Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from Our House to Yours

A few days before Christmas, I sat down with Eric to help him write a letter to Santa. He found a clean piece of paper and selected a narrow red marker. Then he began to scrawl “Dear Santa” at the top of the page. After a few pleasantries about being a good boy, Eric got down to business and made his Christmas requests. His list included the normal first grade boy items – a skate board, drums, Pokemon cards and a guitar. But one item in particular stood out. Eric asked Santa for a twenty dollar bill. And in his seven year old heart Eric had complete faith that Santa would deliver.

Now truth be told, Eric did pretty well on Christmas morning. Though he didn’t get everything on his list (Mom nixed the drums which Santa explained in a note to Eric), most of his wishes were granted – including a crisp twenty dollar bill that Santa left hanging out of Eric's stocking. Eric was elated.

I hesitate to tell this story because I know some might see it as yet another example of how Christmas has become over commercialized or that today’s youth are selfish lot. But I know this kid. His heart is more pure than Galahad. So I suspect the real meaning goes deeper and is much more subtle. And I believe I have found it.

The meaning of this story can be summed up in one word: Faith.

Because that is what Eric’s seven year old heart is filled with. He believes in God. He has faith that Mom and Dad love him. And he knows without question that Santa will slide down the chimney Christmas morning, that he will eat the cookies and drink the milk, and that if a small boy who has been good makes a reasonable wish, Santa will make it come true. And everything happened just as Eric expected because he believed it would.

I know what you are thinking, “It’s easy to believe in magic when you are seven, especially when Santa knows that Dad has a twenty dollar bill in his wallet. But things are different when you are all grown up.” I disagree.

The difference between child magic and grown up magic is that grownups have forgotten that magic only happens if we help it along. If you caught the animated version of “Twas the Night Before Christmas” (circa 1972) involving a mouse named Albert, you may understand. In the story, Albert and his father help create a Christmas miracle when Santa almost bypasses the tiny town of Junctionville. As Albert and his dad work on their miracle, they sing the song “Even A Miracle Needs a Hand.” The lyrics go like this:

Miracles happen most every day
to people like you and me
but don’t expect a miracle
unless you help make it to be

You hope while I hurry
You pray while I plan
We’ll do what’s necessary cause
Even a miracle needs a hand

You love and I’ll labor
You sit while I stand
Get help from a next door neighbor cause
Even a miracle needs a hand

So let's get back to Eric. It’s not like Eric made a wish and then sat back and waited for the magic to happen. He had to work for it. First, he had to be good. Bear in mind, he's a seven year old boy. Asking him to “be good” is like asking the rain not to fall. Then he had to do something nice for someone else. So he left milk and cookies for Santa and oats and carrots for the reindeer. Then he had to ask for what he wanted. Hence the letter and the list. Finally, he had to believe that his wish would come true. He had to have faith. And he did. And with all of those ingredients mixed together, the magic happened.

If a seven year old boy can help make magic happen, so can you. You just need to know the secret formula. And it’s simply this:

1. Be good.
2. Be nice to others.
3. Ask.
4. Believe.

If you think I am making all of this up, think again. Check out the Bible. The same formula can be found there.

1. Be good. “In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.” Matthew 5:16
2. Be nice to others. “Command them to do good, to be rich in good deeds, and to be generous and willing to share.” 1 Timothy 6:18
3. Ask. “So I say to you: Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.” Luke 11:9-12
4. Believe. “And Jesus said unto them ...’If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible to you.’” Romans 1:17

Yep, it’s in there. Eric knows the secret to magic and now you do too. And it’s a real, grown up kind of thing.

So, next Christmas if I hear Santa is giving out twenty dollar bills again, I’ll let you know so you can be good, leave some cookies, write a letter and have a little faith. Or you can just try it out all year and see how it works out for you. In the meantime, have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from our house to yours.

To Santa With Love

Mr. Kris Kringle
1 Santa Clause Lane
North Pole
The Arctic Circle

December 26, 2009

Dear Santa:

Thank your for the marvelous Christmas presents you brought me this year. I know the items you selected were not on my list but somehow you managed to pick the perfect gifts for me.

My favorite gift is the enormous kiss from Beth. It was just my size and fit perfect. She gave it to me right after she opened the doll you brought for her. First she cradled and hugged the doll and hummed “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” to it. Then she stumbled across the room and threw herself into my arms and planted a slobbery wet kiss on my lips. It tasted like fruit loops. I am going to put the kiss in the treasure box under my bed. Then when I am eighty five, I’ll pull it out and use it to help comfort me to sleep when I take my afternoon nap.

I also liked that you turned Emily into a Santa Helper for the day. She lent me a hand when I was putting away the Legos you brought us last year. The job took twice the time with her help but in the process Emily taught me some important things – like the fact that Roho means Red and Rosa means pink. She also gave me a big spoonful of patience. I know I’ll be asking you to send me a Santa Helper again next year.

Finally, I very much appreciate the giggle from a seven year old boy. I know this is a precious and rare gem as Eric is starting to outgrow giggles. All too soon he will be too embarrassed to sit on his Mommy’s lap and exchange Knock Knock Jokes. I will put the giggle in a picture frame so i can look at it every day.

It’s a wonderful thing to wake up Christmas morning and find someone has stuffed your stocking with joy and happiness. So for that, Santa, please accept my genuine and eternal gratitude.

With deepest Love,

Me.

P.S. Next year if you happen to have a spare dishwasher in your sled feel free to leave it here.

The Best Christmas Ever

Christmas at the little house on Third Street was a grand occassion. The windows blinked with red, green, blue and yellow bulbs and strands of garland were laced throughout the house. Everything had been cleaned and shined to get ready for the big day. You could taste the sweet anticipation of the holidays.

Christmas Eve belonged to Nana. She spent weeks preparing - baking batches of homemade chocolate cookies, decorating and shopping. Nana always made orange juice punch and poured in a smattering of homemade wine. It was the only day of the year that the children were allowed a tiny nip. All the candy dishes in her house were full of treats and, as part of the celebration, the kids were allowed to help themselves.

Christmas Eve dinner consisted of Nana's version of a traditional Lithuanian fair - kielbasa, pierogies with butter and onions (my favorite), ham, green beans, fish (no one liked the fish soup except me, Theresa and Nana), and oatmeal cookies and cakes for dessert. You needed at least 13 types of dishes on the table - representing the apostles and Jesus. Before dinner Dad would say grace and pass around the Christmas wafer - an unleavened bread that resembled the communion wafers from church. Then Nana would raise her glass and say “Here’s to a good year and hoping that we’re all here again next year.” Nana gave the same toast every year until she passed away in 1992.

After dinner the kids opened gifts from Nana. But we had to wait until Christmas morning to open presents from Mom and Dad and Santa. Sometimes Nana had homemade gifts, like hand-sown dresses or knitted slippers. Other times she gave us store bought gifts like jewelry or clothes. One year Nana knitted each of us little dolls dressed in blue and white cheer leading out fits. Mine had blonde hair. I always cherished most the things that Nana made herself and I still have the doll.

One Christmas Eve, after Mom tucked us into bed, I couldn't sleep as the butterflies danced in my tummy. The anticipation of the next day was too much. Tina and I sneaked out of bed, peeked out the window and searched for Santa’s sleigh among the stars in the winter sky. Eventually I drifted off and dreamed of the wonders the morning would bring. Tina woke with the sun. She shook Theresa and then me. The three of us scrambled into Mom and Dad’s room at six a.m. and bounced on their bed to wake them. Dad called Nana so she could sit with Mom and Dad around the Christmas tree while the kids tore open their gifts.

Mom and Dad tried to hide from us how poor we were. That year, Dad had been laid off from his construction job. Money was really tight now. So Mom collected all the change in the house and managed to scrape together $20 to buy presents for the kids. That year, Santa brought me a doll with red hair wearing a navy blue dress. I remember a baby carriage and a sled. And there was a fort to put together - with cowboy and Indian figurines. I liked the little farmhouse best because it had a chestnut horse and a caramel colored horse, and a red and white tin barn with plastic split rail fences to build a corral.

It turns out that Mom bought all our presents with $20 at a second hand store. But I don’t think Santa brought anything for Mom and Dad that year. After Theresa, Tina and I opened our gifts, and the living room was buried in an avalanche of wrapping paper, we hugged and kissed Mom and Dad and said, “This is the best Christmas ever.”

