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  1. Am I Cut Out for the PTO?

    June 14, 2013 by admin

    I volunteered to be PTO secretary for next year.

    I. Volunteered. To. Be. PTO. Secretary. Next Year.

    I had to say it twice, the second time with utter f’ing bewilderment at my own actions because I’ve never done anything so f’ing crazy in my life.

    Before you laugh, maybe you don’t understand. There are slacker moms. There are regular moms. And then there are PTO moms. Me? I migrate between slacker and regular, and on any given day could be either one. The split is generally 70/30, give or take.

    On a slacker day, I start packing my kid’s lunch at 7:35 to make a 7:45 bus and somehow think this is an acceptable form of scheduling. Or, at 7:38, I am trying to check the school’s lunch menu online while my computer is updating itself and the screen is flickering because of some technical issue I was supposed to check into last year while my toddler stands next to me and is trying to pound the keys with sticky little fingers curled around chewed bits of bagel. On a slacker day, I forget to sign permission slips. Or make a donation for a teacher gift. Or make sure the kids are dressed in red, white and blue or wearing a silly hat, or mismatched socks or a Red Sox shirt. On a slacker day, I am afraid of commitment. I say no to playdates. No to meetings. No to any other get-together which would require me to shower or clean the bathroom. On a slacker day, my house is turned upside down in a matter of minutes because I am so goddamned disorganized. I can’t find water bottles or clean socks or library books or take-home folders or eye glasses or really any of the basic necessities needed for school EVERY. F’ING. DAY. because that’s the way I roll. I’m a free thinker. A rebel. Not beholden to the tedious confines of everyday life. F U and your stupid rules.

    Now on a regular mom day, I am much more in control and rational. I hand our Box Tops in on time. I review the lunch menu while drinking my first cup of coffee. I have read the contents of the take-home folders the night before so I know, say, that Water Day has been rescheduled and my son won’t be the only preschooler showing up to school in a bathing suit and water shoes and slathered from head to toe in thick, white sunscreen wondering where all the sprinklers are. On a regular mom day, I know what we’re having for dinner before 6pm and may even have all the ingredients to actually cook it so I don’t have to text my husband on his way home from work with some request from the grocery store. I remember what day of the week it is and where we have to be after school (mostly) and if there are any major events that would traumatize my children to miss.

    But never. ever. have I been a PTO mom. Ever.

    These moms are like the Sheryl Sandbergs of the PTO scene. They lean way in and take control. Get things done. They make it their business to make sure things are running smoothly come hell or high water. They create flow charts and color-coded spreadsheets. They make lists and cross them off. They schedule meetings and attend them. They meet challenges with fire in their eyes. There is no cause, no event, no school-related issue they can’t handle. They have ideas and goals and ways and means to see that they are reached. They communicate. They delegate. They collaborate. And do a lot of other things that end in “ate.” They wield their organizational powers like a sword. They are the kind of moms you don’t want to meet in a dark alley after you’ve voted “No” on an override.

    So what the hell am I doing here?

    I’m not sure. Part of it was peer pressure. The other part was the encouragement I got from those around me. Represent the slacker moms! The regular moms! The moms who have no idea what the hell is going on, but mean well nonetheless, they seemed to be saying. Give these moms a voice! Be the catalyst for change in PTO’s all over the world.  Show slacker moms and regular moms everywhere that we don’t have to shy away from being heard because of our disorganization or seeming lack of passion.

    We absolutely need the PTO moms to get the job done. But maybe, just maybe, there’s room on the PTO board for moms like me too. I’ll let you know next September.

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  2. Because it’s all good

    June 5, 2013 by admin

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    I don’t want to be as nonchalant as Pete about everything going on around me, but sometimes an attitude like his is completely necessary. Keep calm and carry on.

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  3. THIS is the Unofficial Start of Summer?

    May 26, 2013 by admin

    Readers Beware: Most of this short post is going to be a total downer, an all-out bitchfest about the non-epic start of our three-day weekend. List form for your convenience.

    We just finished watching an excellent win by the Boston Bruins to clinch the Eastern Conference Semi Finals series against the New York Rangers, which at least ends today on a positive note. But the start of our long weekend hasn’t exactly been stellar. Here’s why.

