Shame on you Mayor Bloomberg: Mayor Bloomberg Excludes Firefighters and Police Officers from 9/11 Memorial

This content was originally posted at my AC page.  

I never use my blog to write anything remotely political.  But this situation is so outrageous, I felt compelled to speak out.

This afternoon a friend of mine posted the following message on Facebook:

New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg says that New York firefighters and Police officers would not be invited to tenth anniversary memorial ceremony commemorating 9/11 at ground zero because “there isn’t enough room”.   They weren’t invited ten years ago but they showed up anyway.  Repost if you think the firefighters and police officers should be invited instead of the politicians.

When I read the post, I was suspicious.  It sounded like one of those things that circulate on Facebook but that are totally untrue.  Seriously, Mayor Bloomberg couldn’t ever do anything this stupid, could he?

So I did what I normally do in these situations, I checked it out on Snopes.com.  To my surprise Snopes said the message was true and that CNN had reported the story earlier this week.  I still couldn’t believe it, so I checked out CNN.com. To my horror, the story was correctly reported.

On August 30, 2011, CNN correspondent Jeff Stein broke a story titled First responders Decry Exclusion From 9/11 Ceremony.  According to Stein, New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s office confirmed that first responders were not being invited to this year's September 11 memorial ceremony at Ground Zero.  Stein called this a “painful insult for many of the approximately 3,000 men and women who risked their lives, limbs and lungs on that monumental day, puncturing another hole in a still searing wound.”

I remember 9/11.  I remember being stunned as I watched smoke pour from the first tower.  I remember being shocked as a plane plunged in second tower.  I remember being horrified as both towers disintegrate right before my eyes.  I remember crying for each and every soul that was lost that day.

But I also remember feeling proud. I saw the people of our country come together, join hands and support each other.  I saw the people of New York reaching out their hands to strangers on the street.  And I saw firefighters, police officers, EMTs and others risking their own lives just for the chance to save one more soul.

That was probably the first time I ever really considered what it meant to be a firefighter or police officer.  The thought that stuck in my mind that day, the thought that has never left me, is what it means to go to work each day as a police officer or firefighter.  And it means simply this.  Every day when these brave citizens leave their homes to go to work, they are making a decision to die.

On the day the towers crumbled, thousands of people rushed down the stairs of the World Trade Center trying to escape the attack.  Some made it out the door.  Others perished inside.  They were victims of a horrible act of cowardice and violence.

On the day the towers crumbled, hundreds of firefighters and police officers rushed into the carnage.  They carried out the injured.  They administered to the sick.  The helped those who needed help.  And they did it without concern for their own safety.  And many of them died trying.

Two thousand, eight hundred and nineteen people died on September 11, 2011.  Three hundred and forty three of them were firefighters.  Twenty three were New York Police Officers.  Thirty seven were Port Authority Officers.   All of them were heroes.

Mayor Bloomberg, shame on you.  Shame on you for neglecting the heroes who sacrificed their future.  Shame on you for failing to recognize the significance of their contributions.  Shame on you for neglecting the officers and firefighters who lost their friends, family, brothers and sisters on that fatal day.

The people of this country will never forget the courage of the dedicated public servants who rushed into the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001.  And we will never forget the cowardice of Mayor Bloomberg who, ten years after the event, has shunned the heroes.

Photo obtained subject to GNU license on wikipedia.org. ({{Information |Description=World trade center arial view March 2001 |Source=self-made |Date=March 2001 |Author= User:Jeffmock }} )

How Parents Succeed When They Let Their Children Fail.

This article has previously been posted to my Associated Content Page.

Failing Their Way to Success: A Parent’s Guide to Helping Children Succeed through Failure.

Failure, It’s as Easy as Falling off a Bike

Do you remember when you learned to ride a bike without training wheels?  If you were like most kids, your Mom or Dad held your seat while you peddled.  Eventually Mom or Dad let go and you were on your way. 

Maybe you picked up the knack of bike riding the minute you were on your own.  But if you were like most of us, you peddled a few feet before toppling over.  You were a failure.  Or were you?

The process of learning to ride a bike often involves several spills.  Most parents realize this.  Yet time after time Mom and Dad will run behind the bike only to let go and wait for their child to succeed or fail.

