation' rooms in their basements, typically the living room was the general purpose room. It was where we did our homework; it is where our mothers sipped coffee, or martinis, depending on the hour or the mothers, while we played. Most importantly, it was where the TV was and where my parents would watch the 6 p.m. news before we sat down for dinner. And it seemed that no matter what time I sat down to practice, it was inconvenient for my brothers or my parents or I'm sure in some instances, our dogs.

Then there was my teacher, Mrs. Sittner. She was a stout woman with a bottom that would make J.Lo and Beyonce look anorexic today. Must have been all that sitting on piano benches, but that's not my point. She scared me. I'm sure she was a very lovely woman, but I just remember being scared of her. Every Monday I couldn't eat because I knew I had to sit next to her at 4 p.m. and hear her disappointment for 30 minutes.

And, finally, the truth is that I simply have little talent when it comes to music. I can read it. I can appreciate it. But I do not have the gift my maternal grandmother had and which Kevin's side of the family certainly has, and which I think Luke inherited. They had, have, and he has, the ability to hear a piece of music, feel a piece of music, and then bring that music to life.

My parents and my maternal grandparents bought me the piano I played and on which now Luke plays, when I was six years old. It was a big deal, a big expenditure, and they did not let me forget about it. Quitting was not an option in the Bennett household, so we all suffered through until I was a senior in high school and finally convinced my parents a future in music was not to be mine, and I finally quit.

Clearly I'm not over it, but I accepted Luke's decision, albeit with the hope that he'll just take off the summer and pick it up again in the fall. Ms. Anna said she hoped so too.

I've had a week to get used to this, and I'm no longer looking at Luke's quitting as a bad thing. In fact, he has inspired me, and I've begun to quit some of my own "obligations," deciding if I no longer enjoy something, I shouldn't spend my time on it. Thanks, Luke, for showing me the way.

All for One, and One for All?

We've banned the word "mine" in our home. I expect to hear it from the 2-year-old, but it was the 9-year-old's constant use of it that put us over the edge.

"That's mine," Luke yelled when is brother, half his age, came to breakfast wearing an old Megatron costume.

I pointed out that the costume had not fit him since his last growth spurt, the one that's made him tall enough for all the rides at Great America. I added that it was great that TJ was putting the costume to good use, dressing as the megalomaniac character from Transformers to devour his scrambled eggs and sausage.

Later that same day, TJ, always resourceful and curious (read: sneaky and nosey), found a box of very cool Micro Fliers given to Luke a few years ago, and wanted to build some of the planes. Knowing it was Luke's, and knowing that might be a problem, I suggested that TJ and I play them together and have Luke join us when he got home from school.

My bad.

Upon returning from school and seeing us building the Micro Fliers, the older brother screamed, "Those are mine. You are ruining them."

Gosh, I thought we were playing with them. Don't you want to play with them, I asked Luke. "No, I want to keep them nice."

Clearly, I've got bigger problems if that's what he really thinks. Is there a Future Hoarders of America he could join at school?

So I've stopped trying to make things 'fair,' when it comes to managing the material wants and desires of my three boys. Their toys and games no longer have my protection. You don't want your brother to play with that? Too bad. Jealous of that birthday gift Aunt Jen gave your brother? Don't worry, he'll share. No excuses, no exceptions.

The toy room is open for business, and I suspect things might get a little rough.

Division of Labor




Things can get pretty messy at our house!



Despite my husband's and my own modern thinking about our roles as husband/father and wife/mother, the division of labor in our home has fallen along traditional gender lines.

He handles most of the outside work; I, most of the inside chores. Unfortunate for both of us and our three sons, I'm not really good at the inside work.

First, I'm not a good cook. It's true. I get it done. No one goes hungry, and our meals are generally nutritious and, except for a weekly pizza night or restaurant visit, home made. I have a few really good go-to recipes that make everyone happy, but anytime I try something new, the whining is deafening. For the most part, I can't blame them. When company comes calling, it's Kevin in charge, and I'm demoted to sous chef/dishwasher. I consider myself the "Monday-Friday Cook" and let Kevin hold the "Weekend Wonder Cook" title.

House cleaning is a different story. I am actually quite good at it and enjoy an orderly, squeaky clean home. Unfortunately, I don't get to enjoy that very often. Some time after son #2 came along, the mandatory floor-sweeping, counter-disinfecting, dish-washing, laundry-folding, bed-sheets-changing, and so on, took so much out of my day that I ran out of time to actually clean the house. You know, wipe down the floorboards. Wash a window. Clean a bath tub.

