Mommy, Why Did You Eat a Frog?

A few weeks ago I lost my voice. When Emily noticed that I had been reduced to speaking in a whisper or barking in raspy tones she asked me what was wrong. I told her “I have a frog in my throat, Honey.” She crawled into my lap, pulled my chin down to open my mouth and peered into the dark recesses of my esophagus. “Mommy, why did you eat a frog?” she giggled. I'm glad I didn't tell her I was feeling a bit hoarse.

For a mom of three, the loss of one’s verbal communication skills can be daunting. To appreciate the seriousness of this tragedy, consider the plight of the concert pianist with ten broken fingers or the Olympic decathlete in a body cast. As I realized the gravity of my predicament, I began to plot how I would administer discipline and sage parental advice without the aid of my most precious instrument.

At first I thought I would need to learn to yell at the kids in sign language. I felt I had some experience in this respect from my days of living in Philly and driving on the Schuylkill. But I was pretty sure the hand gestures I used then were not sanctioned by the International Sign Language Association and definitely inappropriate for the under twenty one set.

My friend Julie suggested I practice my evil stares instead. I tried that with Beth (almost 2) when she threw her yogurt cup on the floor so hard that it bounced up and left a pink blot on the kitchen ceiling. (Not even exaggerating there.) Apparently my stare wasn’t evil enough because Beth just laughed and continued to lick pink glops of yogurt off the legs of the kitchen chair.

When I considered it more I realized I should have planned for this. If I had been better prepared, I would already have a tape recorder prerecorded with some key phrases that I use in everyday parenting. It could have included things like “Stop poking your sister”, “Eat your carrots or you don’t get dessert”, "Go to your room", “If you keep making that face it will stay that way” and “Clean up this mess right now or I am going to pack up everything I see on the floor and ship it to China.” It didn’t take me long to realize that, while the old standards may have worked for my parents, I’d need to get much more specific with my family.

Instead, I found myself jotting down a handful of key phrases which I suspect I could not live without. They included:

· Why are you naked?
· Please don’t lick the cat’s butt!
· Why is there a Ninja under my bed?!

Let me explain.

Phrase 1: Why are you naked? I always feared that I would utter these words at least once as a parent. However, I led myself to believe that it would not be needed until the kids were in college and one of them had returned with his or her spring break photos from New Orleans. But alas, I have already dragged this expression out two times in the past five years. The first involved Eric (age 2 at the time) in the neighbor’s sandbox and ended with us washing sand out of recesses that beforehand had never seen the sun. The second involved three year old Emily this past summer at the splash park. She apparently decided that her wet bathing suit was uncomfortable and that she would enjoy splashing in the sprinklers more in her birthday suit. I shudder when I think about how Beth will attempt to cajole me into using this phrase in her childhood. I did notice her eying the baptismal font last time we were at church.

Phrase 2: Please don’t lick the cat’s butt! This may sound a bit unusual to most people. Unfortunately, I have used it more than I care to remember. In my defense, there is a simple explanation - Beth isn’t quite two years old. Enough said.

Phrase 3: Why is there a Ninja under my bed?! In truth, I have only uttered this phrase once - so far. The event occurred one morning about two weeks ago. A few snooze buttons after my alarm croaked at me, I rolled my feet out of bed and onto the floor only to discover I had stepped on a red ninja action figure that was protruding from under my bed. Naturally I crouched on my hands and knees to explore further. That’s when I discovered the following treasures under my bed (in addition to said red ninja):

1. One pink ballet slipper, right foot, for a preschool girl, size 5.
2. Two cats, one grey and one brown (Smokey and Trixie).
3. Last month’s grocery list, apparently we needed milk, bread and band aids.
4. One children’s book, titled Good Night Moon.
5. 17 Cheerios, moderately soggy.
6. A sticky brown blob which at best was two week old moldy chocolate pudding and at worst was cat puke and which I discovered by inadvertently placing my hand in the gooey mess.

I am putting the Ninja phrase on reserve because, for some reason, I have a sneaking suspicion that it won’t be the last time I need it.