    1. Friday night movie and wine plans destroyed. Epic battle to try and get belligerent toddler to go to sleep fails and we end up letting her jump on the couch until 10:30pm, when Braedan wakes up with excruciating ear pain. He’s crying and being really obstinate, which makes it REALLY hard to be sympathetic. I give Braedan medicine; we put the two of them back to bed, whisper “Go the f*ck to sleep” under our breath. I look longingly at the Blu Ray of Argo that’s been sitting on our TV stand for weeks. We shut off the lights; go to bed.

    2. We are woken at 2am, and then again at 6am. More ear pain and other, more unspeakable problems. During the second wake up call, everyone winds up in our bed. The kids flail around, ask for breakfast multiple times, complain about being uncomfortable, talk and talk and talk and generally just make it unpleasant to be there. Rich gets up first with Colin, then I get up a little while later with Braedan, feeling tired and grouchy and in a general hazy fog.

    3. We start doing chores because the house is a disaster. Legos everywhere. The dining room table covered in shit (figurative) and piles of unfolded laundry covering every seat in the house.

    4. Rich tries to upload videos from his fancy new video camera onto our computer only to realize the computer has no memory left. Gets really grouchy. Starts lecturing me about responsibility. I get defensive and give him my death stare.

    5. Boys bicker, misbehave and are put in many consecutive timeouts.

    6. Oh yeah. It’s f*cking pouring cats and dogs outside.

    7. I call the doctor’s office to see if they can fit Aria and Braedan in during their Saturday sick visits. They can. And I take them to the doctor’s – but not before I consider stopping off for a couple of HAZMAT suits. I sit in the waiting room feeling suddenly ultra self-conscious about my flip-flopped, pedicure-less feet and watch as a roomful of sick kids play and share toys. F*ck. It’s only a matter of time now, I think. After 20 minutes, we are called in. Braedan: flaming ear infection; Aria: just some leftover fluid.

    8. We come home grouchy. The kids complain about the tuna sandwiches I make them for lunch. Rich loses all his videos in the madness and confusion. I put Aria down for a nap.

    9. Braedan refuses to eat his lunch. I put it in a baggie. Rich waits 45 minutes for Colin to finish his sandwich so they can go food shopping and I can write while Braedan watches a movie. Colin stalls. Talks gibberish and screams at random intervals. Rich waits, gets angrier as time passes. Finally he gives up and watches the Lion King with both boys instead. I eat leftover Tofu Pad Thai while I write, listening with one ear as Pumbaa and Timon sing Hakuna Matata. I love that song.

    10. Movie over, Rich tries to get Braedan to relax and read; Braedan gets mad, throws the book to the ground then gets put into a time out, threatened with various punishments and then sent for a nap. (I think about throwing my computer to the ground in the hopes that I’ll get sent for a nap but decide that wouldn’t be the best example.) Rich takes Colin to run errands. A while later, I text him a picture of Aria and I smiling, with the caption “We love you.” He texts me back saying he’s been pulled over for his expired inspection sticker. I’ve been reminding him about that inspection sticker for months. Geez. Then my phone rings and it’s Rich asking me if my license has expired. “Why?” I ask. The officer that pulled him over asks if his wife’s name is Michelle. When he tells the officer yes, the officer answers, “You should let her know she’s driving with an expired license.” I hang up the phone, check my wallet. Yes. Expired. Nearly a year ago. WTF. Renew immediately online. Rich comes home and says never to remind him of the laws he’s been breaking.

    11. People are getting hungry but I’ve prepared nothing for dinner. By this time the Bruins’ game is about to start. So I give the kids meals of varying acceptability. Braedan: his leftover tuna sandwich, pasta salad and corn; Colin, a turkey and cheese sandwich, pasta salad and corn; Aria: a reheated chicken patty, three French fries, corn and blueberries. But I serve dinner on paper plates on a mat on the floor in front of the TV, tell them it’s a picnic. Suddenly, their dinners are fun and exciting and things are looking up around here.

    Category Uncategorized | Tags: | 3 Comments

  4. This Just Can’t be Normal

    May 15, 2013 by admin

    Sometimes I think we’re a fairly normal family. Other times, I wonder if we are fit to socialize with our fellow human beings.

