Moving Day

A box of knickknacks and photo albums, heavy with memories, tried to hide itself in the corner of our living room. But Dad found it and hauled it out to the car. The room was empty now, except for the ghosts of our past. I walked into the kitchen (it was empty too) and thought about all the family dinners we ate there. The room use to smell like kielbasi and cabbage. Now the only smell was the dust that was raised in the move. My eyes filled with tears as I realized that some other family would eat their meals there from now on.

More than thirty years had passed since Mom and Dad adopted the house on Third Street and made it our home. Back then, when Mom and Dad were newlyweds and Theresa was barely a year old, Mom and Dad didn’t have a lot of money. It was all they could do to pay the rent and put food on the table. Mom and Dad were living in a small apartment on Coal Street. One day, Dad learned about a house for sale in Schoentown - only a short walk from Nana’s house where Dad was raised. He brought Mom to see it.

A red brick house with white and red awnings sat on the corner of Third and Brown. To its left, a red maple proudly splayed its leaves, offering its shade to the petite dwelling. It had a back yard with snowball-filled rhododendrons and a flowering magnolia tree, perfect for climbing. A neatly trimmed row of red hedge outlined the front yard. And a gated trellis entwined with pink roses welcomed visitors to the front door. It was Mom’s dream house.

Mom’s excitement quickly waned as she realized that they could never afford such a splendid place. But Mrs. Grabowski, the owner, was very particular, and she liked Mom and Dad from the start. Mrs. Grabowski was comforted to think about how a young family would enjoy the home she was leaving. She decided that Mom and Dad must have her house.

When Dad explained that they could never afford the payments on a $15,000 mortgage, Mrs. Grabowski immediately dropped her price to $12,000. Dad thanked her but said the most they could afford was $11,000. She dropped her price again. Dad told her they would think about it. A few days later, Mrs. Grabowski called Dad. Dad explained that they would like the house but that they could only manage $500 of the $1000 down payment required by the bank. Mrs. Grabowski offered to make a loan to Mom and Dad for the rest. Mom would have her dream house.

I was born shortly before our family moved into our house. Mom and Dad had left their apartment to stay at Nana’s until the house was ready. Nana’s house was attached to a one room country store where she sold bread, milk and penny candy to the neighbors. She never missed an opportunity to spoil her grandchildren with tootsie rolls and candy fish. A year or so after we moved into our house, Mom told Theresa and me that she had a baby in her belly. Sometimes I would talk to the baby by pressing my face against Mom’s stomach and whispering to it. Then I would tell Mom that the baby wanted to visit Nana and get some penny candy. So off we would go to visit Nana. Tina was born in 1968 and our family was complete.

Theresa, Tina and I were tough little girls. We played sports, like kickball and basketball, with the boys. Girls weren’t allowed on Little League. But we still played baseball after school. Just for fun. In the winter we built snow forts. In the spring, we constructed wooden forts in the woods and soapbox cars that we raced in the alley across the street.

In the summer we wandered into the fields to pick strawberries and raspberries. And we liked to play in the dirt. Sometimes we pretended to be pirates digging for buried treasure with garden tools taken from the garage. Often, we spent the whole day outside, roaming the neighborhood in bare feet. By the end of the summer our toes and heals were black as coal.

The best times I remember involved playing in our yard in the summer. There use to be a line of lilac trees stretching across the back. Bending their branches so they could touch the earth, the lilac trees formed a miniature canopy of green leaves. In the summer, we crawled among the limbs and played in the cool shade. It was safe and I felt comforted by the gentle flutter of the leaves in the summer breeze. The birds seemed to agree. While we played house in our shelter, brown sparrows would perch on higher branches and sing a soft tune.

In the winter, when the trees were bare, they looked like skinny old men standing in a twisted row. But in the spring they were young again when their delicate pink and purple flowers burst into bloom making our whole yard smell like perfume. Theresa, Tina and I picked bunches of flowers off the low branches. We gathered them together and skipped into our house to present them to Mom with toothy grins. Mom fussed about how beautiful they were and displayed them in a milky white vase on the kitchen table. If the lilacs weren’t in bloom, we picked wildflowers - buttercups and daisies. Mom put them in her vase as well.

As the moving van pulled away, I stopped and took one last look at our little home. It would stay there and we would leave, but the memories would come with me. Its been more than eleven years since I last set foot in the house on Third Street. By the smells, the sounds and the feelings are still fresh in my mind. And in my heart, the little brick house at the corner of Third and Brown will always be “Home Sweet Home.”

There is a Ninja Living in My House

There is a Ninja living in my house. He is almost seven years old and does not like to eat his green beans. He dresses in black and slips into the pantry to steal cookies. I would like to hire Spiderman to protect my cookies from the Ninja. But I suspect that they are working together to plot against me. My Ninja lives in a cave at the top of a mountain - when he is not sleeping in the bunk beds down the hall, cuddled up with his stuffed lamby. When I was seven, I lived in a castle on the edge of the ocean. I walked in pink sand and bathed in green waves. Sometime between the age of eight and forty three my castle was washed away.