Eventually my voice returned and I never had to make my recording. But later, I did remember one more phrase that I use all the time and that I forgot to put on my list. It happens to be the most important one. And if I could prerecord only one thing to use for my kids, this would be it: “I love you.” The Ninja one, however, is a close second.

If you hold my hand, Daddy, I'll be Happy.

"If you hold my hand, Daddy, I'll be happy.", three year old Emily whispers. We have just entered a long staircase with dim lighting. Emily is feeling a bit spooked. I watch her Daddy engulf her tiny fingers with his big paws. A few moments later she is snuggling in his arms and he is taking her burden as his own as we all negotiate our way to the ground floor.

A few days later Ken and Eric are knocking a soccer ball around the yard. For a moment, Ken is seven again as they kick the ball under the swingset. I can hear them laughing and shouting like best friends. Later that same night I watch Beth scale the couch to plop next to her Daddy. She pushes a book at him, "Read Elmo." Ken imitates a squeeky orange monster voice as he tells her about the ABCs.

Ken's greatest joy is the time he spends with his chidren. He helps them into their jammies at bedtime and summons them to breakfast in the morning. He knows how to gently comb tangles out of little girls hair. He will tell you that Tasha and Uniqua are Backyardigans and that Picachu evolves into Raichu in Pokemon. And he can sing the entire Wonder Pets theme song in an imitation squeaky ducky voice.

Being so committed to his role as Dad did not come to Ken right away. While he never minded changing diapers or reading bedtime stories, he balked at wriggling on the ground after a rousing game of ring around the rosy. And he preferred reading The Rolling Stone to The Mouse on the Motorcycle. All in all, there were too many more important, grown up things to do, like go to work and watching college football games. Fortunately for Ken, he found himself suddenly unemployed and forced to take the role of full time Dad and house husband. The story behind Ken's change in vocation belongs to him. But its funny how something that starts out looking like the worst experience of your life can end up being the best.

Ken has been a stay at home parent for over two years now. We both love it. He gets to welcome Eric when he comes home from school each day and sing to Beth at afternoon nap time. And he gets to play on the swings with Emily. He has an abundance of time to devote to helping with spelling homework, jumping in the pool for swim lessons, baking chocolate chip cookies and practicing animal noises. He is also the only first grade room mom with a beard.

Having a full time Dad in the house has been a great experience for me too. For one thing, Ken does all of the laundry and grocery shopping. And he cleans the bathrooms, vacuums the rugs and scrubs the kitchen floor. He has also learned how to cook. The days of frozen dinners are behind us. It turns out Ken is an excellent cook. A few weeks ago he made bacon cheeseburger meatloaf with pepper jack cheese maccaroni. The following week he made fish and chips. Later that same week he grilled sword fish steaks. Tonight we enjoyed stuffed pork chops.

From my end, I've learned a couple of important things too. First, I learned to let go and let someone else take over "my kingdom." I've discovered that I don't have to be everything all the time and that I have to let Ken parent in his way. Second I learned how important it is to have a partner who is devoted to his family. I'm glad that we share that as a common value. Finally, I learned what people mean when they say "when life closes a door, God opens a window." Our window, it turns out, came with a beautiful view.

Ken is upstairs right now coaxing Beth and Emily into the tubby. Its princess bubble bath night. I'd better get going or I'll miss my turn to make pony tails out of the soap suds.

Our Cat Is Crazy(er)

Our Cat, Trixie, is crazy. Or should I say, that as cats go, she is crazier than most. In this case the diagnosis of feline mental illness has been clinically proven. Trixie is on kitty Prozac. I am not making this up.

Apparently Trixie suffers from acute anxiety. I am not sure whether her mental state was generated from waiting an extra ten minutes for her breakfast that one time my alarm didn't go off or from the two hours she spent in solitary last year when I accidentally locked her in the closet. Whatever, the cause, her condition began to manifest itself when she decided to take her "morning constitutional" on our brand new living room rugs. After a few weeks of cleaning up her "morning sunshine" we visited the vet.