    You tell me.

    Here was the scene at my house this morning:

    Everything was going along smoothly. People were eating breakfast. Others were getting dressed. No one was screaming or crying or knocking each other’s heads into the wall. So I sat down to take a sip of coffee and get a couple of quick things done on my computer.

    Then I looked up at the time on the screen.

    Then I went into drill sergeant mode.

    “We’re going to miss the bus! Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go!”

    Our bus routine is timed to the minute. We walk out our door at exactly 7:41, by the kitchen clock. My computer screen said 7:41.

    I sprung into action, checked the kitchen clock. 7:44.

    My crowning achievement has been that we have never missed the bus. And now we were in danger of doing just that because EVERY FREAKING CLOCK IN OUR HOUSE IS SET TO A DIFFERENT TIME! And because I let my guard down. NEVER let your guard down.

    The time on my phone is different from my computer is different from the kitchen is different from the family room.

    It’s only by a matter of a minute or two, but a minute is critical to our success. Stray just a little and despite our best efforts, despite huffing and puffing and flailing our arms, we’ll see nothing but tail lights as we round the corner. And drop off at the elementary school is something I have absolutely no interest in. Not the way I am dressed (flannel snowman pajama pants). Not the way my hair is matted on one side, sticking straight up on the other, in true Flock of Seagulls fashion.

    I start screaming.

    “We’re going to miss the bus!!!”

    This doesn’t raise an eyebrow with my 8-year-old. At first. Mostly because I say this EVERY morning. Then we get to the bus stop and 99.9 percent of the time, we are the first ones there and my son looks at me with great disdain.

    Then I scream again. Louder. I am not acting like a sane person whose child is about to miss his bus to school. I am acting as if there is a wildfire burning in the middle of our dining room and we are all in serious danger of perishing. And if I have learned anything about raising a family, it’s that the children pick up whatever the mother is dropping.

    And I am dropping a lot of craziness.

    My son begins to exaggerate his movements in anger. He’s “trying” to put his coat on really fast, but puts it on backwards, while he is also trying to put his shoes on while I am running around, flinging random food items into his lunchbox for snack. I imagine I hear the school bus roaring down the street.

    “Come on! Let’s go!” I yell.

    “What do you think I’m doing? What the heck?” My son is also yelling now. My 4-year-old is covering his ears at the breakfast table. My 18-month-old is just smiling, but it’s one of those smiles she’s giving me in the hopes that I’ll smile back at her. She’s hoping beyond hope that her family hasn’t finally just lost it.

    “Why are you freaking out?” I yell at the 8-year-old.

    Hold up. I know exactly why he is freaking out. Because I am freaking out. Big time. But in the moment, I can’t get a grip and I am barking orders at him, glaring while he tries to straighten out the back of his shoe to fit his foot in and sling his backpack over his back.

    “This is the latest we’ve ever been!” I say predictably. Me with my Flock of Seagulls hair and snowman pajama pants.

    And in this exact moment, I believe – no, I know – I have lost just a little bit of my children’s respect. And respect is hard to come by.

    We finally get out the door.

    “Run!” I yell, and I begin to run down the street in my flip flops. My 8-year-old jogs behind me.

    “Why did you call me a freak?” he’s yelling.

    “I didn’t!” I call behind me. “I asked why you were freaking out! Let’s go!”

    We round the corner and there is no one there. “See. We’re the first ones! We’re not late!” my son yells spitefully. The bus pulls down the street. We walk up to the stop. I take a deep breath and give my son a kiss on the cheek, as sweetly as I can. “Have a great day!” I say cheerfully. The other children run to catch the bus while my son sits down, begins chatting with a friend.

    The bus starts to pull away.

    But not before I notice that there is a little girl staring at me through the window. She doesn’t look happy. In fact, she looks a little angry. Then I remember my Flock of Seagulls hair and snowman pajama pants and turn to walk home. Laughing all the way.

    Category Family Life | Tags: , , , | 2 Comments

  5. All About Me

    May 13, 2013 by admin

     

    As part of my Mother’s Day gift, I received the below sheet tucked inside a handmade card from my 4-year-old. Let’s explore his answers.