The Ninja lives next door to the Princess. She is almost four and wears pink from head to toe. Her name is Blossom. She likes to dance and twirl. The Princess issues her royal commands from her bed chamber. “Bring me some water!” I am but a peasant in her kingdom. So I comply. The Princess has a best friend. His name is Bubby Bear and he is stuffed with fluff. When Bubby has a message for us, the Princess will deliver it in a deep voice, “I need a cwacker pwease.” Bubby Bear always shares his crackers with the Princess. When I was four my best friend was a stuffed doggie. It resembled a poodle with a green bob of fur on its head and tail. I remember whispering secrets to her under the covers at night. One day between the age of five and forty three she disappeared from my head. She was no longer real to me.

When I go to the sink to get the Princess her water, I discover that there is a ducky swimming in my tub. She is almost two. She splishes and splashes until there is a puddle of water all over the floor. She quacks and giggles at me as I try to wash the soap from her hair. When I take her from the tub to dry her feathers, she waddles away before I can catch her. She flies into the nursery and picks up her Dora book. The Ducky wants a story. When I was two, I yipped like a puppy, lapped my water from a bowl and chased my tail. I am not sure when, but one day between the age of three and forty three I grew up. I became an adult.

My head became filled with the thoughts of an adult. I have important work to do, like washing the dishes, preparing a memo and pulling weeds. But the Ninja, the Princess and the Ducky have even more imporant work. They must rescue us from Swiper the Fox who will eat all our Cheerios when we are not looking. And they must chase away the hairy monsters that hide under our beds and mess up our rooms when we are sleeping. The Ninja, the Princess and the Ducky live in the magic kingdom. When I was little I lived there too. But I moved away so many years ago. I did not return - until the Ninja, the Princess and the Ducky brought me home again.

Why the Hell am I Running at 5:55 a.m.!

Its 5:55 a.m. and I am outside on a brisk September morning jogging through the fog. If there is anywhere in the world I could be right now, this would not be it. The thing is, I am not a morning person. Just ask my husband, Ken. If I had my way, no day would start before 9:00 a.m. I would be gently and slowly awaken by a soft song whispering on the radio, a cool breeze brushing through the house and the smell of bacon popping on the stove. I would be served a heaping platter of scrambled eggs and orange juice (with said bacon) and then adjourn for a refreshing warm shower. Finally, after sipping on a couple of cups of hot coffee, I would be ready to start the work day – no earlier than 10:30.

But alas, my days of sleeping late and pampering my way through the pre-noon hours are long behind me. There are two reasons. First, I have a job. Second, I have three kids. So even on the weekends, a late morning sleeping in does not exceed 7:30. When the sun rises, I greedily cherish every precious moment I can capture in bed- curled up tight under my comforter. And the Good Lord help anyone who interferes.

For me to get out of bed in the morning requires an act of God, an edict from Congress or multiple presses of the “snooze” button. I literally roll out of bed and plod through the morning until I can inject enough liquid energy (a.k.a. coffee) to drown a shark. Until then, its best to stay out of my way. That’s why it is so hard for me to force myself out of bed at 5:45 each morning to exercise.

Exercise and I are not friends. We had a very nasty break up a few years ago over a pulled quad. Its been a strained relationship ever since. And when it comes to exercise, the only thing I despise more is running. Unlike my almost two year old who prefers running to any bipedal means of transportation, it does not come naturally to me. The out of breath huffing and puffing makes me feel like a giant grisly bear on a hot August day.

Yet here I am, lumbering through the neighborhood at what one might loosely describe as a jog. Why?... The answer is simple. I have lost my mind. And in the process, I have confused night with day and awake with asleep. And I have somehow convinced myself that sweating out half the liquid in my body and raising my pulse will make me “feel better.” Ha. Feel Better! What would really make me feel better is a Cinnabon and a Lazy Boy. Still, I force myself to go on pattering up and down the streets in a vain attempt to seek out my once respectful sanity.

The route I follow is flat, short and straight. When I am about three quarters done another runner strides towards me. She is young, tall and thin. While she glides like a gazelle, I trudge like a turtle. She is wearing a cropped pink tank that highlights her shinney flat stomach. I pull my shabby red sweat shirt down in hopes that it will cover as much of me as possible. She is smooth and lean like a Great Dane. My stubby legs make me more like a Basset Hound. She smiles, flips her hair and gives me a cheery “Good morning” as we pass. I hate her.