And it was.

Can We Keep Him, Dad?

Author's note: I've been holding this story back because frankly, I am not sure which facts are true and which my brain made up as the years passed. So anyone reading this who was there, just consider it a work of fiction.

This is the story of a dog named Tramp. Its about how a family was blessed by a small white mongrel who brought joy to their hearts. And its about how difficult it can be to make a final act of kindness to a beloved pet. I hope you will forgive me, but it’s a sad story. And if you see tears in my eyes, its because the story still impacts me today.

It was a warm summer day, just after I had completed the first grade, when my older sister Theresa discovered a dog hiding under Mom’s red and black Ford. Theresa and my younger sister Tina lay on their bellies in the dust, peeked under the car and talked to the dog. I sat next to them. I could see that the white mop of hair hanging into the dog’s eyes was matted and dirty. When Theresa tried to coax him out, he growled a little and backed deeper into his lair. We couldn’t understand why he was so scared.

But Theresa was determined to make friends. She ran inside and stole some lunchmeat from the refrigerator. We spent the day tossing bits to the dog. He would come out just far enough to snatch our offerings and then dart back to his haven. When Dad came home from work, Theresa told him we found a dog. “Can we keep it?” she pleaded. “Absolutely not.” Dad decreed. Case closed. “But maybe he’s hurt. Or lost.” Theresa reasoned, “At least come out and see him.” Reluctantly, Dad agreed.

Outside, Dad crouched down and peered under the Ford. A black nose peeked out at him. Somehow, Dad convinced the dog to leave its shelter. “But we’re not keeping it.” He warned. Then Dad fed the dog properly, gave him a bath and combed the tangles out of its snow-white hair. No one knew where the dog came from. And since he couldn’t tell us his name, Dad called him Tramp. It didn’t take long for Dad to fall in love with Tramp. And even though Tramp became “our” dog, he loved Dad best of all.

In those days, people didn’t keep their dogs on a leash or a lead. And hardly anyone had a fence around their yard. So the neighborhood was full of dogs following their kids from one game to the next. If Tina went to play in a friend’s yard, Tramp tagged along. When I went for a walk, Tramp was my companion. While Theresa played baseball, Tramp romped in the outfield with the other neighborhood dogs. Tramp protected us from the dangers of life, like nasty squirrels. And he brought us amazing gifts, like slobbering wet tennis balls and sticks.

Sometimes when we were in school and Dad was at work, Tramp would wander off on his own. We always imagined that he was out playing with his doggy friends. And we never worried. We knew Tramp would be home in time for dinner.

A few years passed. Then on one cold and blustery autumn day, while Mom was fixing dinner, she heard Tramp howling at the bottom of the back stairs. She went outside to check and found Tramp sitting on his back end supporting himself with his hind legs. His back paws were sprawled out on each side at unnatural angles. Tramp couldn’t walk. Dad gently carried Tramp inside. We didn’t know how it happened, but Tramp was hurt …bad. The next day, after Theresa, Tina and I went to school, Mom and Dad took Tramp to the vet. When we got home that afternoon, Mom was alone, and she was crying. Tramp was gone.

I cried uncontrollably. So did Theresa and Tina. We all loved Tramp. But Mom asked us not to let Dad see us crying when he got home. So Theresa, Tina and I went to our room and comforted each other.

When Dad returned, he didn’t say anything. He just stood on the back porch and stared blankly at the mountains behind our house. Mom told us not to mention Tramp to Dad. He was too upset. So after that we hardly ever talked about Tramp, especially to Dad, because it always made his eyes fill up with tears. It wasn’t until I graduated from high school that I learned why. Mom told me.

Times were tough. It was the 70s. There was a recession, unemployment and all that comes with it. Mom and Dad did all they could to make ends meet. But there wasn’t much left over after the bills were paid. When Mom and Dad took Tramp to the vet, he told them there was nothing he could do. He’d have to put Tramp down. The cost was $25.

Twenty five dollars may not seem like much today. But back then it was a lot of money to a struggling family. It could feed the kids for a week. And besides, Dad’s paycheck was already spent. So Dad and Mom brought Tramp home. After Mom hugged him good-bye, Dad gently wrapped Tramp in a blanket and carried him to the car. He took his hunting rifle. And they drove into the mountains together.

When Mom finally explained to my what happened, I couldn’t say anything. Later, I took a walk alone in the woods behind our house and cried. But I wasn’t crying for Tramp. I was crying for Dad. I knew that it was the hardest thing he ever did. I still think of Tramp often. And when I do, I remember how he would romp and play with us and bring us so much joy. And then I think of Dad and how difficult and courageous and sad it was for him to do the final act of love for Tramp.

There is a happy ending. A few years later Theresa begged Dad for a new pet. So Dad brought home a chubby brown beagle puppy and gave it to her. We named her Daisy, after the wildflowers that grew all over the mountains that surrounded our house. Daisy and Dad became best friends. Their favorite activity was to go for walks chasing rabbits up in the mountains. The funny thing is that they never caught any rabbits. But I suppose that could be because Dad never took his gun.

The Beast

I recently signed up to take an online creative writing class at a local community college. I was a bit disappointed when my first assignment was something as dull as sitting around and observing a lit candle. Sitting is not something I do well - unless I am on Facebook to play Mafia Wars. But unfortunately for me the assignment in no way involved online social media or organized crime.

I also convinced myself that having an open flame with three kids bounding around sounded like a spectacularly bad idea. You might say a bit of pyromania paranoia took over. So, I did what I always do in such situations...I broke the rules. (Yea, I'm a rebel.) So, instead of slumping in my chair while squinting at the Yankee Scent of the Month, I merely imagined a candle while cleaning the family room.

Now, most of the other students in the class, being a bit more normal than I (and having had the benefit of actually following instructions), wrote about how peaceful they felt with their candles. They used words like relaxing, flickering, fragrant and dancing lights. Then there was me.

In my mind's eye the flame was something fearsome - like a lion in a cage, trying to break free and attack me. I am hoping this does not represent a deep seated resentment for Zoos - though I admit that I get freaked out about Circuses. More likely it represents an aversion to cleaning. If you'd ever seen our family room following a two year old tornado you would understand. Regardless, that's when I decided I'd better kill it (the fire) before it killed me (be assured, I would never kill a lion).

I'm certain there must be something deeply psychologically wrong with all of this and with the fact that I ended up writing a verse instead of a story despite clear instructions to the contrary. Or maybe I was just being a Pink Bird. Or maybe I'm just trying to justify my laziness. Or maybe I just made up all of this in a desperate ploy to entice you to read my ramblings further, in which case it appears to have worked fabulously and we should all conclude that I am brilliant (patting self on back).

In any event, please indulge me while I tell you about The Beast.

The Beast

A tea candle
Set on a shallow saucer
On my desk.

A mountain
Of bills and papers
Towers over.

Its flame stretches,
Grasping violently.
Craving to lick the pulp
And nourish its anger.

Frantically jerking,
Gnashing the chain
That anchors it
To its prison.

Small drops form
And ooze down its skin.
They gather
In a puddle
Of molten wax.

I inch closer.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Foolishly.
Like a cat stalking a wasp.

A few breaths separate me
From the beating light.
I inhale a wisp of smoke.
I taste its rage.

Suddenly
The blade lunges wildly
Lashing and biting
At my nose.

Drawing back
I study the trapped beast.
It will not be tamed.

Amused,
By its struggle,
I breathe deep.

With one quick blow,
I snuff its glow.

Random thoughts on Baseball, Bats and BC

“That umpire is as blind as a bat!” Ken shouts at the television. “Actually, Dad”, seven year old Eric corrects, “not all bats are blind. Most use echolocation to see where they are going.” Its hard not to appreciate seven year old logic even if the erroneously called strike prematurely ended the inning.

Ken's passion is sports. A few years ago during the Women’s Soccer World Cup, he set his alarm for 3:00 a.m. so he could watch the game live instead of catching the tape delay at a more reasonable hour. And in the days BC (before children), he played softball, baseball, volleyball, soccer and rugby – sometimes all in the same day. Eric is a lot like Ken. He has tons of enthusiasm and throws himself into the things that interest him most. Right now, he is engrossed in learning about three subjects – hockey, bats and Pokemon. It would make him really happy if he could find a Pokemon that was also an ice skating bat. Ken and Eric are alike in another way. They both can chatter the tail off a squirrel. Sometimes when we are driving Eric home from swim class the only way we know Eric is no longer awake is that he has stopped speaking. Like his Dad, he has a million thoughts in his head all trying to escape at the same time.