Parents Need to Understand the Benefit of Failure

As parents we want success for our children.  From the time they are babies we shield and protect them from harm.  We hold their hands when they cross the street.  We tie their shoes so they won’t trip.  We coach and lead our little ones through life. 

Despite our best intentions, however, as parents we need to consider that helping our children too much could be harming them.  We need to learn that while the thrill of victory is important to shaping little minds, so is experiencing the agony of defeat.  We need to understand that there is substantial benefit in allowing our children to fail.

J.K. Rowling, Author of Harry Potter Tells Why Failure is Important in Life

In a 2008 commencement address at Harvard University, J.K. Rowling, the author of Harry Potter, stood in front of thousands of graduates and their families and told them that she wished for them to fail. In her speech, entitled The Fringe Benefits of Failure and the Importance of Imagination, Rowling related the events of her own life and how she was a disappointment to her family.

Rowling described herself as a failure.  She said, "The fears that my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew."

Failure, however, did not shatter Rowling.  Instead it incited her passion. In telling of her experience, Rowling said:

"The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more than any qualification I ever earned."

Why is Failure Important

As Rowling notes, failure is a key to eventual success.  The process of trial and error builds character.  The progression that comes from improving on mistakes creates confidence. Parents need to understand that inner strength is nurtured and grows when a child is given a chance to be tested, to fail, and to pick his or herself up and try again.

What Should a Parent Do?

Hard as it may be, as parent we need to step back and allow our children to fail.  That may mean allowing them to go to school when their homework isn’t finished and then permitting them to suffer the consequences.  It may mean watching them try out for team when, as a parent, you aren’t sure that they are ready.  It may mean giving up some of the control that has enabled us to parent so effectively.

To better cope with failure, parents should teach their children the following three lessons.

Lesson One: To Accept Failure as Part of Life

Instead of protecting our children from hardships, our children should be encouraged to try new things even if there is a potential for failure.  In doing this, we should remind our children that they may not always be successful but that we are proud of their attempts.    When our children experience failure, we can discuss with them the fact that success is not always possible but that there may be other opportunities in the future.  

Lesson Two: To Plan for Failure

As parents we should be open with our children about how they will feel if they don’t succeed.  We should explain that these feelings of disappointment are natural and that failing at one thing does not mean our child is a failure at everything. We can also help our children think about what they will do if they don’t succeed.  Will they try something new, use a new approach or abandon the effort altogether? By helping our children think about how they will respond to failure, we enable them to develop important coping skills.

Lesson Three: Learn from Failure

Finally, as parents we can help our children use failure as an opportunity to grow.  We can discuss the lessons learned in an unsuccessful endeavor.  We can help our children find ways to improve.  By using failure as an opportunity to learn, we can help our children recover from disappointment and prepare them for a new attempt.

Failure is a fact of life.  As Rowling said, “It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case, you fail by default." 

With failure comes strength.  With strength comes success.  As parents the best gift we can give our children is to permit them the chance to experience the lows so they can achieve great heights.

*******

Other articles by me:

Read Me a Story

Lessons Learned from a Whomping Willow

Abercrombie and Fitch, Please Pay Me Not to Wear Your Clothes!

Note: This article is also available at my Associated Content Web Site. Please click to read it and other articles by me.  

Why Abercrombie and Fitch Should Ditch their Offer to the Situation and Pay Me Instead

On August 12, 2011, Abercrombie & Fitch Co. issued a ground breaking press release when it announced that it had offered substantial compensation to Michael 'The Situation' Sorrentino (cast member of MTV's The Jersey Shore) if he agreed to stop wearing A&F products.  According to A&F, the clothing company was deeply concerned about the damage Mr. Situation would do to their reputation.  The day after making this offer, A&F’s stock tanked, dropping by 9%.

In Case You Didn't Know, the "M" Stands for Music

When I read this press release, I couldn’t help but think that Abercrombie and Fitch was barking up the wrong tree.  After all, odd as though they may, the cast of Jersey Shore is very popular among A&F’s target market. 

This market, from my observations, consists primarily of people who are much too young to realize that the “M” in MTV stands for MUSIC – yes, music.  These people are also much too young to remember that there was a time when MTV was changing the world; not spinning out second rate reality TV shows starring buffoons and goof balls. Given that A&F and Jersey Shore are both targeting the same market segment, you’d have to agree that it doesn’t make sense for Abercrombie and Fitch to diss Mr. Situation.