Despite all, I keep moving. I finish my chore and head back home. I can hear my coffee pot sweetly calling my name. As I rest my weary bones and wipe my tired brow, three year old Emily wanders downstairs to interrupt the morning solitude. “What did you do Mommy?” She inquires. “I was running.” “Can I run with you?” she beams. I smile back. Suddenly I remember why I am doing this.

Moving to a Zone Defense

A few weeks ago, when my office announced the annual fall camping trip at the company park, Ken and I thought we’d give it a try. Three hundred campers (fellow employees and family members) signed up for the event. So Ken and I chucked our tent and a couple of sleeping bags into the minivan and started off to the park. Did I forget to mention that we were also brining along three children – Eric (6 ½), Emily (3 ½) and Beth (1 ½ )?

We arrived at the park, selected a site and began the task of pitching our tent. Now, normally, pitching a tent should be an easy task. Not so when you are receiving help from a toddler and a three year old. So, with a nod of the head from Ken, I knew it was time to move to the zone defense.

Parents with more than two children know what I’m talking about. Way, way long ago, we had only one child. Poor Eric, he didn’t stand a chance. We had him outnumbered and regularly double teamed him. Whether he was trying to make a break for the street, pick chewing gum out of the garbage or lick the cat, Mom or Dad would be on it like water on a duck. For a while our oldest thought his name was "Eric No."

A few years later, with the arrival of Emily, we were forced to revise the playbook. It was time to move to man to man coverage. This meant that while one parent combs the sand out of Emily’s hair, the other must distract Eric away from trying to climb the curtains. While we missed the days when tag team parenting meant we could each enjoy a short break on the sidelines now and then, we generally felt that all of the bases were covered. Then, a few years later when Beth was born, we were forced to chuck out the offensive plays completely and focus primarily on the zone defense.

For the uninitiated, here’s how the zone defense works. Instead of focusing your attention on any single child, each parent gets a territory to cover. Whatever children wander into your territory are your responsibility. An example might be bed time. If Mom and the oldest child are at the table doing home work, that’s her zone. Everyone upstairs getting a bath, brushing teeth or putting on jammies is in Dad’s zone. If the baby wanders downstairs to check out the action, she now becomes part of Mom’s zone.

Sometimes the zone means one parent must defend against all three of other team’s players. So if Dad’s cooking dinner and needs to banish youngsters to keep them from the hot oven, all three become part of Mom’s zone. At these times, a prevent defense is strongly recommended (as in prevent them from destroying the house until Dad is done cooking).

Back at the camp site, Mom and Dad were in the zone. Ken was assigned to construction duty. So, while Ken worked on placing all of the tent poles in the correct places, I hustled the kids out of the way. Ken had wisely elected to pitch our tent near a prime entertainment source. With a one, two, three, break, I trouped the team over to the playground.

Once the poles were in position, Ken needed my help again. Here’s where things could get tricky. But handling tricky situations is my forte and I was ready to go the distanc. So I checked our playbook for a good maneuver. Luckily, Eric’s friend Jackson had joined the campout with his parents which meant I could safely let Eric continue to play on the slides.

I still needed to use all my grit to handle the girls. So I reached deep and pulled out that one special play that is guaranteed to grab them – snack time. Then, after the little ones had huddled up to munch out on graham crackers, I was able to take a time out to help Ken. Soon the tent was up.

I’m not sure how Ken and I develop our playbook. I guess it wrote itself after a few years of practice. Still we’re lucky to have it. More than that, we’re lucky we have each other.

And in case your wondering, the camping trip rocked. The weather was perfect – cool and crisp. The kids enjoyed snuggling in their sleeping bags and sleeping outside as a family. And we all had a great time being together.

The Beauty of Buckeyes and Poke Battles

Six year old Eric desperately wants to climb a tree. There’s just one problem – there is an acute insufficiency of mature trees in our adolescent neighborhood. Now, if he wanted to scale a corn stalk, there would be plenty to go around. I must admit, however that the view from the top of a maple is superior to that which you might see in a corn field.

So to remedy the tree situation, Eric planted a buckeye in our back yard about two years ago. My coworker had brought a handful of the smooth brown balls back after a trip to Ohio (a.k.a. the Buckeye State) and passed them out as good luck charms. Eric felt the buckeye would be much luckier if it were transformed into a real tree.

So he gathered up his little blue bucket and toy trowel and dug a home for it in our back yard. Eric dropped the seed in, patted the earth over it and gave it a drink of water. Before long, we both forgot the exact location where Eric had left the precious little buckeye. But every couple of months I’ll catch him wandering the yard with his shovel testing the soil to see if this is the spot. Then he’ll sigh and look up at me with his puppy dog eyes and say “Mom, when is my tree going to grow.” I don’t have the heart to tell him that it won’t. And part of me wishes the a sapling will one day magically spring up in our yard and spew forth a crop of buckeyes.