Our first vet suggested a number of techniques to alter her behavior. They included extra litter boxes, her own bathroom and bringing back the old rugs which she apparently preferred given that they stayed poop free for almost six years. When these techniques failed we sought a second opinion. Our new vet did a thorough exam, drew blood, and ran some tests. One hundred dollars later she informed us that there were no physical ailments. Trixie, she said, was stressed.

Stressed. I am not making this up.

All I need to know is what could possibly cause stress to an indoor house cat? Last time I checked, Trixie did not have a job - unless you count trying to trip me while I am lumbering down the stairs half asleep every morning. She's very good at that. I'm also relatively sure that she is debt free. Even if she did have student loans, I suspect they have been paid off long ago. And we rarely ask her to contribute to the house hold chores. She is not required to go grocery shopping, do laundry, or shine the kitchen sink. She doesn't even have to clean the litter box - we do that for her.

Trixie's most pressing responsibility involves capturing any flies that breach the perimeter and infiltrate our household. She takes on this task with the efficiency of a special ops agent on a top secret assignment. After stealthily stalking her prey, she leaps and kills. She has no remorse. And what happens next, we try not to think about. We only ask that she dispose of the body completely and not regurgitate it on our bed later that night.

When we couldn't figure the source of Trixie's stress, Ken spoke to the vet about it. The conversation went something like this:

Vet: Have you noted anything unusual about her behavior.
Ken: Yes, she's crapping on the new rugs.
Vet: Well, other than that, has she been acting unusual.
Ken: She's a cat. Can you define "unusual?"
Vet: Well, has she been sleeping more than normal?
Ken: Can you define "normal?"
Vet: Let me get you some Prozac.
Ken: Is that for me or the cat?

For anyone who has ever had the terrifying experience of pilling a cat, you know what's coming next. And it ain't pretty. While we did our best to prepare for the confrontation ahead, we never anticipated the fierceness by which our enemy would resist. Before embarking on the potentially life threatening mission, Ken and I sat in the war room and discussed tactics and strategy. Due to a dearth of body armour in our house, our only protection would be an extra thick comforter wrapped tightly around Trixie. My job would be to entangle her daggers (a.k.a. claws) tightly and pry open her mouth to expose her knife like teeth. Ken would make the attack and try to shove the pill down her throat while keeping all ten digits on his hands intact. A first aid kit and the phone would be positioned nearby (with 9-1 pre-pressed), just in case.

Soon, the battle was on and the fight was fierce. Ken took the offense but Trixie was sharp. Each time he placed the little white pill in her mouth, she would shoot it back at him. Finally, after about of half hour of "spit out the pill", interspersed with a few rounds of scratch Mom and bite Dad, we were all feeling a bit battle weary, as well as battle scarred. "There has to be an easier way!", I moaned. That's when Ken told me about the "pill stick."

Him: It's like a blow dart. It just shoots the pill right down their throat.
Me: And you didn't get one?
Him: No.
Me: Why not?
Him: It cost four dollars.
Me: You mean we spent one hundred dollars on vet visits, twenty dollars on blood work and thirty dollars on kitty Prozac and you drew the line at a four dollar cat pill dart?
Him: Next time, you take the cat to the vet.

Luckily, the pills are working. Trixie's potty issues appear resolved. (Knock on wood that contains deep gashes from cat claws). Still, I question whether she is experiencing more or less stress from the treatment. I'm keeping my fingers crossed because according to the vet, our next step is a cat psychiatrist. (Again, not making this up). For some reason I am having a hard time picturing Trixie laying on a leather couch unburdening her emotional baggage while a white haired man with spectacles says "and how did that make you feel?" But I suspect if she does, the subject of pills will take up most of the hour.

Last night as we were giving Trixie her pill (with the pill dart this time) I noted to Ken that she was a bit more odoriferous than normal. "Are you planning on giving her a bath?", he asked. "I don't think we can afford the therapy bills.", I replied. Ken didn't miss a beat, "Is that for you or the cat."