Which is why I finally broke down and hired a cleaning service. Or at least I thought I did. Looks like we were one-and-done. That's not a good sign about the condition of my home.

I hired this lovely woman through the recommendation of the previous owners of my house. She quoted me a price. It was too high. We negotiated and settled on an amount I felt I could live with, even if it meant giving up my Starbucks habit. It would be worth it.

She and a friend came last week. I was sooooo excited. The boys were excited. They understood that Mommy might be a little happier and more fun if she weren't freaking out about how dirty the house was and how much time she had to spend trying to clean it. I am constantly reminding them that the more time I have to clean up after them, the less time I have to play with them.

The two women worked up a good sweat working the house top to bottom. They kept coming to me asking for this product or that product that they needed to get the job done right. Most of the items I found for them under a sink or buried in the basement, but I didn't have a certain rough-sided sponge they wanted to clean the tub.

The conversation about the sponge went pretty much like this: Nice Cleaning Lady, "No, it's a sponge with green on one side, kind of rough, you know." Me, "Hmmm. No. I only have these sponges for the kitchen." Nice Cleaning Lady, a bit disgusted, "Then, how did you ever clean your bathtub?" Me, "Ummmmmm?"

I couldn't admit that I'd obviously been cleaning it wrong, when I actually did clean it, all these years.



Less time spent cleaning=more dancing!

At the end of the four hours, my house was definitely in better shape. I paid the Nice Cleaning Lady, and she told me that she underestimated how much time it would take to clean my house, and that her price had to remain at her original suggested amount.
I like a clean house, but I also like heat, electricity and cooking gas. It was just too much money for me to pay. So I thanked her, sat down on my clean couch, picked up my clean phone, and started calling for other estimates.

In fact, I just met with a woman who quoted me half of what the first woman wants. We'll give her a try next week. I just watched her drive off in her Lexus. House cleaning pays pretty well indeed.

Affairs of the Heart

If you are not a mass media consumer, you may not realize that February is Hearth Health Awareness month. I can only guess Valentine's Day prompted some marketing gurus at the American Heart Association to build a month of helpful information about our well-being around a well-engrained Hallmark holiday.

But I knew. I'd told myself years ago that when I turned 40, I was going to Heart Check America or a company like it to get my ol' ticker checked out, top to bottom. The deadline was due to losing both parents to heart failure before either reached age 70. Although there were other factors that led to their premature and sudden deaths, I sort of figured, I'd better keep on top of this.

At age 40, however, I was busy seeing my ob/gyn thanks to a wonderfuly suprising pregnancy that gave us our third son, and my attention was deflected from my heart's health to my fetus' health.

But my heart's back on my radar. I don't think it's good enough that I have run six or seven marathons and countless halfs, 10Ks, 5Ks. It's not good enough that I try to eat well. It's not good enough that I prefer my alcohol to come in the form of red, heart-healthy, wine or that my sweet tooth prefers the dark chocolate to other types. There are genetics at work here, and if there's something I need to know, I want to know it now and deal with it. Because let's face it, I'm going to be 60 years old when my baby (pictured) graduates from college, assuming he's on the 4-year-plan.

That's why tomorrow I head over to a local hospital for the whole work out. I hope the screenings for my lipid profile, glucose, blood pressure, and the like will confirm what I already know: I might want to lose a few pounds but otherwise, I'm heart healthy.

Heart disease is the #1 killer in America. C'mon, friends, get yours checked out, and if it's not in tip-top shape, do something about it now, not later.

With a glass of Cab-in-hand, cheeers!

FB: I Can't Quit You

Jennifer Price's still-life photography. Cool, huh?

Was my life better before Facebook? Or was I isolated, voiceless and friendless? I don't think so, but suffice it to say I don't remember life before Facebook. And I'm having a difficult time picturing a future without it, although I am trying.

I signed up several years ago, rather reluctantly. I felt like a 40-something-old woman trying to wear a swim suit more appropriate for the 20-year-old woman I once was. It was a bit uncomfortable.

We were forming a church social group made up of families with young children, and it was suggested to us, by a much younger church member, that FB might be the easiest way to communicate with one another and to plan events. So I checked out this -- until-that-day-unknown-to-me-social networking site -- and began to see that other folks I knew were 'on it,' too.

And that is where the madness was born. Like someone taking her first hit of crack cocaine, I was hooked.

Many good outcomes I owe to FB.

It has been great to reconnect with high school friends, many of whom I was not particularly close to in high school. But getting reacquainted on FB has been a pleasant way to see that we all survived that experience and went on to become successful in various walks of life. FB has allowed us to support one another in ways we probably would not have without FB and to nurture once-dormant friendships.