I can appreciate Eric’s passion for tree climbing. When I was his age we had three great climbing trees in our yard. The red maple in the front was my favorite because it had several strong, low hanging branches. They could be used like monkey bars to do flips and twists. And you didn’t even have to shimmy up the trunk to get going. Just a few houses down, our neighbors had two cherry trees in their yard. This meant I could quell my thirst for adventure and stave off my hunger all at the same time.

Eric loves when I tell him about my tree climbing days. He gets a kick thinking about his Mom climbing like a squirrel and then dangling from the branches like a monkey. It makes him even more anxious to get a tree of his own. But I’m afraid he will be in college before the beetle infested ash and the sickly maple twig currently in our yard amount to much. And by then, I suspect he’ll have other things on his mind – like cars, sports and girls.

To pass his time as he waits for his buckeye to grow, Eric enjoys playing Pokemon. For the uninitiated, it’s a card game. They are the same size and shape as baseball trading cards. But instead of batting averages and ERAs, they have “power” and “attack” values. And instead of names like “Mike Schmidt” and “Pete Rose” there is Pikachu and Grovyle. While I am pretty confident that the 1980 Phillies could make a good showing against Pika and his gang on the diamond, I know they wouldn't stand a snowball's chance if they got caught up in a Poke battle with an angry Chimchar.

Eric tries to teach me about Pokemon. “Mom”, he rolls his eyes “its PokeMON, not Poke MAN.” Got it. Then he starts to explain the rules of the card game to me and I realize they are about as subtle as an IRS tax form. Somehow his almost seven year old brain can get it but I’m still trying to figure out the difference between a Poke Master and a Poke Trainer. And why do we need to flip a coin every turn? Finally, I just sit back and let the game happen. I trust that my seven consecutive losses are a result of Eric’s superior game play and not the fact that I suspect he made several critical rule changes mid-game.

For Eric, Pokemon is an exciting adventure into fantasy. For me, the beauty of Pokemon is twofold. First, it encourages Eric to learn math. This past summer I was amazed that, only a few weeks after finishing kindergarten, he could discount the 50 Squirtle attack points from Primeape’s power of 110 (the correct answer is 60 for those playing at home) and keep a running total of points and powers coming and going. Personally, I was looking for my calculator about two minutes into the game.

The second delight about Pokemon is that Eric will do almost anything for a Pokemon card. This is an enormous advantage to me when I need him to a) take a bath or b) be nice to his sisters. Believe me, you can get a lot of mileage out of those scraps of paper. Next week I am planning to negotiate three days worth of carrots and broccoli for dinner in exchange for a Gyarados and two Donphans. If I play my cards right (pun intended) I may even end up getting my car washed. I hope this Pokemon craze continues until at least Christmas when I can start dangling Santa as an incentive for good behavior instead.

Last night Eric was explaining the various Pokemon attacks, strengths and powers to me. I tried to look interested and nodded my head like a three dollar bobble head that you found in your Happy Meal. Then he asked when was the next time we could go to the store and buy more Pokemon cards. “Well buddy,” I said, “You need to earn more money to do that.” “How about you clean your room and I’ll give you a dollar”, I suggest. I feel like I might be seriously overpaying him but he doesn’t jump to the bait. If you had ever seen his room, you would know why. “Its too hard” he moans. Then he brightens up as a new idea pops into his head. “Mom, wouldn’t it be so cool if Pokemon cards grew on trees!” Come to think of it, that would be cool. Maybe we’ll find some dangling from the branches of Eric's buckeye…..someday.

Crabgrass and Clover

Walking on my neighbor’s lawn is like dancing on a cloud. Its soft and plush and it makes your heals bounce. My neighbor tends to his lawn as if it were a pet. He tenderly waters, feeds and pampers it. And it rewards him by smiling at him with its deep green color. And when a breeze blows, it wags its stems at him. My neighbor loves his lawn. Its an obsession. But its not just my neighbor, a blanket of healthy, dark blades covers most of the yards around my suburban town.

This obsession with turf is something new to me. When I was growing up, I never knew that crabgrass wasn’t really grass. I thought it was part of the yard. And in my family, our lawn was treated more like a feral bird than the family canary. You might throw it a few crumbs now and then but it was a wild thing and you had no intention of making it part of your family. Of course, we did mow our lawn - to keep out the snakes. But we did not fertilize it or aerate it. And we certainly didn’t water it! As Nana would say, “Why would any fool spend money to sprinkle water on the grass when the Good Lord provides it freely from the sky!”

At my house, grounds keeping was low on our list of priorities. And it wasn’t just my family that held this belief. Pretty much everyone in our little community followed the same philosophy of neglect. It may have been because we were “humble folk” – translated as “poor”. But really, how could we fritter away our hard earned dollars on a the endless mission of greening a plot of earth when the mortgage needed to be paid?