How Can I Be of Service?

Being a responsible citizen, I’d like to offer my services to Abercrombie and Fitch.  Here’s my proposal, and I think you’ll agree it’s very reasonable. Instead of paying Mr. Situation not to wear their products, A&F can pay me half as much not to wear them.  This, I promise, will do wonders for A&F stock prices.

I think paying me to shun their products will be of great benefit to Abercrombie and Fitch for several reasons.  First, I am not part of A&F’s target market.  I’m a forty (cough cough) year old mom of three young kids who lives in the middle of a corn field.  I go to PTO meetings and drive a minvan. I don't represent any target demongraphic and I lead a boring life.  No one is going to feel alienated if A&F pays me not to wear their super skinny jeans. Some people may applaud the move.

Second, unlike Mr. Situation, I don’t go around lifting up my shirt, flashing my six pack abs and showing off the Abercrombie and Fitch logo on my underpants.  This is mainly because instead of six pack abs, I have stretch marks.  And instead of designer undergarments, I have granny panties.  Believe me; it would be very, very bad for the A&F image if I suddenly started flashing their logo on my body in public. No one, and I mean no one, needs to get a gander at my undergarments. 

Third, I am confident that Abercrombie and Fitch doesn’t want me to wear their stuff.  Let’s face it, at my age, I would look ridiculous in their super short skirts.  I'm not even sure they carry my size.  I wear a Mom.  Now, back in the day, I might have been able to pull it off; but since I've gone over the hill, I’m pretty sure it would be very bad for the A&F brand for the public to see me in their designer clothes.

Finally, I won’t make a big deal about Abercrombie & Fitch rejecting me.  In fact, I’ll promise to keep my mouth shut, take the money and go away quietly.  After all, being paid not to wear A&F clothes won’t be as hard on me as it will be on Mr. Situation: mostly because I don’t currently own any A&F clothes to begin with. Since I already have a lot of practice rejecting what A&F has to offer, I will likely be much better at not wearing their stuff than Mr. Situation is.

Make the Check Out to Me, Please!

So, that’s my offer Abercrombie and Fitch.  Keep The Situation.  Keep the cast of Jersey Shore.  Keep MTV.  Keep your target demongraphic happy so they will spend buckets of cash in your stores.

Instead, reject me.  Make out the check in my name.  You can save half the dough and make us both happy.  Heck, I’ll even promise not to wear your clothes if you send me ten bucks a coupon for a free foot massage. 

Now that’s an offer you can't refuse!

Other Articles by me can be found on my Associated Content profile.  Sample titles include:

Mommy, I Hate it Here! What to Do When Your Child Has a Bad First Day of Kindergarten

Three Tips for Successful Yardsale Shopping

Three Tips on Training to Run a 5K Race

Error 404 – File Not Found

I banged my fist on my desk and muttered “I haven’t got all day.”  But my computer ignored me and struggled to load the rest of my page.  I had been fidgeting in my seat for almost five minutes until my computer burped and then locked up.

The screen, which displayed only half of my document, was mocking me now.  But I didn't give up.  Maybe I could fix it, I thought.  I opened the task manager and closed all of the running applications.  No response.  I tried to open a diagnostic program.  No dice.

Finally, I sighed and admitted that the battle had been lost.  Now, there was only one thing left to do.

CTRL-ALT-DEL

I rebooted.  Five minutes later I was back in business and running smoothly. My computer, it appears simply needed a little break to gather itself together and get going again.

I could relate.

These past couple of weeks have been hectic. I spent a week in Erie, Pennsylvania with the kids and without Ken.  It was fun, but exhausting.  A few days later, I was on a train to Chicago for a business trip.  No sooner had I returned from that trip when Emily got sick. Ken and I didn’t get much sleep for a couple of days and spent a number of hours getting blood work and x-rays (long story but she is much better now).

About this time I found myself envying my computer.  When it gets overwhelmed, it just refuses to process any more information.  It forces itself to shut down and then, after it rests, it starts over.

A reboot button would certainly come in handy in my life.  I could use it when Beth starts throwing a temper tantrum because I put cheesy broccoli on her plate.  I could use it after I’ve been up all night fretting over Emily’s fever.  I could use it when I forgot that Eric has soccer practice and a Boy Scout meeting on the same day.