It's also been great keeping in touch with old work colleagues. As someone on the eighth year of her Motherhood Sabbatical, it keeps me connected to a world I'm no longer part of and helps me see that the grass is not always greener on the corporate side of life. When I see posts from friends stuck on afternoon-long conference calls or griping about their morning commute, I think, "ah, yes, I am thankful for that baby puke I just cleaned off the couch."

Like you, I have family on FB. A few of them I talk to regularly anyway but for many others, FB has created a form of communication that had been lacking in our lives. I'm thankful for that.

I'm also thankful to have a forum to share some of the amusing antics my children pull every day. And believe me, I filter my posts. For every "Andy just ate a bagel he put in the toilet" post, there are 10 others even worse that I felt I'd better not share for fear a social services agency rep might come knocking on my door.

But I'm getting a bit bored. I'm feeling less and less fulfilled when I troll friends' FB posts. I'm beginning to wonder if, instead of posting about whether I should run outside pushing the stroller or haul my butt to the gym, that maybe I should pick up the phone and see if a friend wants to work out with me? Instead of sending someone a FB message, should I simply pick up the phone and talk to that friend? Instead of wishing my college roommate "happy birthday" on her Wall, why not send her a real card?

Time. That's what my Dark Side is telling me. "Karen, you do not have the time to call and write friends individually." But don't I? Isn't that just the addict in me talking? How much more time does it take to pick up the phone, hit a speed dial, and say "happy birthday" or "how are you feeling" or "do you want to grab lunch today?"

I've decided I can't quit FB cold turkey, nor do I want to quit it completely. It has its place. I learn things about friends and the world I might not have a chance to learn without logging in once in a while. For friends living or traveling abroad, I live vicariously through their photos and posts. With friends more attuned to social and political issues I'm interested in, I am alerted when it is time to act. Local businesses let me know when there's a particularly good deal or a change in hours that I need to know.

No, I can't quit you, FB. But I can keep you in perspective. You can't take the place of human interaction, of real friendships, of the long talks with friends or of the hugs I need when feeling low or the celebratory kiss when called for.

So, call me sometime. Let's grab some coffee.

Excuse Me, But This is a Gas!

Bacon, Jr., one of the boys' two pigs, a future source of gas.

I read recently that the Southeastern African country of Malawi is looking to outlaw passing gas in public. How such a ban could be enforced is my first question. My second question (well, a series of questions, really): is this the country's biggest problem? This is what its government is working on? Not that we Americans don't have a few silly laws on the books, too, but, really?

In any case, it's a good thing my boys don't live in Malawi.

Mothering three boys has meant an extreme lowering of my standards in many areas. I've mentioned bathroom sanitation before in this space, but I'll say it again. The boys' shared toilet requires a hazmat suit to clean. The KBB (Karen Before Boys) would never have tolerated that level of filth.

Weekly manicures went the way of the daily newspaper. I mean, what is the point of trying? (Clearly newspaper publishers feel the same way.)

And, of course, I have to admit that poop, fart and butt jokes sometimes actually make me smile, albeit under my stern, scolding face.

The best I can hope for when it comes to my boys' passing of the gas is that they say "excuse me" when it occurs. That is, of course, after they explain what it is they just "said" with their farts and burps. Yep, that's the latest, greatest trick around here -- forming words with their expressed gas.

Like I said, my standards are reaching new lows.

Excuse me.

I'm No Tiger Mom

I'm no Tiger Mom; in fact, I'm a sort of Hostess Suzy Q sort of Mom, all soft filling inside, and, well, pretty soft on the outside, too.

Yesterday I sat next to a whiny nearly-9-year-old on the piano bench. This son hadn't practiced his piano for three days, much less for hours a day without being allowed to have a drink of water or take a pee break. He struggled with his review pieces in his second-level book. He said "You see, Mom, I'm no good at anything."

No, I don't see. I see that you haven't looked at these pieces in weeks or months in some cases, and your teacher asked that you review them before moving on to the next book. That's why we are sitting here together, reviewing pieces you had once mastered. I thought but didn't share: this is no picnic for me, either, buddy.

The whining was deafening and annoying, and I probably shouldn't tolerate it, but when a child tells me "I'm no good at anything," it is not in my nature to berate him and yell. Instead, I coddle and hug.

If that means I'm a soft, Western sort of parent and that my son's chances of playing at Carnegie Hall are nil, well, then I'm guilty as charged.

Hugs.