Emily, is more like me. She is bright but will often sit thoughtfully by herself as if she is drinking in the emotions of the room. She has a fiery temper that can scorch and burn if you’re not ready for it and she isn't afraid to speak her mind. Both of us have full, loud laughs that erupt from our bellies and burst out of our throat. Of course, Emily's fashion sense is far superior to mine. I could never pull off a lime green halter top with fuzzy pink bunny slippers.

I’m not sure who Beth resembles most yet. She’s very determined and strong willed (translate pig headed), a bit like me. On the other hand, she’s a fountain of energy, more like Ken. But her mischievous smile is all her own.

Like most parents, I secretly hope the kids will inherit my best qualities – like enthusiasm and empathy – and avoid my worst – like my temper. On the other hand, I am excited all the ways that Eric is uniquely Eric, that Beth is uniquely Beth and that Emily is uniquely Emily.

Taking Air on an Old Flexible Flyer

A light snow flitted from the grey sky. The frigid air stung my nose and my toes felt like ice cubes. I rested for a moment from shoveling a narrow path in the wet snow and assessed the state of the chore at hand. Dad and Theresa worked the path along the front sidewalk while Tina and I labored at the side of the house.

Only a short stretch remained barred. It was still morning and our labor would persist for another few hours. After shoveling the walks in front of our house, we would tackle the walk way in front of the next door neighbors – a kind elderly couple that we had known for years. Then we would walk to Nana’s house and clear her walks and driveway before stopping at Uncle John’s to do the same.

For some reason, the wind whipped harsher and the snow felt frostier when hard work was involved. But I worked diligently so we could finish the job faster and be released to spend the remainder of the day romping in the winter white world. Finally, having completed our task, Theresa, Tina and I raced to the garage and hauled out the old Flexible Flyer. We towed it to the top of the hill on Second Street and prepared for the first sledding day of the winter.

As the oldest, Theresa asserted her right to the inaugural run of the day. She lay on her stomach and grasped the steering rungs tightly. Tina and I shoved from behind until gravity took over and the little sled zipped down the hill. My turn was next. Not as fearless as my older sibling, I sat upright, holding the thin rope that would steer the rickety sled. Tina sat behind me with her arms wrapped around my waist. Theresa pushed.

At first the sled rails clutched the earth, refusing to move. Theresa pushed harder. Suddenly, the sled jolted forward and we started our descent – slowly at first and then quicker and quicker. The trees on the side of the hill whipped past in a blur as we gained momentum.

A few seconds later, we took air for a brief moment after bumping over a small mound of snow. The feeling of flight was exhilarating and frightening at the same time. Finally, on reaching the foot of the hill, our pace slowed until we came to a quiet rest. Tina and I rolled off the sled onto the cold earth gasping for breath and hooting with delight. We scrambled to our feet and lugged the sled to the top for another run. For the next few hours, the three of us wore a path down the slope as we repeated the thrilling ride.

Finally, as the shadows began to darken, we reluctantly slogged home. Once inside, we piled wet hats, gloves and boots in a corner. Our cheeks, which had turned pink, warmed to their natural color and our noses stopped running. Mom served us a cup of hot chocolate with a hearty bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup. As we sipped and slurped, we chattered about our day’s adventure and we planned to do it again the next morning.

Changing the Subject

“The waiter just called me old!” I lamented as I watched our table server head back towards the kitchen. Ken had no sympathy. “What’s the big deal? He just called you Ma'am” he sighed. “He implied I was old!” I sputtered. “You are old to him” Ken replied. I can tell he immediately regretted his response. He tried to drop his fork on the floor to distract me from the conversation but it was too late. So he just leaned back in his seat and braced himself for the storm surge. “First of all,” I spat, “I am not old. Second, even if I were old, I don’t LOOK old.” “Do I have to answer that?” Ken muttered.

We’ve had this discussion before. You would think by now Ken would know that the less he says the better. Plus I’m fairly certain his wasn't paying much attention and that he was actually watching ESPN on the TV hanging over the bar behind me. I was tempted to tell him I planned to sell the house and spend my life exploring the Yucatan just to see if he would nod and say “Yes, Dear. Uh-Huh.”

As I sipped my caffeine free diet Coke, I wondered how the scene would have played out if I were lunching with my friends instead of my husband. So I mentally hit the rewind button.

Scene One, Take Two. A bustling yet quaint restaurant at noon. And action! The camera pans through the crowd and slowly settles on a small booth in the corner. Zoom in. Three established, fashionable and stunningly attractive ladies are chuckling together as they sip a glass of red wine. The part of me is being played by Marissa Tomei…….

CUT!!!

Right, even I’m not buying that one. Let’s try again. Take three. And...... Action!

Same restaurant, same booth. Erin, Cathy and I are shoveling chips and salsa and belly aching about everything you can imagine. The waiter arrives and takes our order. Just before he leaves, he utters the offending sentence “Would you like something to drink, Ma’am.” All of the air is sucked out of the room as my lunch mates gasp and I growl, “No. Thank You.” As the waiter slinks away from my evil stare, I turn to the girls.

Me: “Did that urchin just call me Ma’am? He was implying I’m old!”
Cathy: “He’s such a child he thinks anyone who doesn't need a learners permit is old.”
Erin: “Just for that he only gets a 14% tip....Actually, do you mind if I give him 15, I can’t do the math for 14?"
Cathy: “Besides, you are not old. And you look fabulous. Is that a new blouse? I love that color on you.”
Erin: “Hey, did anyone watch Glee last night?”
Me: “Are you kidding, my house is permanently tuned to Nick Junior. I think we watched Wow Wow Wubzy for the thousandth time.”

As the camera fades to black we hear the sound of hens clucking.

Now, I know you are thinking, “Is there a moral to this story?” Yes. There is. Gentlemen, if your wife asks if you think she looks old, for Pete’s sake, just compliment her blouse and change the subject. Consider that my Public Service Announcement for the day.

Cut! That’s a wrap folks. Let’s pack it up.

Help! I've Lost My Instruction Manual!

Around my office, I’m known as a bit of a geek. I like to study and learn – especially when it relates to technology. And I am fascinated by things that beep and buzz. Recently, a coworker, laughing at my nerdy ways, commented “I’ll bet you are the kind of person who reads the operator’s manual that comes with your computer…just for fun.” I blushed and didn’t say anything. The truth is I WOULD read the operator’s manual….except that I don’t know where I put it. Whether its directions, instructions or manuals, I inevitably misplace them the minute I open the box for the latest device I acquired. It’s like there is a black hole in my house that sucks up manuals immediately upon my bringing anything into my home. As a result, I am left to muddle about trying to figure things out on the fly. I justify my carelessness by the fact that I learn a lot through the process of trial and error. But this might also explain why my VCR still blinks a constant “12:00” even though I’ve owned it for over ten years.

The day I welcomed my first child, Eric, home from the hospital was the day I realized the importance of a coherent guidebook. Within minutes of crossing the threshold with our precious bundle, I found myself desperately searching for the instructions that would tell me what to do next. “It must be around here somewhere”, I told Ken as I rummage around the diaper bag and among the mountain of gifts and flowers sent by joyful friends and relations. Ken investigated the space behind the dryer and searched under the couch. I checked in the junk drawer where I found a receipt for a bag of M&M’s and a warranty card for a toaster we had owned four years ago when we lived in a different state. When all else failed, I called the doctor who assured me that “no, he had not neglected to remove any critical elements from my uterus on the day of delivery.” (I’m taking his word on this.....)

To be sure, we received a lot of advice on child rearing. Some was practical, like when my Mom showed me the right way to use a burp cloth after Eric puked on me for the first time. As a result of her assistance, several favorite blouses would be saved. Some was thoughtful, like when my sister reminded me to get lots of rest so that I would have enough energy to be the best Mom possible. Guilt be gone, I am taking a nap! Some was crazy, like when a friend suggested that if I allowed my baby to sleep in his swing he would NEVER sleep anywhere else. Never? Really? Like when he’s in college I’ll have to pack this thing up and ship it off to his fraternity house? Unfortunately, none of the counsel I received properly educated me on how to transform this small package of drool and diapers into a grown-up - without causing any permanent psychological harm.