What I Learned from Kindergarten

Its Tuesday night and I am sitting in the kitchen with Eric as he works on his first grade math homework assignment. Tonight’s project involves adding pennies and nickels. The task is pleasant for Eric as it combines two of his favorite subjects – math and money. It seems like only yesterday that Eric was just embarking on his educational career.

I’ll never forget the first day that I walked with Eric to kindergarten, a little over a year ago. He squeezed my hand tightly and clung to my side. Together we explored his new class room and greeted new friends. “What’s that?” Eric asked, pointing to the reading corner. We sat together on the carpet and paged through the books. Some were familiar titles, like Curious George and The Cat in the Hat. Others were foreign to us. We found his desk, and Ken and I helped him print his name and arranged his supplies. We shook hands with his teacher. “I think I’ll like it here.”, he smiled as Ken and I left. “Me too.”, I agreed.

That night, I sat with Eric on his bed an he told me about his day. His teacher was young, pretty and bright. Eric adored her and secretly planned to marry her as soon as he was old enough. He told me about recess and how he ran and played tag with new friends in the school yard. He shared the names of the books the class read together and sang the songs he learned. He patiently explained that libraries are for quiet voices but that he would be permitted to borrow a new book to bring home each week.

Its hard to say who enjoyed kindergarten more, Eric or me and Ken. In October his class held a Halloween Party. Eric dressed as Spiderman and Ken and I helped serve witches brew to Cinderella, The Hulk and Batman. In November, Ken dropped by the class to share a Thanksgiving Feast. We brought Beth to the Holiday Celebration in December and shared pink and red cupcakes with the class on Valentine’s Day. And before we know it, the year had passed.

For his part, Eric learned three very important things in Kindergarten. First, he learned to read. He started with small words like “a”, “is” and “it.” Later, he conquered larger works like “friend” and “better.” Before the summer break arrived, he could read “One Fish, Two Fish” by himself. Second, Eric learned to tell funny jokes. “Mom, what’s the difference between roast beef and pea soup”, he asked with a smile. “I don’t know”, I responded. “You can roast beef but you can’t pee soup”, he giggled, “Get it?” “Yes, I get it.”

Finally, Eric learned to let go of my hand. On the last day of kindergarten, I planned to walk with Eric to school just as I had on the first. This time, just a few steps from our door, he darted away from me to catch up with his buddies. They discussed soccer and Pokémon and called each other "Dude." I lagged behind feeling a bit lonely and a bit proud at the same time. As we neared the school grounds Eric turned and looked back at me. He gave me a small wave and continued on. My heart sank as I waved back. Then, suddenly, he stopped, turned and rushed back to me. He threw his arms around my waist, squeezed, and ran off again. “I love you!”, he called over his shoulder as he raced to catch his friends. “I love you too, Scooter.”, I replied.

Eric is finished his homework now. “Good work, buddy”, I compliment as I check his work, “It looks like you got them all right. Now, its time to go upstairs and get your shower”. Eric starts towards the stairs and then stops. “Mom,” he says, “Do you think you can walk me to school tomorrow.” I smile, “Sure thing, buddy.”

Sunday Suppers and Monday Morning Gardens

“Who is she?”, three year old Emily inquires. She is thumbing through an old photo album that I recently rescued from the cold recesses of our basement. She is pointing to a faded poloroid photo of my grandmother. “That’s my Nana.”, I say. Emily studies the photo. “Who is she?”, she whispers. Like a bursting dam, a rush of memories flood into my brain and I grasp for just the right words to explain to Emily who the woman in the photo is.

For most of my life, Nana lived alone in the house on Fifth street where she raised her three children. But she was never lonely. She was constantly surrounded by a warm and loving family. Every Sunday afternoon since before I was born the family gathered together to share supper at Nana’s house. The radio in the kitchen sang a cheery polka. And the smell of pot roast and mashed potatoes embraced me when I entered the home into her cozy sitting room where she kept her favorite green wicker rocking chair. A steaming apple pie cooled on the windowsill, waiting its turn at the feast. The ample meal started with a prayer and a toast to good health. When all of the assembled finished filling their bellies, the children would wander outside to play tag while the grownups reminisced over a hot cup of coffee.