It Doesn't all Suck

Today I was on a filled-to-capacity, three-to-a-seat school bus, representing just a fraction of my son's entire third grade class. We were off to a Chicago Wolves game, a brilliant marketing coup by the hockey league to lure young children into the lair of professional hockey.

Everyone was given a Legoland-sponsored "Get Schooled By Skates" (the Wolves' mascot, who made a personal appearance to the class last week ... very cool) 'workbook' and encouraged to study Wolves Geography (Boris Valabik comes from Slovakia ... is that in Europe, Asia, Africa ... etc.) as well as math (what is the volume of the puck?) and other clever exercises to make hockey an educational experience. Sharp marketing.

The group of 140-plus children was really amazingly well mannered. Not that I was surprised. My kid's a good kid, and all his friends are good kids, so why wouldn't the class as a whole be, well, good kids, right?

But a couple of things put me off-kilter. One was the fact that most of these kids could recite the words to every Katy Perry and Beyonce and Black Eyed Peas and Brittney Spears song ever aired. I asked one cherubic little girl, "What radio station should I listen to in order to hear these songs?", because, in fact, most of them I'd never heard in my life. "B-96 or Kiss-FM," she replied. So I did, on my drive home. Yikes! I do realize that they have no idea what the lyrics to these songs mean, but I had to be at least 14 or 15 before the music I listened to made my parents cringe.

Times, they are a-changing.

The more disturbing development was the use of the word "suck" and the general unsportsmanlike behavior at the stadium. On the bus, a few boys around me started a "Chicago Wolves Suck" chant, until I, in my best Wicked Witch of the East Side of Prospect voice, told them that their choice of language was highly inappropriate.

Then there was the booing at the stadium when the opposing team took the ice. Granted, I don't get out much, and maybe that's the way it's played these days, or the way it's played at hockey games, but booing, I thought, should be reserved to gross misconduct by a player or official? And it was the entire stadium, which was filled with elementary and middle school children from the entire metropolitan area, not just to our group of third graders.

It was just eye-opening to me. That's all I'm saying. Not judging.

But two truths made my day. The first was when a few students seated behind me reacted to some very rough play against the glass. "Well, he's just being a bully, isn't he?" one said while the others agreed.

The other truth was when at home later I asked Luke what he liked best about the field trip. His answer: the mechanical pencil he received from his teacher to fill out the workbook.

Let's just say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

The Princess and the Pee

The turning of the calendar is always a good time to think about what I might want to do differently in the new year, but I don't make official new year resolutions. I just quietly file away my self-improvement ideas deep in my consciousness and hope to do a little better this year than last, no matter what the topic (money, diet, patience).

I made one of those un-official resolutions on January 1st with my boys: mark my words, we are going to try our best to not rack up library late fines in 2011. Our municipal library could create The Burkum Brothers Reading Nook after the fines it collected from us last year.

So I hopped on the library website to check what was due and when. Immediately, I thought there must be some mistake; this can't be my account. Among the expected Goosebumps for Luke and the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series for Kevin & me, I saw:

Tales of friendship [videorecording (DVD)
Snow White and the seven dwarfs [videorecording (DVD)]
Beauty shines from within [videorecording (DVD)
Enchanted tales. Follow your dreams [videorecording (DVD)
Disney princess. Enchanted journey [electronic resource (Wii)

But I don't have any daughters, I thought. Then I remembered, ah, yes, TJ is in his Princess Stage. And he's holding on to it with dear life.

Luke went through his Princess Stage around the same age rather quietly and without incident. Now that TJ is in his, Luke is not making it easy for him. The more Luke says, "that's for girls," the more TJ says "NO IT'S NOT. I LIKE PRINCESSES. THEY ARE NICE. YOU ARE NOT NICE. YOU ARE NOT A PRINCESS."

Like Luke at the same age, TJ is challenged with staying dry at night, so even though he's been in underpants since a few months after he turned two (although lately he has chosen to go commando most days), he wears pullups at night, just in case.

So of course he is wearing princess pullups.

That doesn't bother me. What bothers me are these princess DVDs. Not that he wants to watch them; but I watched one with him, and I was appalled. I thought I'd time-travelled back to 1953. This is what we're still feeding little girls, and the occasional boy in touch with his princess side? I thought we dropped that whole "prince saves the day" fairy tale soon after Prince Charles and Princess Diana called it quits? I had no idea they still made these stories, and that girls still watched them. Someone should be ashamed.

Our DVDs are on their way back to the library, on time I might add. While TJ's princess stage continues (remarkably longer than Luke's), he'll just have to settle for his princess coloring books.

Oh, and the pullups. Of course, the pullups. A diaper-free house is the real fairy tale here.