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    1. My mom is 13 years old.

    (False)

    So he’s 4 and clearly has no concept of age. And if the above answer isn’t enough evidence of that, since he turned 4 just two months ago, he’s woken up every morning since to ask if he’s 5 yet. When I opened my card this morning and read this answer out loud, my 8-year-old burst into laughter, to which Colin replied, “Are you 13 years old, mommy?!” “No,” I said. Colin sort of shook his head, looking incredulous. “Well you didn’t tell me how old you are. So I didn’t know!”

    I could have explained to him that if I was currently 13 years old that would have made me 9 when he was born, and 9 is just about the same age as your older brother, Colin, and you see, to have a baby when you are still in elementary school, well, it’s just not possible. (Why?) Well, a girl just can’t have a baby when she’s that young. (Why?) You have to be older to have a baby. (Why?) A girl’s body usually isn’t ready to have a baby at 9 and you have to…and you can see why I wouldn’t start that conversation at the breakfast table before I’d finished my first cup of coffee. So I just said, “Close enough, buddy.”

     

    2. My Mom’s favorite color is blue.

    (Neutral)

    Eh. I like blue, but I wouldn’t necessarily call it my favorite color. But I’ll let this one go. In the grand scheme of things, misrepresenting my favorite color really won’t make or break things.

     

    3. My mom’s favorite food is meatloaf.

    (False)

    Well, I do enjoy a good meatloaf every now and then. But no, Colin, meatloaf is not my favorite food. When you picture a woman who says meatloaf is her favorite food, do you not think of one of the following: 1. an old lady who goes to the Country Buffet on Sunday afternoons, 2. a stout female wearing a “Where’s the beef?” t-shirt that’s just a little too tight around the midsection or 3. Paula Deen?

     

    4. My mom cooks the best grilled cheese.

    (True)

    So, this sentence brings up a whole lot of mixed emotions. I am humbled by the fact that Colin believes I make the best grilled cheese sandwiches. Truly, I am. Especially because he does so love the kids grilled cheeses at Panera. However, I generally pride myself on making things that are slightly more complicated. And I sometimes wish my kids would recognize, yo. But of course my kids rarely touch any meal made with more than 2 ingredients (grilled cheese, mac and cheese, pasta and red sauce…you get the idea) so I am destined to be renowned for my grilled cheeses and looked down upon by moms whose kids eat tilapia, beets and Brussels sprouts.

     

    5. My mom’s job is to play with me.

    (Hmmm.)

    There is so much I could say about this. But who needs to read yet another mom blogger listing all of the things she does during the course of the day. So yes, Colin, I say, that is basically my job. To make sure you are thoroughly entertained 24/7.

     

    6. My mom and I like to play Candy Land.

    (False. I prefer Chutes & Ladders)

    Well, this makes me feel like a real arse because Colin and I haven’t played Candy Land in weeks. In fact we’ve been so busy, we’ve hardly even looked at any board games in recent days.

    And so when I read this, my mind starts wandering and I begin to fear that his little 4-year-old subconscious is trying to mock and scold me and expose his resentment of my recent non-game-playing. I immediately make a mental note to play 100 games of Candy Land this week. (Mommy guilt.)

     

    7. I love my mom because she reads to me.

    (True)

    This is totally true. I do read to him. Especially in the afternoons when I am so tired already that I want him to lie in bed and potentially fall asleep. But honestly, reading to my kids is one of my favorite things, because it’s one of the few activities during which I actually feel relaxed and in the moment. And I think the kids can sense this, which is why we read together often.

     

    Happy Mother’s Day!

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  6. How We’ll Get Our Groove Back

    May 6, 2013 by admin

    Whoa. Before you think this is some raunchy post about my sex life, back. the. truck. up. That’s just not my style.

    This is, however, a post about how relationships can sometimes go temporarily AWOL amid the craziness of kids and life and how we plan to bring it on home.

    Step 1: Get a babysitter.