My normal reaction on realizing I’ve lost the helpful handbook is to start pressing buttons and see what happens. So I touched Eric’s nose. He slowly blinked opened his teeny eyes and looked at me. Hmmm. Nothing happening there. I felt his tiny fingers. He curled them around my finger in a soft grip. I smiled. I brushed his toes. He wiggled them at me. I gently pressed his tummy and he smiled. These buttons, it appeared, didn’t DO anything! Forget it, I’ll just have to wing it.

And for the next three years, wing it I did. I made it up as I went along. He’s hot. Aaaagh! What do I do? Calm down. Call the doctor. He’s hot again. What do I do. Remember last time he was hot? The doctor said try some baby Tylenol. Right. Baby medicine. Got it. Now he’s cold! Come one, you know this one, try a blanket. But it’s not working. Wrap him up tight and cuddle with him until he falls asleep. Whew. That worked.

A few years later, we learned that Emily was on her way. “Great!”, I thought. This time I will be sure not to lose the operator’s manual. I even mentioned it to the doctor when he entered the delivery room. “Uh, excuse me. Can you make sure that the nurse does not discard the instruction booklet this time?”, I said in my most cheerful voice. The doctor looked at me with concern and advised the nurse to reduce the dosage on my pain medicine. Emily, it turns out, did not come with a hand book either! And when Beth arrived two years later, hers was missing as well!

This was getting ridiculous! Now I was mad. So I did what I always do in these situations. I wrote a sternly worded letter to the Corporate Offices to complain. It went like this:

Dear God:

Thank you for the recent delivery of Beth and for fulfilling our prior orders for Emily and Eric. We have found the models to be according to the pre-established specifications and believe that they each contain the correct parts. While we are pleased with our acquisition, I must alert you to a situation in your packaging department. It appears your quality control group has neglected to include a set of operating instructions with all three models. Could you please send me copy at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely yours,

Me.

Two years passed with no word until one bright night in October when I was out for a stroll and noticed a shooting star that appeared to fly directly over my house. I rushed home where I discovered a small package sitting on the front steps. It was wrapped in plain brown paper with a tidy red bow on top. My name was printed neatly on the outside. There was no return address. I tore open the covering and was delighted to discover a small book. Embossed in gold lettering on the cover was my name and the title - “The Care and Handling of Emily, Eric and Beth.” Anxiously I opened the cover and found a message scrawled on the inside. It said:

Dear You:

We have checked our records and agree that we neglected to include an operator’s manual with your prior orders. Please accept our humble apology along with your requested materials. Also, please be aware that for the models you ordered instructions are limited and it is up to the user to fill in the gaps on their own.

Kindest regards,

God.

My fingers trembled as I eagerly turned to the first page of the book. A single word was printed on the top line in ten point type. It said "Love." All of the other pages were blank. A blue ball point pen had been included for my convenience.

I miss my MTV

I miss my MTV. The original one where Vee Jays Nina Blackwood and Martha Quinn introduced the latest Police video and where British synth pop and west coast hair bands competed for air time. The one that played music. Good music. Unusual music. Interesting music. Fun music. Am I the only one who longs for the days when MTV stood for “MUSIC” television and not the “watered down, twenty-four hour, second-rate, reality TV” station?

Being in touch with the hits of the day will often define whether you are "in" or "out." A few weeks ago I cruised Main Street blaring the Pop 80s station on my satellite radio. It was a cheerful autumn afternoon and the sun warmed my cheeks through the windshield. So, naturally, I rolled down the windows and cranked the volume to 11. In my best shower voice, I crooned along with Def Leopard. “Pour Some Su-gar On Meeeeeeeey.” (I tried not to think much about what the lyrics actually meant.) There I was jamming along, bopping my head and tapping the steering wheel when I noticed a group of college kids on the corner laughing at the crazy old broad making a fool of herself in a minivan. Oh! My! God! That crazy old broad was me! I blushed, rolled up my window and turned the radio to the AM news channel.

I’m the first to admit that even when “cool” was the cool word to use, I was tepid at best. I could never pull off the Madonna "Material Girl" look and my powdered blue Member's Only Jacket was not nearly as exclusive as the name implied. But even so, I find myself a bit nostalgic for the days when I could read People Magazine’s “What’s Hot and What’s Not" quiz and not find me in every “Not” photo. - Honestly, I had no idea that pantyhose were passe! And in my defense, I only wore them because I forgot to shave my legs.

Even more than being cool, I miss the times when I could tune to the local FM station and recite the words to more than half the play list. Last time I listened to a pop channel the only thing that made any sense to me was a commercial for Lube Pro (Note to self, make appointment to have oil changed.) This point hit home recently when speaking with a newer attorney in our office. Megan is a recent graduate - attractive, intelligent and confident. I suspect she'll be my boss someday. During a raucous lunch attended by a boisterous group of lady lawyers, I mentioned the song "My Baby Takes the Morning Train." She gave me a blank stare. "Sheena Easton?" I said hopefully. Stare. "For Your Eyes Only? We got Tonight?" I queried with increasing desperation. Stare with stifled yawn. "Am I really THAT old?", I pleaded. She deftly changed the subject before I could corner her into opening up a can of reality on me. I'll be sure to thank her when she administers my performance review ten years from now.

Of course, its hard for me to be hip when the last concert I attended was either "Dora The Explorer on Ice" or “The Doodlebops! Live!” Although the poofy cotton candy hair and pink fluorescent tights that Dee Dee Doodle sported reminded me a tiny bit of the time I saw Poison at the Spectrum and Brett Michaels pranced about in a pink and black leopard print leotard. Unfortunately, the sad reality is, we don't listen to Twisted Sister in our house. We focus more on The Disney Princesses' Greatest Hits. Occasionally, I may get to listen to Hanna Montana or the Jonus Brothers. To be honest, I don’t mind so much hopping and dancing the Hokie Pokie with Beth (age 2) and singing “Ten Little Monkeys” with Emily (age 4) instead of blaring Aerosmith so loud that the house shakes. But I still yearn for the day that I find a familiar tune on MTV to help me feel an itsy bitsy bit hip again.

Maybe hipness is in the eye of the beholder. A few weeks ago as I drove Eric (age 7) home from ice skating, I heard him humming and singing softly to himself in the back of the car. “We got the beat, we got the beat, we got the beat…..”, he chanted. “Hey bud,” I asked, “What’s that song you're singing?” “Oh, just something that’s on my Kidz Bop CD that we got from McDonald’s.”, he replied, “It’s pretty cool.” I smiled and hummed along. It felt good to be cool again.

P.S. Megan - The song Eric was singing....it's by the Go Go's....in case you were wondering.

What Do Thanksgiving Turkeys, Pine Sol and Clean Cotton Have in Common?

I have a confession to make. I don’t really like turkey that much. And I’m not a great big fan of pumpkin pie. What I do like is the idea of a Thanksgiving turkey roasting in the oven and a hot pumpkin pie cooling on the counter. And what I like even more are the aromas that saturate the air when the poultry is cooking and the pie is baking. As I drink in the scents of the bread with onion and celery stuffing steaming inside the bird, my mind shifts to a lazy holiday many years ago in the cozy little home of my youth. I can picture Mom puttering around the kitchen wearing an apron decorated with gold and orange leaves. And I can hear Dad snoring on the recliner after drifting off during the afternoon football broadcast.

Fragrance is a powerful memory. For some people, the smell of pine means Christmas trees. But for me, the fragrance of pine harkens back to spring cleaning. It reminds me of a cool April morning when Mom would fling open the windows and doors to welcome spring. A quiet breeze would roll against the drapes. Then Mom would spend the day scrubbing the floors and walls with Pine Sol until the entire house smelled like a forest glade. By the time she was done, the windows and walls twinkled like diamonds and the whole house felt fresh.

In the spring time, I also love to bask in the smell of lilac. It immediately transports me to the rows of lavender trees that lined the backside of our property and the countless spring mornings I spent humming a tune while resting beneath the branches. When I sense lilac, I can almost see the sun beams trickling through the green leafy tree limbs and dancing in the grass. It makes me want to skip work and spend the day chasing butterflies instead.

Fresh laundry is another aroma that makes me smile. Recently, Ken purchased a Yankee candle that advertised its scent as “clean cotton.” We lit it in the laundry room and I found myself reliving a memory in Nana’s backyard. I could see Nana standing nearby shaking out white sheets and beige towels and carefully pinning them to a thin rope line. While Nana worked, a small brown sparrow perched on the fence and called softly to its friends. Then Nana left the laundry to waft in a gentle wind until it was ready for her to neatly fold into her small yellow basket.