Unfortunately, I have a flawed system design and there is no reboot button for my day to day life.  I guess that means I’ll just muddle through until the weekend when I can sleep late and enjoy a few quite moments.

In the meantime, don’t ask me too many questions as you are likely to receive an “Error 404 – File Not Found” as a response.

Photo of computer per this site: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:IBM_PC_5150.jpg

So….Where Ya Been Lately?

It’s been over a week since I last blogged in my blog (note how I cleverly use “blog" as both a noun and a verb).  And I know you have all been holding your breath in anticipation of my latest update. 

“Where is she?” you are undoubtedly asking yourself.  “What adventures has she been undertaking?” “What austere thoughts is she thinking?” “What’s on television tonight?”

Well, here’s the scoop.  Last week I took on one of the biggest, most exciting, most thrilling adventures of my life.  I spent a week in Erie, Pennsylvania, with my three kids.  Please hold your applause until the end of the program.

Why aren’t you applauding? I just said I spent the week in Erie, Pennsylvania with my three kids.  You should be shocked and awed!

Maybe if I explained it more.  Did I mention that I drove by myself - without Ken or any other adult (or close approximation as the case may be)?  For NINE hours?  In a minivan? With three kids under the age of 8? And then I drove nine hours back to Illinois? With the same three kids?  AND WE ALL SURVIVED!

“Why such the big fuss?” You say.  For the love of Pete, there were three of them and one of me.  The enemy had me surrounded.  I was outnumbered and, in some cases, outwitted.  Seriously, this has the making of a fabulous reality television series.  We can call it "When Mini-Van Moms Meet their Match."

“We’re going to Pennsylvania to visit my cousin Mary?” Emily (5) told her preschool teacher with a smile the week before the trip.  Beth (3) hopped around next to hear clapping her hands.  I grinned awkwardly.  Three months ago, when I had first conceived the plan, it had seemed like a good idea.  A quiet drive through Ohio with my little darlings.  What could be more fun (other than a root canal)? But as D-day grew closer, I started to doubt myself.

What if the car broke down on the interstate?  What if I got lost as soon as we left our little neighborhood?  What if the kids were really, really, really bad from the moment we left home until the moment we returned?  I woke up in a cold sweat dreading the task that lay before me.

Like most things that we dread, our trek across the Mid-west wasn’t nearly as horrifying as I had imagined.  The car ran smooth all week.  Thanks to our friendly little GPS, a device we affectionately call George, I always knew exactly where I was going.  And, the kids, with a few minor exceptions, behaved. 

We arrived in Erie on Sunday afternoon.  After that, we spent the week visiting our cousin Katelin and her fiancee, Doug.  We saw some of the sights with my sister, Theresa, and her daughter, Mary (4).  Beth enjoyed playing at the splash table at the Erie Children’s Museum.  Eric (8) was thrilled to skip stones into Lake Erie on Presque Isle.  And Emily made it her goal to ride every water slide at Splash Lagoon.

And I somehow managed to navigate across four states and limited my yelling-at-the-kids moments to only the most necessary times. 

So what did I learn?  Firstly, the things we dread so much are often not as difficult as we had imagined.  I thought a vacation without Ken's assistance would be difficult but it wasn't that bad.  Secondly, I am capable of taking on more than I thought I could, if only I give myself the chance.  Next year, maybe we'll try flying somewhere warmer.

And, finally, I learned that when your three year old says “Mommy, I have to pee really, really bad” you should immediately pull your car to the side of the road and let her do it on the highway rather than insisting she wait until you drive twenty miles to the next rest stop.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and wash the pee stains out of Beth’s car seat.  

(P.S. Ken was in South Carolina golfing all week and missed out on the fun.)

Don't Poke the Bear

Don’t talk to me.  Don’t look at me.  If you can avoid it, don’t come within a hundred yards of me.

I am in a bad mood.  

It’s quarter after six and I’m trying to get out of the house in time for an early meeting.  I overslept, of course.  I couldn't find my shoes or a pair of matching socks.  And my keys have gone missing as well.  So now I am rushing around to get myself together and out the door.

When I walk into the kitchen to get my coffee, Ken gives me a chirpy “Good Morning.”  I growl at him. 

“Why are you in such a good mood?”  He says, sarcasm dripping from his chin.

I growl again.