    We haven’t had one in over two years, since our beloved Lily left. She was terrific. She was outgoing, personable, hard-working and most of all, she really seemed to love the kids. And they adored her. It sucked when she left. (I realize that it sort of sounds like I am talking about her posthumously, but she only left for college). So shortly after Lily abandoned us (just kidding, Lily. I know a higher education is a valuable commodity and we have finally forgiven you), we began once again to call upon Grammy to make the 2-hour trek from Rhode Island to watch the kids whenever an event came up. Obviously, the kids love when Grammy comes, and Grammy loves to see the kids. But it turns out to be an entire weekend event. Not fair, really. For anyone. But most of all for Grammy because due to the quaint size of our home (it’s not acceptable anymore to call your house “small;” It ruins its market value and makes your house feel bad), she is forced to sleep on the couch in our family/tv/playroom and is subject to extra early wake-up calls from grandchildren demanding Cheerios and peanut butter toast.

    Not only that, but entrusting the kids only to Grammy really doesn’t allow for spontaneous dinner plans. (And just for the record, spontaneous in parents-speak means a few days of planning as opposed to weeks.)

    We talked about getting a babysitter. A lot. But I just never did it. It always got pushed to the end of my endless to-do list. I never should have let it linger so long.

    But a few weeks ago I went to a babysitter open house sponsored by the local Youth Services. It was sort of like speed-dating for childcare. The girls were there with their resumes and sweet smiles and I got a few minutes to ask them questions about themselves and feel out their personalities. I don’t know why, but it made me nervous, kind of like when I interview someone important for a news or feature story I’m writing. I tried to eavesdrop on some of the other parents’ conversations so I could use their questions, but then I began to feel like I was cheating on a test. So I just asked some standards: How would you handle a four-alarm fire? Are you a kleptomaniac? Do you like Nutella?

    Anyway, I called one of the girls later and she and her mom came over to meet the kids. The kids seemed to like her. My older son was excited that she plays lacrosse and said she has a “good” name. My younger son kept bringing out different Lego creations to show off to her. And baby girl just sat on my lap and smiled. Hired.

    Step 2: Realize there’s more to spending time together than watching episodes of Walking Dead on demand.

    It’s not that we don’t want to spend time together. It’s just that we’re always so damned busy. And always so damned tired. (And we’re really into Walking Dead right now.) We’re rushing off to lacrosse or hockey or karate or meetings or the gym or some other obligation that takes away time for each other. There’s my writing. There’s Rich’s coaching. Rich tries to make sure he spends time with each of our kids before bed. And I try and make sure the kitchen doesn’t look like an episode of Hell’s Kitchen gone crazy at the end of the night. Once the kids are in bed and we realize Father Time has totally f*cked us over – again – about all we have the energy for is TV. Especially since our third child came along, our “together” time has mainly consisted of parking ourselves on the couch and watching television and drinking wine after the kids go to bed. Inevitably, one (or both) of us falls asleep, then we’ll wake up while the credits are rolling – all groggy and grumpy – and drag our asses to bed for a restless sleep during which 1, 2 or all 3 kids are sure to wake up at some point in the night. 

    The other night, we scheduled ourselves to just sit down and talk. I mean just to shoot the shit, we had to actually plan ahead for it. “No TV tonight,” we texted. “Just sitting down and talking.”

    That’s when I realized that no matter how often I tell myself, “There’s always time,” time is quickly slipping through our fingers.  I don’t want to wake up 17 years from now (yikes!), when our youngest is off to college, turn to Rich and say, “Who the F are you again?” By that time, he may not even be able to hear me say it, but the sentiment will still be there.

    So now that we have a babysitter, we need to make sure we use her. Regularly. And shut off the TV (sometimes).

    Step 3: Setting priorities

    Yes. The house should be somewhat habitable. We should have food to eat, and some clean clothes to wear. We’ll still play board games with the kids. And take them to all their activities. And go to our meetings. And coach. And work on the next great American novel. And spend time with friends. All the things that are important to us make us better people, and therefore better parents. But these priorities often pit us against each other. Once all these things are done, there’s not much left but sleep (and Walking Dead). So something’s got to give. At least sometimes. I want to be old and gray and still whooping it up with my other half.

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  7. Stuff my Kids Said

    April 25, 2013 by admin

    Kids say weird and funny shit. Here’s some stuff my kids said recently.