Sometime this February, as the wind rocks our house and the snow swirls on the driveway, I’ll heat up cups of steaming hot chocolate for my kids. We’ll pile marshmallows on top and then sit together at the kitchen table laughing and dunking cookies into our drinks while we play Candyland. Then, years from now, when my kids are grown, they’ll revisit that memory every time they smell a cup of cocoa.

Fake versus Real: Settling the Debate

Exhausted from a long day of gorging on left-over turkey and watching football, Ken and I had just settled into bed. It had been a fun Thanksgiving weekend and we were ready to relax. Suddenly, the tranquility of the evening was disrupted by a thundering crash from our living room. Fearing a semi had just smashed through our front door, Ken and I raced downstairs.

There we encountered a most gruesome site and I realized that we were witness to a heinous crime. Douglas, a young and innocent fir tree who had come to spend the holidays with us, lay sprawled across the floor. His strings of blinking red and green lights, which previously adorned his trim figure, were strewn on the carpet. Broken ornaments littered the room. Douglas, I could see, had been viciously attacked. Two sets of tiny paw prints heading across the kitchen tile gave me a clue that the culprits may have been our cats – Trixie and Smokey.

In hindsight, I should have realized that dragging a fresh cut pine into our home was a bad idea. But in my mind I had created visions of the family establishing the kind of idyllic traditions that would later be played out in the Donny Osmond Christmas with the Family Holiday Special. As a result, we had spent Friday tramping about the woods in ankle deep snow trying to locate and cut the “perfect” tree. After we stalked it, chopped it and strapped it to the hood of our car, we carted it home and draped it with pretty glass baubles and twinkling lights. This, I now know, was a very bad idea.

The sweet smelling tree, I have come to understand, was nothing more than a huge pile of pine scented catnip - as well as a most excellent scratching post. Before it relocated to our home, I’m sure its branches housed thousands of robins and red birds. A squirrel and some mice certainly spent time playing in the limbs. And I would not be surprised if a couple of bunny families had built a village against its base. Think of it from the cats’ perspective, this tree was full of every aroma of every living thing that a cat would want to devour. The only thing that would have made it better would be if I had decorated it with catfish fins and halibut heads.

Trixie and Smokey, I know would not have tortured me in the same manner. I am certain they would never bring home an unusually large plant that reeked of chocolate cupcakes. And if they did, they would not have plunked it in a bucket of water, laced it with electricity, covered it with glass and naively believed that I would not attack it at the first opportunity. Trixie and Smokey, unlike me, are realists.

Over the next two hours Ken and I kept up our spirits as we righted the tree, restrung the lights and swept up the broken decorations. “At least no one was hurt.” I offered weakly before we collapsed into bed. Then, less than four hours later, like a scene out of Ground Hogs Day I found myself repeating the entire affair - this time, with considerably less humor. At six o’clock the next morning, as we picked up the tree for the third time in less than twelve hours, Ken turned to me and snarled “Merry F***ing Christmas.”

At this point I had two clear options to choose from. The first, I was fairly certain carried a penalty of twenty to life and would leave me a widow. Though I felt I would likely be acquitted by an all female jury, I decided not to risk it. So I went with Plan B which merely involved shooting eye daggers at Ken. After that I stripped poor Douglas to his birthday suit, yanked him to the curb and left him to the elements.

This year, our tree will be a sturdy and fragrance free model - the kind that spends eleven months in a box under the basement stairs and has never met a rabbit. And if we are lucky, it will remain devoid of cats until after we drink in the New Year.

One Pink Bird....

Last week at Emily’s preschool music class the teacher lined up all the kids. There were ten of them and she told them that they were all blue pigeons sitting on a wall. The teacher began to sing, “Ten blue pigeons sitting on a wall.” Almost immediately, Emily interrupted. “I’m a pink bird!” she insisted in her high pitched, squeaky four year old voice.

The teacher started the song again, “Ten blue pigeons…..” But Emily was not discouraged. Once again, she piped up “I’m a pink bird!” Finally, the teacher acquiesced and altered the lyrics of the song to say "Ten blue pigeons (and one pink bird) sitting on a wall." A few Moms glanced at me with an “I’m so sorry your child is behaving so badly” look. A couple of others muttered a soft “tsk, tsk” under their breath. And a few laughed. I beamed. I beamed because my four year old daughter was the only pink bird in a world of blue pigeons and she wasn’t going to let anyone tell her otherwise.

A few days later, I told the story of the pink bird to a friend at work. He chuckled and said “There has to be a lesson in that story somewhere.” He was right. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that tiny little Emily was trying to teach us all three very important lessons. Let me share them with you.

Lesson 1: Be the Bird You Want to Be (You have the power to define who you are.)
Lesson 2: Stand Out in the Crowd. (Be a pink bird in a world of blue pigeons.)
Lesson 3: Celebrate your Pinkness (We are all a bit different and that’s OK.)

Let me explain some more.

Lesson 1: Be the Bird You Want to Be.
Though just a child, in her innocence, little Emily understands something that is very important but that many of us have forgotten. She knows that she is the only person with the power to define who she is.

Unfortunately, in our grown up ways, many of don't realize this. And in missing this point, we allow other people to tell us who we are. They see us as a “wife” or a “mother” or a “doctor” or a “waitress.” And they pin labels on us and set expectations as to what we should say and do and what we should want or be. They tell us we are blue pigeons and we believe them. And we live our blue pigeon lives hopping in the park pecking bread off the ground with the other blue pigeons, following what the flock has chosen for us. And that, my friends, is the greatest lie of life.

Because the reality is that I am the only person who can define who I am. You are the only person who can define who you are. All it takes is the courage to stand up and say “Hey, I’m not a blue pigeon. I’m a pink bird!” The reality is that I have the power to be the bird I want to be. And you have the power to be the bird you want to be. And nobody anywhere has the power to tell either or us otherwise.

Lesson 2: Stand Out in the Crowd.
As we grow up we attend school, we get a job, and we become part of a community. And all around us there is a tremendous amount of pressure to “fit in” and to “go with the flow” and to “follow the crowd.” And thousands of people do just that every day. They eat lunch at TGI Fridays and they attend Chamber of Commerce Meetings each month. They wear neatly pressed suits and ties and keep their hair trimmed. And by all means, they try not to draw any undue attention to themselves. And there lives are dull and gray. And they are miserable.

But not Emily. Emily is special. She’s sweet and funny and most of all, she is unique. And she knows it. And more important than that, Emily is not afraid to stand out and be different. And she doesn't care what anyone else thinks about that. When she wakes up and dresses herself in an orange striped t-shirt and purple and pink plaid pants she is screaming to the world “Look at me, I’m unique and special and I love myself.” That’s the power of being four, I guess.

But imagine what your life could become if you took the advice of that four year old girl. Suddenly, you wouldn’t care that you were wearing white after Labor Day or that you left your Christmas lights up well into February just because you thought they were pretty and still felt like celebrating. Suddenly, you would be free to stand out in the crowd and enjoy all of the ways in which you are unique and special. And all of the opinions of all of the people who were telling you all of the things you can't do wouldn't matter anymore. Suddenly you would be proud to discover that you are a pink bird in a world of blue pigeons.

Lesson 3: Celebrate your Inner Pinkness.
It’s not enough to understand that you are a pink bird in a world of blue pigeons. To be fully alive, you need to embrace your inner pinkness. The truth is, we are all a bit different. Rather than try and ignore what makes us each special – or worse yet, try and hide it – we need to celebrate it.

Emily celebrates her inner pinkness every day. “Honey,” I say, “Please put on your jammies.” “No, Mommy,” She responds “Tonight I am a mermaid.” She dons her mermaid princess costume and crawls into bed and falls asleep smiling from ear to ear. Emily doesn’t care if the other Moms are snickering or saying “tsk, tsk.” She is happy - really and truly happy. And that is enough.

Be remarkable! Take a good look at yourself in the mirror. Understand that you are uniquely you. And love yourself exactly as you are – with all your faults and foible and failings. Because your inner pinkness makes you the most wonderful, special person in the world.