I don’t know why I am in a bad mood.  I just am.  Maybe it’s the fact that I have not had time to exercise this week to release my pent up aggressions.  Maybe it’s the fact that I had to drag my butt out of bed for a 7:15 meeting.  (7:15, really?  Who does that!)  Maybe it’s the fact that Beth (3) climbed into my bed at 4 a.m. asking repeatedly for hugs and kisses and that I didn’t fall back asleep until two minutes before my alarm went off.

I could go on.

“You know.” Ken says.  “There are people in the world who are much worse off than you.  Tsunamis.  Earthquakes.  Nuclear meltdowns.   And you’re complaining about a few missed minutes under your covers?”

I raise my right eyebrow at Ken and down a half liter of coffee.  “Don’t poke the bear.” I snarl.  I refuse to be guilted out of my bad mood.  Because sometimes, a bad mood is what I need. 

As it happens, I recently read an excerpt from Allure Magazine which supports my theory.  Allure reported that research has shown that “grumpy people were more detail-oriented, less gullible, and made higher-quality, more persuasive arguments.”  By these standards, I will be the most successful person in my office today.

But seriously, there is some truth in the matter.  Bad moods, some would argue, are as necessary as good moods.  Bad, after all, is the complement of good.  One cannot exist without the other.  It’s like Yin and Yang. Night and day.  Sunny and stormy. 

Think about it.  If you were never sad, how could you truly appreciate the power of happy.  If you never felt low, you could never understand the glory of having your spirit  up-lifted. 

So that’s my plan folks.  Today, I intend to honor my bad mood.  I intend to savor it.  To relish it.  To celebrate it.  To thoroughly enjoy it.

And while I do, if you are wise, you will stay out of my way.  And don’t poke the bear.

Photos courtesy of and through all rights declared at this location: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Brown_bear.jpg  and http://images3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20110228193028/muppet/images/1/1d/Ss3.jpg 

Don’t be a Jerk

You may know that I am a bit of a geek.  My geek-ness extends to enthusiastically reading the Jedi Apprentice series of children’s novels, watching Star Trek reruns on SciFi and wiki-stalking Apple Founder Steve Jobs. 

A few years ago, as any good geek would do, I signed up for a Twitter account. You know, Twitter…..that thing Charlie Sheen is creating as exhibit A for his future commitment hearing. 

As fate would have it, I followed a friend, who followed a friend, who followed a friend, who followed this guy who went by @wilw.  I started following Mr. @w because he was funny and sarcastic and because a lot of other people were following him, so it seemed like the cool thing to do.  And being a geek, I’m always trying to get in good with the cool kids.

After several days of reading 140 character bursts of Mr. @w talking about his dog, his wife and/or his latest computer game, I decided to click his profile link and read his blog.  It was at this point that I discovered that Mr. @w was not just some random guy on Twitter with a sense of humor.  It turns out he was a celebrity.

Mr. @w, I learned from his blog, was actually actor Wil Weaton who played Wesley Crusher on Star Trek The Next Generation.  Refer to paragraph A above to see why this would be meaningful to me. Wow, I thought, I am having a very significant near celebrity experience. Hallelujah!

At this point, I feel compelled to admit that Star Trek The Next Generation was not my favorite Star Trek show.  It was my second fave.  And the purest be damned, but I am going to blaspheme and say that the original Star Trek series was also not my favorite either.  I rank it third.   I am, unfortunately, in that small segment of geeks who appreciated the nuances of Star Trek Voyager.  I guess I am a sucker for a lost in space story.  But I digress. (I rank Deep Space Nine at the bottom if you must know.)

Getting back to the point, I have since become a fan of Mr. @w, not for his celebrity, but for his comments on the human condition.  In particular, I have become a proponent of his motto which is "Don’t be a Dick."  Of course, being a Mom and a lady of refinement, I can’t walk around saying “Don’t be a Dick.”  So I have modified the saying for more delicate sensibilities to be “Don’t be a Jerk”, which I believe to be less crass while conveying the same meaning for my PG audience.

Anyway, here is the philosophy in a two steps:

Step 1. Don’t

Step 2. Be a Jerk.

Wow.  Pretty simple.  In fact, these four words sum up the golden rule. You know that one.  "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."  In other words, don't mess with other people.  Don't treat other people poorly.  Don't respond as a jerk because someone else acts like a jerk.