    • I was cleaning out the refrigerator and Braedan saw me throwing away some old antibiotics.

    Braedan: Are those mine? (In a panicked sort of voice)

    Me: Yes.

    Braedan: I didn’t finish them?

    Me, exasperated: Yes, honey. You took what you needed. These were the leftovers.

    Braedan: Can you save those? You know, for a treat?

    I give a WTF look

    Braedan: What? They taste so good.

     

    • A conversation about Star Wars.

    Braedan: The Sith troopers are from the Old Republican.

    Me: I think you mean Old Republic. Not Old Republican.

    Braedan: Oh. That would be Mitt Romney, right?

     

    • Colin had been building a dog out of Legos, and we were talking about the various aspects of his creation while he waited for his breakfast. 

    Colin: Speaking of dogs, can we get one after I eat my oatmeal?

     

    • We were driving by a new house being built. 

    Colin: Why aren’t we moving there?

    Me: Why would we move there?

    Colin: Because I think a new house would have lots of cool new toys for me to play with.

     

    • Colin: Can Gavin have a sleepover with us? 

    Me: Maybe

    Colin: Maybe means yes, right Mom?

     

    • Colin, looking at a picture of his baby sister on my phone: I SO love her. I could never punch her in the face. 

    (WTF? Ok, clearly, he’s already punched her in the face.)

     

    • Bonus: A Colin Joke

    Colin: What did the car say to the cow?

    Me: What?

    Colin: Why are you in front of me?

    (He bursts into laughter. So I try to test his own joke-making method on him.)

    Me: What did the baby say to the tree?

    Colin: What?

    Me: Hi.

    (He erupts into laughter. And I love his enthusiasm, but remind me to cross off stand-up comedy as a possible job  option for him.)

     

     

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  8. Thoughts on A Tragedy

    April 17, 2013 by admin

     

    My boys are in the family room watching Star Wars, curled up comfortably on the couch after a morning of playing outside in the sunshine.

    I am in the next room looking at a picture of 8-year-old Martin William Richard. He wears a toothy grin and a Boston Bruins sweatshirt and hat. Judging from the sea of yellow surrounding him, he’s at the Garden, enjoying warm-ups before a hockey game, probably accompanied by his dad, maybe his mom, or perhaps even his whole family.

    His toothy grin and attire remind me so much of my own 8-year-old, who loves the Boston Bruins and whose smile is crowded with teeth his mouth is not yet big enough to accommodate. Like my 8-year-old, Martin has a brother and a sister who adore him. He has parents who love him fiercely. He has classmates and friends. He has hobbies and interests. Likes and dislikes.

    But Martin William Richard is dead. And my son is alive. Thank God, my son is very much alive.

    I can’t even begin to imagine what madness drove someone to detonate two bombs Monday at the Boston Marathon, a day where all of Boston – and the world – gathers to celebrate life, spring, camaraderie and a love of running. I don’t know why the fuck someone out there thinks answers come in the form of violence, destruction and the taking of innocent lives. I don’t know how you pick up the pieces and carry on when all you’ll ever see of that toothy grin now is in a photograph. But I do know this:

    I could be Martin Richard’s mother. Any of us could. And that scares the hell out of me.

    I don’t have any profound thoughts, no words that will give comfort to anyone. In fact, I usually don’t ever share my thoughts on tragic events like these publicly because I always feel that my words fall short. They sound meaningless and contrived. There’s nothing I can say that no one else hasn’t said or felt. And there’s so many people who can say it better. But maybe that’s the point.

    I only have the scattered thoughts of a mother. I’m heartbroken. I’m confused and scared and helpless. And I’m mad. So fucking mad. And I’m putting myself in the shoes of Bill and Denise Richard – who, along with her daughter, is lying in a Boston hospital recovering from injuries from the bombings – because I have to. Because life is random and so fucking unfair. Because there’s a little boy dead, a mom and sister seriously injured, and a dad and little brother who are broken. Because this could all be my story. Because I could be them. And I want to take away some of their pain by feeling it alongside them.