Three such beautiful lessons from such a wise young girl! But of course, we all know that it’s not always easy to be pink. Someday, when Emily is thirteen she may succumb to peer pressure and spend copious amounts of time just trying to fit in. She will darken her feathers and try and make herself look just like all the other blue pigeons. She’ll stop playing tag with the butterflies and will sit dully on a park bench marking time with the flock. But I promise you, when she does, I’ll be there to remind her that in her heart she is a pink bird and meant to fly high. Because pink birds are a rare and precious breed.

I Want To Go To Kindergarten!

"I want to go to Kindergarten!!!!!", Emily flailed and screamed at the top of her lungs as I carted her out of Eric’s classroom. It was Eric’s second day and I had allowed Emily to join me as I walked him to school. I thought she would enjoy seeing a real kindergarten classroom up close. She did enjoy it. She enjoyed it so much that she refused to leave. So while other happy families strolled through the corridors with smiling children, I was lugging a shrieking pre-schooler out of the building.

Despite the tantrum, I’m glad Emily is excited about the idea of attending Kindergarten. Eric was too. And he’s even more excited now that he is in first grade. The public elementary school a few blocks from our house is a fresh, new building filled with pleasant and enthusiastic educators. The principal is a cheerful man who works hard to create a positive and enriching experience for all of the children. It’s a little bit different from my own primary education.

For eight years, from September through June, I sat stiffly at a tiny desk in a cramped classroom in an ancient building. There was no air conditioning to make us more comfortable on the muggy June afternoons and precious heat on the frigid January mornings. I dressed in a dreary uniform every day. The administration had selected drab brown jumpers with a plain white blouse. I wonder if they feared that infusing any color into our dressings would cause a rebellion, anarchy, chaos or worse.

I don’t recollect all of my teachers. Yet what seems to stick with me is how many of them looked drained and surely as they lectured and dictated from in front of the chalk board. I wonder if any of them ever woke up burning with excitement to start their day of building great leaders of the future. I can’t recall the name of our principal. I imagine it was something intimidating like Sister Claudius St. Bernard. She was a stern woman in a starched navy apron with thin lips who wore sensible shoes. Discipline and order reigned and I never had an interaction with her that approached a smile or a kind word.

But I suppose my school days were not completely unpleasant. I remember playing magnificent games of kick ball in the play ground during lunch recess. A more congenial sixth grade nun once read “Charlotte’s Web” to us, making it a favorite of mine to this day. Though our classroom was not a hot bed of new ideas, we were sufficiently schooled in the basics. Still, I often wonder if there shouldn’t have been more.

While my own grade school memories don’t reflect an ideal scholastic setting, I suspect it was pretty typical of the times. I do believe our school tried hard to do what they thought was best given what they had to work with at the time. Still, it comforts me to think that we’ve learned something in the past 30 years about what enriches children. I think many teachers today are better equipped and have a passion for their vocation – at least those that I’ve met.

Every time I visit Eric’s class, my heart runs over. It’s bright and warm and welcoming. The educators are smart, friendly and encouraging. Eric’s teacher has a wealth of knowledge and experience and is always challenging the children with fun and exciting new ways to learn and grow. I guess that’s why I can truly appreciate Emily’s yearning to be a part of the experience as soon as possible. As Emily beat her fists and kicked her legs I smiled slyly and wondered what people would think if I suddenly started stomping and yelling "I want to go to kindergarten too!!"

You Can't Have Too Many Friends Who Love You

A few weeks ago, Eric invited his friend Abbey over for a play date. They've been pals since preschool and have kept in touch now that they are both in first grade. It was a sunny autumn afternoon and they played let’s pretend together on the swing set in our backyard. When I asked Eric what games they were playing he said they were puppies. Later, Abbey and Eric created some art. Eric made a yellow star with glitter and glue for Abbey. Abbey made an enormous pink and purple heart for Eric.

That’s when Abbey told me a secret. “Eric and I love each other”, she confessed, “but not like moms and dads. We love each other like friends.” It was so sweet my heart almost burst. “Honey”, I said, “You can never have too many good friends who love you.

It’s true. You never can have too many friends who love you. You know who they are. The people you can count on to give you a lift on a dreary day. The ones that make you laugh so hard that you spit milk out your nose. And the ones who give you a strong shoulder to lean on when you feel weak.

I’ve been fortunate to have some great friends in my life. From the time I was four until we relocated to separate coasts, my friend Michele and I were best pals. We helped each other heal the wounds from spoiled relationships while eating copious amounts of mint chocolate chip ice cream and listening to gloomy power ballads on a cassette deck. In college, I had three fantastic roommates each with their own energy and spirit. Val, Jen and Julie aided me as I navigated the confusing path from teen to adult. In the process we had a couple of beers (as well as one or two hang overs), threw some parties, and laughed out loud till the landlord came knocking on the door. After a late night of celebrating (whatever might have been important enough for a college student to celebrate) we would watch MTV or “Pee Wee’s Big Adventure” into the wee hours of the morning. Another favorite pastime was playing hours and hours and hours of volleyball before heading out for a few drinks.

This past October I flew to Arizona to spend a long weekend with three great friends. Sherry, Erin,Kim and I had all worked together and shared the common complaints of our occupation. We lounged by the pool in the dry sun for hours and sipped froo froo drinks. We told secrets and stories that made us laugh so hard our ribs hurt and scared away the other hotel guests in the process. We celebrated each others accomplishments. And we helped each other heal from scars – some recent, some more remote. Every once in a while, I need a weekend like that to remind me to keep my friends close.

When I look around, I realize how lucky I am. I have three fantastic kids. I have an awesome husband. My parents, sisters, in-laws, nieces and nephews are wonderful too. I’m fortunate that I have such great friends and family who all love me in just the right way.

As time goes by, Eric and Abbey will probably drift apart. She’ll find playing puppy dog games is less interesting than puppy love or shopping for new shoes. Eric will become consumed with racing BMX bikes or skateboarding or driving a convertible. They won’t schedule play dates and will stop sitting next to each other in the cafeteria. But some day, when Eric and Abbey are both pushing forty, I think they’ll each look back and remember what a beautiful thing it was to have a good friend to love.

How Curious George Made Me a Better Mom

"Mama, read eggo." Bethy snuggles into my lap. We are sitting on the floor in her room surrounded by heaps of books. She wants me to read her Dora the Explorer book for the 100th time. I know exactly which one she means - the one where Dora and Boots adventure with cousin Diego (or eggo to Beth) to save baby Jaguar. As soon as we finish "eggo" she picks up her Find the Ducky book and we laugh together as we read it again and again and again and again.......

At two years old, Beth's interests are plain. She appreciates chocolate cake, a tickle on the tummy, and reading books about her favorite topics: ducks, Dora and doggies. Her favorite color is yellow, like a duck. Her favorite songs include "My Bunny (bonnie) Lies Over the Ocean" and "Itsy Bitsy Spider." Even though we are singing it for the tenth time in a row, Beth giggles as if it is brand new. I feign fascination when the spider is washed out, yet again. But it’s Beth’s favorite song and when she smiles and insists "Again! Again", I oblige.

One of the best pieces of parental advice I ever received was from my sister Theresa. She passed on wisdom that my Aunt Betty and Uncle Jim shared with her. Simply put, she told me to "be interested in the things that interest your kids. If your kids like basketball, then you like basketball. If your kids like swimming, then you like swimming." I keep this idea in mind every day and do my best to apply it.

When Theresa shared this wisdom, I understood her meaning clearly. She didn't convey that I should share my passions with my children. She didn't advise that I spend time engaged in interests that I have in common with my kids. She didn't tell me to try and be their friends. She told me to be interested in whatever interested them. The underlying message was that being able to communicate with your children about things that are important to them will go a long way when it comes time to communicating about important things.

During her youth, Theresa enjoyed sports like basketball, softball and volleyball. On becoming a Mom, she looked forward to the days of passing on her passion. But when my niece Katelin and my nephew Daniel were small, they didn't share her enthusiasm for all things athletic. Rather than force them into years of therapy because "Mom made me play soccer when I hated it", she switched gears. Instead of focusing on what she liked, she helped her kids find their passion and then enjoyed it with them. As the kids grew older, she continued to communicate with them on all sorts of issues. She's following the same plan with baby Mary who is almost three.