Certainly there were advantages to having an un-groomed yard. We enjoyed an abundant crop of buttercups all summer. And since I hadn’t been told that clover was another word for weed, I would spend hours collecting up the petite pink flowers that peppered the ground all summer. I would dance into the house and gleefully present them to my Mom. She would hug me and then carefully arrange the prize in a small vase and display them on the kitchen table.

More clover also meant that more wild life - like squirrels, rabbits and gophers - would regularly visit the backyard buffet. It was always exciting to watch a bunny bounce through the yard on its way home from a sweet treat at our house. If I sat quietly, one might pass near enough for me to hear the tiny munching noises it made while devouring its dinner.

A coarse lawn didn’t impair playtime for me or my sisters. It made it better. Mom and Dad never worried that rough kid games, like tag, chase and hide and seek, would tear up the grass. The bare muddy patches made perfect bases for kickball and baseball. And mud pies were never in short supply. The small stones that littered the landscape could be used to build miniature walls and bridges. Or we could dig for buried treasure left by wealthy, but hopelessly lost, pirates. And we could set up a game of horseshoes or pitch a tent without concern that our actions would earn a demerit from the local garden club.

The backyard was a place for picnics and parties and playgrounds. It was bumpy and brown and full of shamrocks. It was never perfect but it was always fun. My neighbor’s lawn has been precisely clipped and shaved and is ready to be viewed and admired. I wonder whether his neatly mowed turf will bring as many fond memories to his kids in twenty years as my parents' motley plot brings to me.

As I head home from my neighbor’s house to attend to my chores, I notice some dandelions have managed to invade my lawn. I wonder if I should attack them with some “weed away.” Just then my three year old daughter rushes up to me clutching a bouquet of bright yellow blooms. She hurls herself into my arms and laughs with delight, “Mommy, I picked you some pretty flowers!”

Think Small - Make Big Changes with Small Actions

Does anyone else remember their New Years Eve? You may have sat down like I did and made a list of all the things you would change in 2009. And you may have even succeeded – for a few days. But if you are like most people, your news year’s resolutions were busted and broken before the president’s day white sale at Macys. But why? Why can’t we stick to the bold, grand plans that we make every new years eve? Do we lack the will power? Do we not want it enough? Do we not try hard enough? Or maybe, just maybe we tried TOO hard?

When we want to change our lives, we often make big changes and take drastic steps. Today, I’m going to suggest that Achieving BIG does not come from Acting Big. Rather, it comes from acting small. I present to you the notion that when we try to make big changes, we often see the challenge as too much and we give up too soon. But consider what might happen if instead of big changes, we acted small. I’d like to suggest to you that when we act small we can not only reach our goals but we can sustain a lasting success.

Welcome to the world of Kaizen. Kaizen? What’s that? It a Japanese principle based on the notion that a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. Its the idea that by improving something just a little each day, you can achieve big and sustaining success.
It’s the notion that by breaking a big problem into small, achievable steps you can be more successful than if you try to attack it all at once.

Kaizen tells us to ask small questions. Imagine your boss coming to you and saying “The company lost 1.5 million dollars last year. What are you going to do to fix it?” Fix it? Me? I can’t even imagine it. I’m just one person what can I do? Better to do nothing at all. While the boss may have been trying to create a sense of responsibility in her employee, instead she created a sense of fear, helplessness and paralysis.

Imagine instead if the boss had said “Times are tight. Is there one small thing you can do to help us cut costs?” One small thing? Just one? Well sure, that’s reasonable. How about that business trip I was planning next week? Maybe I can cancel that. As you can imagine, many small steps like this by many employees can add up. But notice how changing the question from the big to the small changes the reaction.

Imagine that you want to lose 50 pounds. 50 POUNDS. Impossible Right? Let’s see, you would need to set aside at least 60 minutes from your already crowded day for exercise. And you would need to cut out all treats - no cake, no candy, no donuts, no sugar. In fact, if it tastes good, don’t bother. Let’s face it, you can probably do it...few a few days. But then it gets too hard and you say “I can’t do it. “

So I say, DON’T. Don’t do it that way. Take small actions instead. Say to yourself “this one week what 1 thing can I do to improve my health?” Instead of 60 minutes of intense exercise, can I walk in place for 1 minute? Instead of a complete change in my diet, can I use sugar substitute instead of sugar in my coffee?” Then next week, add 1 more thing. By slowly building on the little successes, you will be more likely to achieve your goal. Take small actions.

That’s it. That’s Kaizen. Its small and its easy. Because Kaizen is all about taking small steps to achieve big goals. Remember these words of Normal Lear “Life is made of small pleasures and happiness is made by the tiny successes.” To learn more about Kaizen, I would recommend reading “One Small Step Can Change Your Life” by Robert Maurer.