Sunday was Nana’s day of rest. She dedicated her day to cooking, crocheting and cheering the Phillies to squeak out a win over the Mets. But from Monday through Saturday, Nana was always busy and her hands were never idle. She had a special gift for sewing and made all of her own clothes as well as much of ours. Nana learned this handy skill at the age of thirteen when she was forced to drop out of the eighth grade and take a job at the factory in order to contribute to the upkeep of her household. Nana had to walk two miles to work at six in the morning each day in order to earn a mere fifty cents a week. Nana told us that story often, not to complain, but merely to relate how things were and how things came to be.

When Nana was 17 she married a coal miner named Anthony Kozlusky. His family lived near Nana’s in the Lithuanian corner of town. Nana was not ready for marriage at such a young age and put it off for as long as she could. But her father was ready for one less mouth to feed in his house and that was that. Together, Nana and Tony built a home, a family and a life with all the troubles, struggles and joy that go with it. I never met my grandfather. He left Nana a young widow when he succumbed to coal miner’s asthma – black lung. Nana would need to raise her daughter and two sons on her own. From time to time, Nana spoke about Grandpa Tony with wet eyes.

When I was a baby, Nana married again. For several years she shared her home with the man we called Grandpa Ed. He was the only grandfather I ever knew and he made Nana happy. They grew grapes in their garden and made wine in the basement. They tended their one room country store where they sold lunch meat, canned goods and bread and where the neighbors gathered to gossip. They traveled together and took photos of each other smiling in some far away garden bursting with roses. But a few years later, Ed passed away as well and Nana was on her own again.

Independent, resourceful and sage, Nana reigned as the matriarch of our family for almost eighty five years. Her off spring sought her counsel and promised to follow her example. One time I asked Nana what I should do with my future. Her advice to me was simple: study hard, work hard and do good. I only hope I have done her proud.

When Nana wasn’t working, her favorite hobby was puttering about her garden. From the first dew drops of spring until the last leaf dropped in autumn, Nana tended the soil from dusk to dawn. It was her masterpiece. On one side of the house, Nana planted a neatly kept rainbow bed of flowers – crowded with brightly blooming Azaleas, Black Eyed Susan, Zinnias and more. On the other side, along the fence, she grew vegetables – cucumbers, scallions, green beans, potatoes, and tomatoes. Thousands of sweet scents and hundreds of delicious flavors sprang from her small patch of earth.

Because we lived so near to Nana, we enjoyed every day the benefits of her garden and the benefits of her love. She baked us zucchini bread and shared jars of homemade stewed tomatoes. She taught us to roll dough, to make cookies, to bake cakes and to polka dance. She spoiled us with hot chocolate overflowing with mini marsh mellows in the winter and Banana Split Sundays in the summer. She attended our school plays, basketball games and ballet recitals. She hugged me the day I graduated from high school and beamed at me when I received my college diploma.

Nana died the way she lived, with pride, strength and courage. Her three children, their spouses, and a half dozen grand children stood at her bed side and surrounded her with their love. We held hands, kissed Nana, and prayed together as we watched her soul slip out of her body to join the life that is yet to come. That moment was the most beautiful, the most powerful and the most tragic event in my life.

Nana never saw me graduate from law school. She didn’t attend my wedding. And she never met my beautiful children or celebrated their baptisms. Today when I think of Nana I feel happy and sad. I am happy to relive in my heart so many wonderful moments with her. But at the same time I am sad from missing her so much. But its OK, because a piece of her lives inside of me still and I take it with me wherever I go. When I look into Emily’s eyes, I can see a bit of Nana smiling back at me. Like her Nana, Emily is fiercely independent and self sufficient. She is also joyful and loving and smart. And she loves to admire pretty flowers blooming in the garden.

As I recover from my recollections, Emily smiles up at me. “She looks nice”, Emily declares. “She is very nice.”, I sigh. I hug Emily and settle in to tell her a bit more about our Nana.

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.