Let me give you an example.  You are driving to work and some buffoon in a red sports car cuts you off and then whips YOU the finger.  Hey, he was the one who crossed three lanes of traffic.  He’s the jerk! Right?

At this point, you have two choices.  Choice one, whip him the finger and tailgate him for the next three miles.  Or, choice two.  Don’t be a jerk.  Just because someone else treated you like a jerk is no reason to respond in kind.   This is called taking the higher road.  Not only will you feel much better if you do it, but your chances of being charged with criminal intimidation with a motorized vehicle are much slimmer.

So, as you go through your day, remember “Don’t be a Jerk.” (With recognition to @w for having summarized the thought so eloquently in the first place.)  Oh, and live long and prosper.

Read Me a Story

“Read me a story.”  Beth (3) smiled.

Beth snuggled close to Emily (5).  Emily snuggled close to Eric (8).  Eric snuggled close to Ken. 

Eric was wearing his flannel Transformer PJs, which Santa had brought for Christmas.  The girls were wearing matching pink nightgowns with a decal of Minnie Mouse on the front.  Ken was wearing his nighttime t-shirt and shorts. Everyone cuddled together on Mom and Dad’s big comfy bed.

“Tonight’s story is Fancy Nancy.” Ken said as he cracked open the pages of a pink book.  Emily and Beth leaned closer and reached out their fingers to caress the texture of the pages.  Eric rolled his eyes.  He would have preferred something about spaceships or ninjas.

Our bedtime routine is simple.  Jammies.  Teeth.  Stories.  Kisses. Sleep.  Even though all of the steps are important, Stories are the keystone on our schedule.  They have been for years.

We started reading stories to Eric the day he was born.  Back then, it was Goodnight Moon and Pat the Bunny.  Ken and I would take turns swooshing on the glider in the baby’s room with the lights dimmed as Eric drifted off to sleep.  It was the most enchanting moment of our day.

We repeated the routine when Emily popped into the world three years later.  I read her first story before she left the hospital.  I was dressed in a hospital robe and Emily was swaddled tightly in a pink blanket.  Eric, three at the time, had come to meet his baby sister and had brought a book about racecars to share with her.  

I wasn’t sure if Emily would like racecars but as she didn’t complain, I gave it a go.  Emily nestled quietly in my arms and listened to the purring of my voice while Eric sat with us on the hospital bed touching the colorful pictures.

When Beth was born, Eric (five at the time) and Emily (two at the time) each brought a book for their new sister to read.  Beth practically earned a magna cum laude in story time before she completed her first twenty-four hours of breathing.

I suspect that I’ve read every children’s book there is to read.  I’ve done The Cat in the Hat and the sequel, The Cat in the Hat Came Back.  I’ve practically memorized The Bear Snores On.  And, I know more about the adventures of Winnie the Pooh than your average forty (ahem) year old attorney is expected to know.

A few weeks ago, I roamed into Beth’s room to do some de-cluttering.  Under her bookshelf, I found a tattered copy of That’s Not My Bunny.  My mind drifted back to a blustery autumn evening when Beth and I read “Bunny” together for the first time.  I could see her stroking the Bunny’s ears and tails and giggling at every turn of the page.

Was it time to pass Bunny on to another baby, I wondered.  I turned the book over in my hands and felt the familiar smooth cover.  Not today, I decided.  There were still too many memories leaking out.

Not too long after that, our family rediscovered the public library.  We were there to attend a Boy Scout event for Eric.  As we paraded through the rows of books, Emily’s eyes grew to the size of saucers.  Beth squealed.  Even Eric, despite trying to maintain the dignity of his uniform, bounced as he walked.

Before leaving the pack meeting, I promised each kid that they could borrow one book to take home.  One book.  One book, I said! So, can someone explain to me why, despite my stern rules, we left with armloads of books instead?

Story time is a powerful time of connection for our family.  The quiet evening ritual allows us to release the cares of the day and enjoy the comfort of a soft bed.   It relaxes our minds and teases our imaginations.  

Now that Eric is in the second grade, he is capable of reading to himself.  He explodes through chapter after chapter of the Jedi Apprentice and Magic Tree House series.  Yet every night, after his teeth are scrubbed, he climbs under the covers, huddles close to his sisters and listens to Dad read.   