As a result of Theresa’s advice, I can name at least ten different Pokeman and their associated powers. And I even know that Dragonoid is a Bakugan, not a Pokeman. Since Eric likes to play ice hockey, I make it a point to skate with him from time to time. I have read the Disney version of Sleeping Beauty enough times to tell you that her real name is Aurora, that her father is King Stephan and that Maleficent is responsible for the evil curse. I know that Emily will correct me if I get any of that wrong. I have read most of the Magic Tree House series and watched enough episodes of Dora the Explorer to last a life time. I have attended countless tea parties and know how to pretend to be a very convincing Power Ranger. And I enjoy every blessed moment of it.

Being in touch with what interests my kids comes in very handy. One time last year, I had to take Emily (three at the time) to the hospital for some tests. Before going, we read Curious George - the one where he goes to the hospital. She learned enough about hospitals, doctors and nurses for me to convey to her young mind what would happen during her visit. The next day, as we sat in the waiting room, we talked about George together - sharing a common experience past and present. More recently, seven year old Eric and I enjoyed a spirited discussion on fairness and following the rules. We used soccer and hockey to give examples of how rules are often made to keep us safe and to make things more fun for everyone. And we talked about what to do when someone acts in a way that isn't fair.

I don't kid myself. I appreciate that right now I have little kids with little problems. Eric’s biggest concern is that he can’t tie his shoes by himself. Emily worries most about which stuffed animal will share her bed. And Beth’s biggest problem is a poopy diaper. There are no boyfriends, college applications or driver's licenses getting in the way yet. I'm just hoping that being involved in their lives today will pay off big in the future. But even if it doesn’t, I’m going to have some really cool memories to look back on.

Rainbows Belong to Emily

It is a dramatically beautiful autumn morning. The air tastes fresh, like a drink of water from a bubbling mountain spring. The sun has just poked its head over the horizon and beams of warm light bounce off the brown and yellow leaves of an immature ash tree. The rays dance among the tree branches and then spill into the grass to play with the breeze.

A plump brown rabbit rests in the neighbor’s yard, munching its breakfast, wiggling its nose and reflecting on the day to come. When it notices me approaching, it twitches its ears good morning.

I am standing in my driveway, having just come out to retrieve the morning news. Just then my eyes are drawn to the western sky. That’s when I see it, stretching its hues across the corn fields, a pink rainbow. I stop and hold my breath.

And the first thought that finds my consciousness is that it would thrill Emily to behold this vision. That’s when it occurs to me that Rainbows belong to Emily.

Rainbows belong to Emily,
As do ponies, pixies, and rings.
Emily, you see is my princess,
And she owns all of these pretty things.

Eric owns ninjas and Spiderman.
He lays claim to cars and to trucks.
Bethy owns Dora’s adventures.
And she is also partial to ducks.

A green car is mine.
A blue one Ken claims.
And the house is in both of our names.
We all own two cats,
Or perhaps they own us.
Isn’t it all the same?

But whatever we own,
Whatever we see,
Whatever we feel or do,
There is only one thing
I know for certain.
And this I know is true.

Bethy owns bubbles and baubles.
She'd pick blankets too, if you asked.
Eric takes scooters,and skates and bikes
And things that go too fast.
But a rainbow is sweet and perfect,
And even though I know it won’t last,
Because it is pink and pretty,
It belongs to Emily.

Suddenly, the rainbow fades like a dream that drifts away when you wake. The rabbit is still sitting nearby, smiling at me. I wave and say "Good Day" before it hops back to its family. I turn back to the house to rejoin mine. Emily, alas, is still asleep. And I dare not wake her lest she miss her pretty dreams.

On Top of Old Smokey

My kids love to play camp out in the living room. Emily drags out her Tinker Bell cot and Eric locates some new double A's for his Spiderman flashlight. Beth burrows under a pile of covers and feigns snoring sounds. They dream they are resting in their tents after trudging for miles across barren plains. In reality, they feast on marshmallows, graham crackers and bits of chocolate. It’s hardly a woodsy escapade but for two preschoolers and a first grader it’s just about right.

Before I had children, oh so many years ago, I enjoyed wandering in a quiet wood. I suppose it’s because a ring of short hills, part of the Appalachian range, encircled our little home - so different from the corn fields the surround me now.

In autumn, when I was little, Mom would take us for hikes through the trees on a bright Saturday afternoon. We would follow a brook or wade through paths of red and yellow leaves. Eventually, we’d reach a small pond where Mom would rest while the kids searched for bugs and rabbits. Then Mom would show us how to identify a birch tree, strip away the bark from a twig, and chew the thin syrupy taste from the inner core.

As I grew older I yearned to return to the woods and soak in the sunshine and fresh air. When I was in college my roommate, Jenny, would often persuade me to ditch my Friday afternoon Calculus class. We’d jump in her brown hatch back and set off for a hike at the Delaware Water Gap. We’d climb rocks, trod streams, and tramp through brush without any concern or cares.

One November, shortly after we graduated from college Jenny phoned with a spectacular idea. What did I think about heading down to Shenandoah National Park for an early winter camping trip? Even though most of my camping up to this point had been setting up a tent in August at Jellystone Parks Campgrounds, I was eager to go along. A few days later Jenny and I and a half dozen other twenty-somethings were cruising west on Interstate 66 to Front Royal, Virginia. Our camping supplies included sleeping bags, tents, flashlights and matches. Though the sun shined brightly, the temperatures reached a mere forty two degrees and were falling.

The sun had set by the time we reached our camp site at Matthews Landing on the top of Sky Line Drive. Other than a raccoon who was intrigued by our presence, the camp grounds were deserted. Even the pit toilets had been closed for the season (and you all know what that means). By now, the temperatures had dropped to below freezing and there was a sharp wind whipping over the mountain top and biting at our cheeks and noses.

Our friend John, the most experienced outdoorsman in the group, took charge of starting a camp fire from leaves and kindling. The rest of us, bundled only in ski jackets and scarves, wandered off to unearth logs for the fire. I suppose I hadn’t planned well as my jacket was much too thin for conditions. Soon, my whole body trembled from cold. I remember finding a thick group of short trees and crawling in amongst them to escape the bite of the wind. I stayed until I heard the crackle of the camp fire calling me back to the group.

Then, like a scene that only occurs in Broadway musicals, or among college students, someone pulled out an acoustic guitar and started strumming camp songs and Beatles tunes. Soon we were all singing Kumbaya at the top of our lungs, roasting hot dogs on sticks and downing hot chocolate spiked with Baileys. Above us, a million stars danced along to the music while a handful of snowflakes flitted down from the sky. The only sounds were the music, the spitting of the fire and the howling of the wind and the night air tasted clean, pure and beautiful. It sounds kinda corny now, but I remember thinking then that it was the best adventure of my life. In truth the best adventure was still around the corner.

As I help my children set up their living room camp site, we imagine ourselves huddled together around a snapping fire. They poke invisible hot dogs onto imaginary sticks. And we sing about a farmer in a dell and a dog named Bingo while we drink apple juice from sippy cups.

Both camping trips were cozy and comforting and I feel lucky to have been able to be a part of each of them. And while it’s true that my days of camping on the top of Old Smokey on a blustery November night are probably behind me, I am still living the best adventure of my life - the adventure of motherhood.

I am Worried About the Property Values in Gotham City

I gotta believe that property values in Gotham City are worse than the national average considering the high crime rate. I’m also curious as to who writes Batman’s first party liability insurance coverage for the bat mobile and how many maids it takes to clean all the bathrooms in Wayne Manor. I guess I have a hard time suspending the bounds of reality when I watch superhero cartoons with my kids. My children, on the other hand can enter the world of imagination at a drop of a hat.

Even at the tender age of twenty four months, Beth understands the world of pretend. I love watching her hold her little yellow ducky toy and make quacking noises as it splashes across the tub looking for adventure. Its also fun to see her lift a tiny pink tea cup to the mouth of her stuffed bear and make imaginary sipping noises. We both see the same stuffed bear and the same pink teacup. The difference is, her minds eye also sees a sweet nectar in the cup and appreciates how much the bear is enjoying it. And she isn’t even worried about the fact that the cup spent the last two weeks under a pile of socks and probably carries a thousand unidentified germs.

Emily’s imagination is even bigger. I often find her having intimate conversations with her dolls and animals. This week, she is helping them learn good manners. Last week, she taught them to sing Happy Birthday. She doesn’t find it odd that the stuffed pink whale sleeping in her bed never swims in the ocean. Or that the lamb and the lion are literally lying next to each other.