    And so I’m looking at this picture of 8-year-old Martin William Richard, while the sun shines outside and my boys are curled up comfortably on the couch watching Star Wars and my baby girl is sleeping in her crib, and wondering what the hell to do. I am at a loss. Yes, I have hugged my kids, told them I loved them. But how do I look them in the eye and tell them they are safe, after what happened to Martin, a boy watching a marathon? How do I send them off into the world and feel confident that they will return?

    I could say something here like, “Live life to its fullest,” or “Don’t take anything for granted.” But what I really want to say is “F-U” to the person who did this. You took Martin. Away from his mother and father. From his brother and sister. You took Krystal Campbell. You took Lu Lingzi. You maimed and hurt so many others. You rocked the foundations of humanity – for a short time. But then, you uncovered a whole lot of other things. Heroes. Light. Community. Love. And I hope that was something you did not expect. I hope you never saw that coming. Coward.

    Tonight, I will go for my run. And as I pass by the swaying pines that line my route, I will wish that none of this had happened. I will wish that we didn’t have to live in a world where good and evil clashed to such tragic ends. I will wish that Martin could return to the safety of his mother’s and father’s arms. That Krystal Campbell and Lu Lingzi could return to theirs. I know I don’t have the power to make that happen. But I will wish it anyway. And when I stop wishing for something that cannot be, I will wish for their healing and recovery. And for all the others hurt and scarred, I will wish it for them too. I will wish peace to all my friends affected by this tragedy – and there are a surprising many. Then, I will go home and hug my family. I will go about my business because evil cannot outdo good. And I want to be out and about to see all the good and kindness and love that exists in this sometimes scary world.

    Boston Strong.

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  9. When the Tooth Fairy Forgets – Twice

    April 13, 2013 by admin

    Seriously, WTF is wrong with the Tooth Fairy?

    Wednesday, my almost 8-year-old son had a tooth pulled, and the only thing getting him through the hours leading up to the intimidating experience was that the Tooth Fairy would come that night. He sat in the vinyl, reclining chair, shivering with a bit of fear, holding my hand. The dentist shot him up with novocaine. He wiggled out his tooth. We went for ice cream. Before bed, he put his cute little tooth all nestled in its cute little tooth-shaped case underneath his pillow, surely thinking about all the riches he’d receive in return for his lower lateral incisor.

    Then, morning came. He walked into our bedroom.

    “The Tooth Fairy didn’t come,” he said sleepily.

    Fuck. I looked at my husband. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  

    I know in the GRAND scheme of things, forgetting about the tooth fairy isn’t really that big of a deal. But I don’t like to disappoint my kids. And Braedan’s on the cusp of believing in such things. He’s asking questions. I try my best to keep the kids small and naive and innocent and believing in all these fairy tales. But here I am planting the seeds of doubt with my own hands, right on my very own soil.

    “Oh, you know what? There was this thunderstorm last night,” I say casually. Cooly. Believable. “I bet the tooth fairy got holed up somewhere and couldn’t make it through. She’ll come tonight, I bet.”

    I’m telling my son this even though he’s seen Rise of the Guardians. He knows the shit the Tooth Fairy goes through to protect kids’ teeth and knows she’ll stop at nothing. Luckily, he seems satisfied.

    I vow to never forget the Tooth Fairy Again.

    Until I do.

    While Braedan is in school that day, I run to the store and pick some toy off the shelf, a toy I know he’ll discard after a few days, but one that in the moment, he’ll think is cool. I’ll make this right, I think. That night, Braedan puts his tooth under his pillow again. My husband and I stay up too late watching episodes of The Walking Dead. As soon as the television is off, I run into my room, get into bed, and huddle under the covers, as I always do after watching that show because it scares the hell out of me. I dream of zombies and remote farm houses.

    Morning comes. I am awoken by a small, spiteful voice.

    “Hey mom, look what the Tooth Fairy brought me,” Braedan says.

    Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck. 

    He holds up the cute little tooth-shaped case with his cute little tooth still inside, a sarcastic look on his face. (God, he is his mother’s son.) The Tooth Fairy is on his very short shit list.

    “What the….?” I say. I am on his side. WTF is going on with the Tooth Fairy?

    I go into the kitchen, where my husband is making coffee.

    “The Tooth Fairy forgot to come. Again.” I say, incredulous.

    “Someone needs to be fired,” Rich says.