"Then Fancy Nancy does a double flip.”  Ken said as he pointed to the story’s hero.  Beth and Emily gasped.  Eric rolled his eyes….again.  I smiled. 

And as the children nuzzled closer to their Daddy, I sat quietly among them, feeling their warmth and remembering the hundreds of stories we have shared.

I Do It

Eric (8) bared his teeth and smiled at me.  “Look Mom, my tooth fell out.  Do you think the Tooth Fairy will bring me some money?”  This was Eric’s third baby tooth to pull loose from its moorings.

Eric had been working his front incisor with his finger and thumb for the past few days.  Shortly after Eric had hopped out of bed in the morning, the tooth surrendered and dropped out of his mouth and into his hand. 

As I examined the gap in Eric’s smile, Beth (3) wandered into the room.  “Mama, look.  My toof is wobbly.” 

Beth pushed her finger against her front tooth.  She was clearly imitating her brother’s actions over the past four days.  I patted Beth softly on the head.  “Honey, you need to keep your little teeth for a couple of more years yet.”

“Can I tafe it out when I’m five?” She asked.  “And toof fairy will bring me a dollar?”

“Sure.”  I laughed. 

In some ways, Beth is the most mature of my children.  She learned to walk faster than Emily (5) and was climbing the ladder to our swing set a good six months ahead of Eric’s progress.  Beth refuses to be left behind.  If her older brother is going to lose a tooth, Beth is eager to join in the game – even if she doesn’t quite understand the rules.

I admire Beth’s determination.  She doesn’t understand the meaning of “can’t.”  In her mind, if big brother and big sister are capable of something, she is capable of it as well.  You can’t tell her she is too little or too young.  She won’t accept it.

There are days when I wish I could be more like Beth.  Yesterday was a good example.  My friend Kristin is talking about running a full marathon this fall.  “You should do it too.” She said.

I frowned before answering.  Even though I owe Kristin a big one (for climbing the AON building with me in January), I didn’t feel ready to commit to twenty-six miles of running.  So I pulled out my list of excuses and began reciting them.  In the end, Kristin let me off the hook.  For now, I told myself, a half marathon would have to suffice.

Later that day, I sat with Beth on the sofa and helped her untie her shoes.  When Beth noticed Emily sitting on the floor taking care of her own footwear, she pushed my hands away.  “I do it Mama.”  She said. 

I pulled my hands back and watched Beth struggle with her laces.  Five minutes later, she displayed the results for me.  I wasn’t sure how she did it, but somehow Beth had managed to untie her laces.  Beth, however, never doubted herself. 

And I felt certain that this wouldn’t be the last time I would hear her say “I do it.”

The Best Show In Town

The Academy Awards were tonight.  Like many American’s, I tuned in to watch celebrities and movie stars strut along the red carpet and flaunt their feathers.  My friends Erin, Katie and Kristin gabbed about each icon who trotted into view.

Unfortunately, I had nothing to add to the conversation.  The only Oscar nominated movie I saw in 2010 was Toy Story 3.  For some inexplicable reason, the other shows I attended, like Yogi Bear and Alvin and the Chipmunks, the Squeequel, had been passed over.  It makes me wonder what the world is coming to when a picture about talking animals isn’t even considered for recognition. 

Of course, the best show I saw this past year wasn’t at the theaters.  The best show I saw was this past Saturday when Emily debuted in the pre-school version of Horton Hears a Who.  Ken and I signed Emily up for pre-school theater class about six weeks ago.  It sounded like the right mix of dance and drama to help fuel the fire of a five-year old imagination. 

When we arrived at Emily’s first rehearsal, I imagined my daughter as the star of the show.  I pictured her reciting her lines like a trained thespian.  I anticipated that a Hollywood producer, who happened to wander into the venue, would recognize Emily’s raw genius and whisk us all away to California. 

For the next five years, Emily would star in dozens of blockbusters.  She would become world famous.  Then, just after turning 10, she would accept her first Academy Award.  In her acceptance speech, she would thank me, her lovely and beautiful mother for, being the wind beneath her wings.

As it turns out, the actual production wasn’t quiet as stunning as I imagined.  Most of the kids forgot their lines.  One boy hid under a table for the whole show.  And just after they marched on stage, Emily bolted into the audience to give me a big hug.  I had a strong suspicion that my future would not hold a red carpet moment any time soon. 

Still, it was the best show I saw all year.