Mama Hope

“Can’t do it Dada.” Beth insists. She hands her Daddy a small plush butterfly that she has been trying to stuff into a toy purse. “You can do it”, her Daddy encourages her. “Can’t!” she replies, with a bit more emphasis this time. “It’s OK”, her Daddy says patiently, “You can do it.” He’s right, she can do it. And after a bit more effort, the toy is in the bag. Beth beams at her Daddy and they exchange a look of mutual satisfaction.

A few days later, we are at the playground. Beth has decided to conquer the ladder that bars her passage to the slide. She appears so small as she puffs and pulls herself up the rungs. I stand close by, waiting. Suddenly, she is teetering on the third rung. Worried that she will fall, I reach out to help. “NO!”, she shouts and rejects my interference. I release my grip on her tiny waist but poise my arms below her just in case. A few minutes later she shrieks with joy as she zips down the slide, unharmed. She feels more confident now that she has mastered a new skill.

Taking chances and stretching her limits is a big part of Beth’s life. She’s almost two and determined to keep up with her six year old brother and three year old sister. So she throws herself into challenges, sometimes with an over abundance of caution, other times with less trepidation. Its nice to see that Beth is so independent, so driven, so confident. But sometimes I long for her to need me more - to snuggle and tend and feed as I did when she was an infant.

Just when I am beginning to feel obsolete, Beth stumbles over her shoes and falls. She erupts into tears. I rush to her and scoop her into my arms. I reassure her with wet kisses and warm hugs and brush specks of dirt from her hands and knees. No bleeding. Nothing broken. All is well. Still, she buries her head in my shoulder, soaking my shirt with her tears. I press her close and make shushing sounds as I whisper “I love you my pretty little baby Bethy Jelly Bean.”

I know too well that the day is near when Beth falls down but does not need me to pick her up. She is already learning a bit each day. I know this is a good thing. I am happy that we are nourishing her with the confidence she needs to grow from a tiny rose bud to a blooming flower. Now Beth is trying to cram her feet into her socks. The socks do not cooperate. She presents the socks to me and pleads with wide brown eyes “Mama hope?” I laugh at her unusual pronunciation. “Mama help”, I say. For now she is still my baby girl.

Mommy, I'm Beautiful!

“Mommy, I’m beautiful”, three year old Emily rushes into my bedroom and shrieks as she presents to me her latest fashion design. I can’t help but laugh as I assess her outfit. It’s August, but for some reason she has selected snow boots for her tiny feet. I can see a sliver of brown and orange socks peeking out. Instead of a dress, she is wearing a pink camisole. It’s a size eight and made to be worn as an under garment for a much older girl. Fortunately, its long enough to cover her little frame to just above the knees. Over the dress, she is wearing a purple, blue and white striped turtle neck. Around her neck are a rainbow of beads and necklaces that jangle as she bounces up and down. A straw cowboy hat with a red band covers her light brown hair. Her hazel eyes smile at me as she seeks my approval.

Emily has a mind of her own. She has been choosing her own wardrobe since she was two. I always make sure to tell that to everyone who is seeing her fantastic outfits for the first time. Emily has her own ideas about fashion. She prefers dresses to the exclusion of any other clothing item. They have to be pink and they have to be sleeveless. She has even gone to bed wearing a party dress and dancing shoes instead of jammies. She’ll reluctantly wear sneakers but her princess snow boots are her favorite.

Emily doesn’t dress for the weather. Her whims guide her choices. She is likely to pick a wool sweater in July and a strapless sundress in January. “Aren’t you afraid she will be too cold (or hot)” her Grandmother frets. I shrug my shoulders, “I suppose she’ll tell me if she is.” I know from experience that there is no sense trying to change Emily’s mind once she is dressed. “It’s so open minded of you to let her express her creativity”, a friend says. I smile indulgently as I know there is no “letting” or not “letting” involved.

Emily loves things that are pretty. And she has her own sense of beauty. It takes a half hour to walk a half block to the neighbor’s house because Emily must stop and inspect each colorful rock she sees. Before we reach our destination, her arms are laden with dandelions, clover and crabgrass. “Here are some pretty flowers for you.” she giggles. I cherish her gift because I know she selected each item with care and consideration. Just then she’ll notice a rabbit dash out from under a neighbor’s shrub. She’ll skip off after it calling “Come here Bunny, Bunny!”

There’s no telling what Emily will do next. She flits and floats from one happy thought to another accompanied by her best friend, her Bubby Bear. Her bedroom is cluttered with bracelets and hair bows and pink ballet slippers. Her bed is a mountain of Strawberry Shortcake blankets and stuffed animals. She burrows underneath them and sings sweet songs to her favorite doll, June. At bedtime, she often summons me into her room because she needs just one more kiss on her dainty nose. I ask “Do I love you a teeny tiny bit or a whole big bunch?” “A whole big bunch!” she shouts as she throws her arms around my neck. I squeeze her tight, savoring the taste of love. “Go to sleep, Little One”, I whisper.