    I look at my son, who is simply defeated. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, Braedan. We’ll find out what’s going on.”

    “We’re going to send an email to the Tooth Fairy’s people,” Rich says.

    “Was there another thunderstorm last night?” Braedan asks. He seems so small. So unlike the little tough guy who dons hockey skates and mounds of equipment and races like a phantom across the ice and earns MVP trophies. He is straddling two worlds. On the one hand, he is growing up. So fast. Too fast. On the other hand, he is still my little, tiny baby boy who depends on me. I want to crawl into a hole and stay there until the Tooth Fairy does decide to get her shit together and leave something underneath my kid’s pillow.

    “I don’t think so. Something is going on though,” I say.

    “Or the Tooth Fairy just doesn’t care about me,” he says, sitting at the kitchen island, his head in his hands while he waits for his breakfast.

    I. Am. Such. An. Asshole. 

    This is a big thing to him. Huge. And I have failed. I didn’t even try to blame my husband, who I asked to remind me before bed about the Tooth Fairy. This is my job. It always has been. And I like it that way. And I have to make it right.

    So that day, while Braedan is at school, I come up with a plan I think will work. I run to the store – again – and purchase something I think he actually will like. A pouch of crystals and minerals from the local toy store. Then, I sit down with my phone and compose a fake news story.

    Subject: Re: Breaking News: The Tooth Fairy Apologizes for Disappointing Children

    AP Newswire

    By Brandon Jones

    The Netherlands – In a statement released earlier today, the Tooth Fairy apologized to the thousands of children who woke up the past two mornings with their uprooted teeth still under their pillows.

    Since Tuesday, a drastic increase in the number of falling teeth has been reported in The Netherlands, sending the Tooth Fairy and his people into tooth containment overdrive.

    The dental community is speculating that the increase is due to the recent Easter holiday, and the extra chocolate and jelly beans children in the area have been eating. Some are further speculating there has also been a severe decrease in proper brushing habits, though that had not been confirmed as of press time.

    “I sincerely apologize to all of the disappointed children, especially those in North America. I can promise you that in the next 24 hours, you will find a little something extra underneath your pillows,” said the Tooth Fairy at a press conference held this morning at The Hague, where protesters assembled and held signs and chanted, “Take our teeth. Take our teeth.”

    “We are working double time to make sure the children of the world are not disappointed,” said a clearly distraught Tooth Fairy, whose wings appeared tattered and stained.

    The last time a tooth event of this magnitude occurred was in 1982, when thousands of children in Eastern Europe went 6 days without teeth being collected. That incident is still under investigation.

    *******

    When I’m done writing, I am quite proud of myself. I read it over and am impressed with my commitment to making things right. When Braedan gets home from school, he reads the story, which I tell him I came across on the Internet while I was reading the day’s news. His reaction is hard to decipher. But he reads every word and then marvels over the Eastern European part. The year 1982. “Wow, 1982. That’s a long time ago, Mom.” He says this as if I had written 1782.

    That night we stay up too late watching Walking Dead. Again. I am about to get into bed, when Rich makes some casual and unrelated comment that reminds me of the Tooth Fairy.

    I. Am. Totally. Losing. My. Edge.

    But I slip the pouch of crystals,  a $5 bill and a note under Braedan’s pillow. When he wakes in the morning and finds them under his pillow, he is ecstatic. He takes the crystals out of the pouch and is sorting them on our bed while we are still trying to sleep. He’s telling us about the crystals and reading the note the Tooth Fairy left him. He believes. And all is right with the world.

     

     

     

     

    Category Family Life | Tags: , , | No Comments

  10. Correction

    April 11, 2013 by admin

    In my last post, Moms are Superhuman Too, I implied that mothers who have grown babies inside their own bellies were the only mothers to develop superhuman powers.

    I. Was. So. Wrong.

    Of course there are a huge segment of moms who, for whatever reason, are unable to carry children in their own wombs. It was a simple case of not thinking about all the different ways we come into motherhood that suggested the implication that these moms don’t have Superhuman Powers. Of course they do. Any mom who loves her child has these powers.

    Sincerely,

    Michelle

    Category Uncategorized | Tags: , | 3 Comments

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