When Eric was a baby, I use to sing to him about the “House at Pooh Corner.” It’s a Kenny Loggins song about a boy who wanders too far from fantasy land and can’t find his way back. Eventually the boy grows up and, on becoming a father, partakes again in the beautiful, wonderful, magical world that belongs only to children and their best friend toys. It goes like this:

So, help me if you can
I've got to get back to the house at Pooh corner by one
You'd be surprised there's so much to be done,
Count all the bees in the hive,
Chase all the clouds from the sky
Back to the days of Christopher Robin and Pooh.

The difficult part for me when I hear this song is not the understanding that I left Pooh corner; it’s the realization that one day Eric, Emily and Beth will probably journey forth as well. I want them to experience the joys of imagination for as long as possible. My only hope is that they can hold a small whisper in their hearts as they go along.

To be honest, we all probably hold a bit of Pooh corner inside. Its that part of us that enjoys the first rays of the early morning sunrise. It’s the little voice inside that persuades use to hop through a puddle as we dart among the rain drops trying to catch the bus. It’s the way we suspend reality, and think no one can see us, as we belt out the nonsensical words to Bohemian Rhaposdy while maneuvering the car through rush hour traffic. It’s how we won’t admit it
but we secretly love watching “Spiderman” and the “Wonder Pets” and sometimes will even watch a few minutes of the most bizarre cartoons while the kids are napping.

So, yes, I am worried about the property values in Gotham City. And I continue to fret over whether Superman tosses his cape in the laundry or sends it out to the dry cleaners. But every once in a while, if you sneak up on me when I least expect it, you might catch me playing a game of tea party with Emily’s doll when I am suppose to be cleaning her room.

If You Don't Like the Weather, Stick Around...

As the weather turns a bit cooler on the prairie, the talk amongst the natives turns to which of the five seasons we enjoy the least. Yes, I said five seasons. It’s a little known fact that while much of the earth celebrates four seasons, the heartland experiences five. They are: Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall and Wind. But even our normal seasons are not quiet as normal.

In most of the northern hemisphere, Winter officially begins on December 22. In the Midwest, Winter bursts into town a month and a half earlier when the temperatures begin to plummet from a balmy fifty degrees to a very tepid thirty. Even the sun migrates south to enjoy warmer climates and the sky clouds to a permanent shade of grey. At this point, conventional wisdom recommends burrowing into the ground and hibernating until the thaw.

Pretty soon an uninvited guest, the Winter white snow, settles into the neighborhood and proceeds to wear out its welcome. Under cover of darkness Jack Frost puffs white flakes into barren fields. Then, as the night wears thin, the snow wafts into the roadways and gathers in great heaping mounds. Like disorderly sentries after a night on the town, the mounds collect here and there, disrupting the morning commute.

For those who persist in venturing forth, by January the mercury in the thermometers has frozen solid and the weather is so frigid that the snot in your nose will turn to icicles. In Illinois, we blow right past Groundhogs day as every sane marmot understands it dares not expose itself to the arctic chill.

Around mid-April Old Man Winter departs and Spring sproings. It’s welcomed in by the traditional gathering of the family to huddle in the basement to treasure the soothing sounds of the tornado sirens as they make their Spring migration to their nesting grounds. In Spring, almost all residents can enjoy a lake front view from their own back porches as great pools collect from the twenty two consecutive days of rain. By the end of Spring, even the ducks are weary or water.

June one marks the arrival of Summer, which is more often called by it’s common name – Drought. One year during Drought our lawn was so crisp I dreaded crossing it for fear that static electricity would ignite a spark and create an inferno. But please don’t get the idea that the prairie climate is devoid of dampness in Summer as I am certain that if we could harvest the humidity, with the same efficiency that we applied to corn and soy beans, we’d collect enough moisture to fill Lake Michigan.

When you are out here in the corn crib, Autumn arrives around the third Saturday in September and lasts for exactly twenty four hours. That is the day when the leaf drops off the tree. Admittedly, the colors of a Midwest Autumn don’t compare to what you might see in the Great Smokey Mountains. On the other hand, what could possibly beat the site of a New Holland Combine puffing through the fields, knocking down corn stalks and turning over the sod?

That brings us to our fifth, and most unique, season – Wind. Wind normally consumes most of the month of October. If you have ever stood on a run way and felt the power that bursts out of a jet engine just before take-off, you might (almost) begin to have a very slight appreciation for the force of Wind. Indeed, the landscape is littered with acres and acres of farms that attempt to tame and harvest the power of Wind. Taller than a house, the turbines can be seen for miles.

Wind starts gusting in Wyoming, picking up steam as it roars through the west. When it reaches the flat lands, it bellows and blasts and bites. Wind arrives with a howl and spends its time wrenching shingles off of rooftops and uprooting trees. In comparison to Wind, a New England Nor’easter might be described as a blustery day. Sometimes before Wind’s season is over, it invites Winter over for a late night party and they lash about together in the darkness rattling the windows and pelting the house with ice.

During my first year in Illinois, nobody warned me to be careful of Wind. So it came as a great surprise to me when I innocently stepped outside for a brisk walk on an October afternoon and was immediately accosted by Wind. After being tossed about like a rag doll, I turned tail and rushed for sanctuary. It was then that I learned what every sensible corn belter knows – it’s best to go to bed in October and stay there till April.

Our Midwest weather this year has been a bit out of character. Spring was not as wet as normal but Summer was twice as moist. Winter was comparatively mild and summer not too hot. Autumn has agreed to extend its visit and Wind has stayed away thus far. But there’s a common saying out here shared among the huskers that seems to apply – “If you don’t like the current weather, stick around a couple of hours as its bound to change.”

An Apple a Day

Its a blustery autumn afternoon and my family is huddling together in the back of a hay wagon. A sputtering old John Deere is towing us through the apple grove after an exhausting day of plucking the red, green and yellow fruits from low hanging limbs. Eric leans his head of my shoulder and softly hums “On Top of Spaghetti.” Beth perches on my lap proudly clutching her treasure – a shiny red Jonagold that she pulled from the tree all by herself. Ken balances Emily on one knee and a sack full of Golden Delicious on the other. They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away. By the size of the bag, our family should be healthy for weeks to come.

Each year Ken and I take the family on an autumn quest to pick apples. We drive fifty miles north west to a small family owned farm in the country. Eric and Emily chatter with glee. “Are we there yet?! Are we there yet?!” Beth babbles along just because. The trip has become one of their favorite traditions and they can hardly contain themselves.

When I grew up, we didn’t pick apples in autumn. But we did pick wild blueberries in summer. I remember one time when Dad and Mom loaded us into the car and we bumped up a mountain trail to the summit. After Theresa, Tina and I tumbled out of the car, Mom passed out shiny silver pails and we set off on a hike that would take us a bit deeper into the woods.

Our perch from the top of the mountain provided a panoramic view of the tiny coal mining villages below. We saw red and brown cars puttering through the towns along cracked gray streets. Tiny houses were clustered here and there, dotting the landscape. If we were lucky, Mom said, we might spy a hawk circling overhead. I don’t remember any hawks but I do remember rabbits and squirrels and hoof prints from a deer that had passed through before we arrived. At one point, Dad cornered a small striped garden snake and coaxed us over to see it. Theresa crouched down to examine it as it slithered into the weeds. But Tina and I shrieked and ran away. Dad laughed before rejoining the trek.

Finally, we arrived at the rows of squat bushes freckled with plump, ripe blueberries. “Don’t eat too many”, Mom chided. But before the day ended our finger tips, lips, cheeks and tongues were stained purple. Pails overflowing we started lugging ourselves back to the car with sore bellies and tired feet. We crawled into the back seat and cuddled up like a pile of puppies. And before Dad turned the key in the ignition we had drifted off to sleep. The next day, Nana transformed the berries into sweet pies, jellies and jams. We feasted on treats for weeks to come and talked about our adventure for months.

Back in the hay wagon, Emily’s eyes are starting to droop. Eric is yawning and Beth appears ready to drift off to sleep. Tomorrow we will clean our apples. Some will be chopped and baked in a pie. Some will be sent to school to sit on the teacher’s desk. Others will be bitten and chewed for an afternoon snack. As Emily, Beth and Eric enjoy the fruit of their labor, they’ll talk animatedly about the apple farm and all the fun we had together. Then, after our bellies are full and we are crawling into our beds, I’ll tell them about the time I went picking blueberries in the mountains when I was a little girl.