When I see Emily dance and frolic, I wonder whether I was ever so carefree. My days are filled with the concerns of a grownup – planes to catch, bills to pay and all that jazz. But Emily regularly grounds me so that I don’t forget the important things in life, like bunny rabbits and baby dolls. I feel so lucky and proud to live in the same house with a real Cinderella princess. I call her my “Emily Rosemary Bumblebee Princess Mermaid Butterfly Doodlebop Uniqua Blossom” She calls me “Tasha Bubbles.”

“Tasha Bubbles, do you like my dress?”, Emily says as she glides and twirls around my room. “I DO like your dress!”, I say, “You’re beautiful!” I hope that when Emily is forty three, she knows how beautiful she is. I hope that she never stops seeing the beauty in the little things around her. I hope that she always has the confidence to wear the pretty things she likes the most. But more than that, I hope that when she is all grown up, a fairy princess will come and live with her and bring her the type of joy, happiness and pixie magic that my fairy princess has brought to me.

The Spectacular Spider Mom

While I was making dinner last week, my six year old son, Eric, suddenly burst into the room dressed in his red and blue Spiderman costume. Suddenly he thrust his hand towards me and yelled “Zap!” Apparently I was a villain today and I had just been neutralized.

Eric adores super heroes. This week he is Spiderman. Last week, he went to be bed every night in his Superman jammies. He plans to be Batman for Halloween. Eric’s immense imagination lets him believe that he has super powers. I’m just waiting for the first broken bone when he decides to fly off the garage roof.

When I think about my son’s imagination and his obsession with super heroes, I wonder, whether I could benefit from a few superpowers of my own. After all, I am a Mom, with three kids under the age of 6. I can use all the help I can get. I wonder, if I could chose to be any superhero, who should I pick?

Superman seems like a great choice. After all, he is practically invincible. And he can fly, which would be a real handy way for me to get from Eric’s soccer practice to Emily’s music lesson in a flash. He also has x-ray vision, which could spare me the pain of entering the disaster area that my three year old daughter Emily claims is her room when I am looking for her shoes.

But there are some drawbacks to being Superman. For one thing, I don’t know if I could fit three car seats on the cape. They barely fit in the minivan. Plus, he has that deadly allergy to Kryptonite. My friend Cathy is allergic to shellfish. Whenever we go out to lunch we are constantly worried that she’ll accidently come in contact with a renegade shrimp. It’s a bit scary. I’m not sure I could take the pressure of having to worry about my arch nemeses sneaking some kryptonite into my pad thia. I guess I’ll pass on being Superman.

Maybe I should be Spiderman. Spiderman is Eric’s favorite and has some really cool powers. Even though Spiderman doesn’t fly, he can climb walls. As a Mom, I already feel like I am climbing the walls from time to time. Plus, wall climbing could be helpful the next time Eric’s Frisbee ends up on the roof. And Spiderman has extra quick reflexes. I could really use this to grab hold of Beth (she’s almost two) before she darts into the street.

But Spiderman has some problems too. While Spiderman’s costume is very colorful, I am a bit concerned about the fabric. I'm just not sure I have the body to pull of a one piece spandex body suit. Of course, the biggest problem with Spiderman is that …he is a spider. Did you know that spiders kill their prey by sucking out their blood? Gross! Sorry, I just can’t do the furry leggy spider thing. Yuck. I guess I’ll pass on Spiderman too.

Maybe Aquaman is the right Superhero for me. Aquaman can breathe under water and swim faster than a dolphin. I could entertain the kids for hours with this power next time we are romping at the beach. And Aquaman can talk to marine animals. I’m not sure that I would be able to make much conversation with a mackerel. But if I could speak to a non-aquatic animal, I would like to find out why the cat threw up on my pillow last week. Was it something I said?

Of course Aquaman isn’t perfect either. He practically lives in the ocean. I just don’t think all that salt water can be good for your skin. And his hair is always wet. Please, the wet look is so 80s. That means Aquaman is out too.

Now I know you’re thinking “What about the obvious choice…..Wonder Woman.” All I can say to that is “no thanks.” While I admit that the golden lasso of truth could make a wonderful fashion accessory, there is no way I am going to a PTO meeting wearing a red white and blue push up bra. Plus, I can barely remember where I parked my minivan in the Wal-Mart parking lot as it is. How would I ever keep track of an invisible airplane.

If I can’t be Aquaman, Spiderman, Superman, or Wonder Woman, who can I be? Maybe I should just dream up my own superpowers. I can think of one power I could really use….the silencer. This would be the power to bring total silence to a room of screaming kids by just blinking my eyes. Ahhh. Solitude. I could also use the ability to clone myself. That way real me could go to Eric’s t-ball game while clone me takes Emily to her doctors appointment. Of course, I’m not sure the world is ready for more than one me. Does anyone know a superpower that will clean my bathroom, make the beds and cook a healthy meal for five in less than thirty minutes?

Maybe I already have all the superpowers I need. I am a Mom after all. For example, Spiderman may have his spidey senses but I have something better – Mommy’s intuition. I can tell my kids are trying to pull one over on me just by the way they breathe. I also have Magic Mommy kisses. I can cure any boo boo with nothing more than a band aid and big wet kisses. Not even Superman can do that. And you know, all Mom’s have eyes in the back of their heads - as well as enough love in their hearts to fill the ocean.

I suppose being a Mom is super enough. Still, a utility belt might come in handy from time to time.

A Different Train of Thought

I am strolling through downtown with my three children. Suddenly , we all stop, turn our heads…and listen. In the distance we hear a soft woooo, woooo. Emily, my three year old, laughs and claps her hands. The sounds of chugging and woooing grew louder as the train clanks into view. Beth, who is less than two, smiles and points as she calls out “Train! Train!”. Big brother Eric, he’s six, hops up and down, barely able to contain his excitement. With a screeeech and a hisssssss, the train comes to a stop. The afternoon commuter to Chicago has just arrived. But by the reaction of my children you would have thought Santa Claus was coming to town.

Kids love trains. I think they find them exciting and wild and full of possibilities. Even adults love trains. My friend Bob starts building his Christmas model train display in November. From Thanksgiving until the second week in January, there is a constant chorus of mini puffs and tiny hoots coming from his basement.

But trains have not always been the darlings of our country. Consider for instance Martin Van Buren, the 8th president of the United States. In 1830, while Van Buren was still Governor of New York, he was part of the anti-train crowd. In a letter to President Andrew Jackson in 1830 Van Buren said the following:

“Dear Mr. President: The canal system of this country is being threatened by a new form of transportation known as ‘railroads’ … As you may well know, Mr. President, ‘railroad’ carriages are pulled at the enormous speed of 15 miles per hour by ‘engines’ which, in addition to endangering life and limb of passengers, roar and snort their way through the countryside, setting fire to crops, scaring the livestock and frightening women and children. The Almighty certainly never intended that people should travel at such breakneck speed.” — Martin Van Buren, Governor of New York, 1830(?).

Lucky for us, Van Buren’s views did not prevail and less than thirty years later one of the greatest events in transportation occurred when the transcontinental railroad connected east with west. We all know what happened next, the presence of the railroad spurred on further westward development and was in large part responsible for rapid growth and our country entered a golden age of transportation.

The thing I find most interesting about Van Buren’s comments isn’t so much what he thought about railroads but more what he thought about RISK. When Van Buren approached this new technology, instead of seeing an opportunity, all he saw was a threat. And to some extent, van Buren was right. The trains did move very fast based on standards of the time. And some crops did catch fire. A few cows and horses as well as some women and children (and perhaps some men) were frightened. These risks were real, not imagined. But in Van Buren’s mind, that ended the debate – trains = bad, discussion over.

Now let’s consider Van Buren’s point of view in today’s context. Many people when speaking of recent advances in communication technology, especially in terms of online social networking sites, text messaging and cellular phones, will point out all of the bad that can happen. Text messaging can lead to accidents if done while driving. A woman was stalked and killed because of information she posted to her Myspace account. An elderly couple lost their life savings as a result of internet identify theft. The conclusion? The new communication technologies and social networking web sites are bad, discussion over.

Yet these technologies have amazing possibilities. Just as the transcontinental railroad connected east with west, communication technologies can connect people throughout the country and throughout the world. And just as the transcontinental railroad energized the expansion of the American West, internet media can energize an expansion of our shared thoughts and ideas.

What I propose to you today is that Van Buren was not anti-railroad, he was anti-risk. And he had a short sighted view of how to approach risk. We need to be careful not to be equally shortsighted when addressing the risk associated with current communication technology. That does not mean we should ignore the risks. Instead, we should identify the risks, confront the risks and take measures to mitigate the risks. Having done that, we can now face and embrace the opportunities that are presented by emerging technologies.

My children clap and cheer when the train roles into town because their young imaginations still allow them to appreciate the wonderful possibilities that come with it. When I look at much of today’s emerging technology, I often feel the same excitement. And while I can understand that caution may be important, I am not willing to accept, as Martin Van Buren did, an all or nothing proposition. Rather, I suggest that we don’t have to turn away from the amazing potential of communication technologies merely because they may pose some risk. Instead, if we acknowledge, confront and mitigate the risks, we can experience the wonder and joy of the children and be open to new possibilities.

Listen carefully, the train whistle is blowing. Are you ready to climb on board?