Wordless Wednesday: visiting the Easter Bunny, 1969

still gives me chills---look at those scary eyes!

My pond

This originally ran on New England Mamas. I'm going to be pulling some of my favorite posts over here to keep them all under one "roof". Hope you don't mind the repeat if you've seen this before.

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It is a quiet place. The house is nestled in the pines, almost on top of the waterfront. The water is fresh, clean and teaming with sunfish who, upon hearing my feet on the dock, rush to me in the hopes that I will have some old bread for them. I might see an old turtle swimming in the waters or hear a duck quacking around the bend. Or, I might hear nothing at all.

I have been coming here my entire life.

It was my grandparents' place, then my bachelorette pad, and now the place my mother calls home. Before I was 18, there was a boys' camp across the way, and I'd wake to hear a voice on the loudspeaker telling the boys what their day held for them. I flirted shyly with them as they canoed on the pond, banging their metal boats into each other as if fighting some primitive war. If any came too close, my grandmother would yell from the second floor windows, Get away from my granddaughter!

My own personal body guard at 13.

When I lived there alone, I was never afraid. I'd come home late after working in the city, open the door of my car and hear a thud at my feet. Two shiny eyes would be looking at me. It was my neighbor's large black lab who had come to play catch in the darkness. I'd hold the drooly ball between my fingers and play catch for five or ten minutes in the heat of the summer or the freezing cold of winter.

When I swim, I feel the span of generations all around me. I remember swimming up to my grandmother and holding on to her sturdy wrinkled arm. I remember watching my dad diving off the end of the dock and swimming off into the center of the pond. I recall my sister doing bobs in the water. I think of the friends, family and my new husband all swimming in the dark waters after our wedding.

And, now, I see my own children playing in the waters that have soothed me my entire life.

This is a place so special to me, it must remain secret. However, that isn't to say that it is closed to you. Families now walk through the former boys' camp and ignore the "Do Not Enter" signs that lead to a quiet, sandy, no-frills beach area. For the determined, there is a way in. And, if you see me on the other side, wave.

I'm Promtacular. . .

. . .and I'm not alone, dragging down two of my best friends from the 'hood with me. Stop by Promtacular! and see what I mean.

And, as ridiculous as I look, I feel a bit wistful for those days when wearing a full-coverage dress to the prom was considered ok. Yes, I am getting old.

A river runs through it

The rains have finally stopped in our area of New England and, other than a very soggy yard, we've been very, very fortunate. But, watching the news of all of the swollen and overflowing rivers brings back memories of a time when the knock on the door of my childhood home was from a policeman telling us to evacuate.

I grew up in Agawam, Massachusetts, just a couple of streets from the banks of the Connecticut River. In June '84, the banks overflowed and came down my street.

(the Barbie sailboat was my sister's and often had a beer floating on it for my dad who stayed behind to pump out our basement and watch our cat)

The water never entered the first floor of our ranch, but it got pretty close (our house is the yellow one to the right).

It was pretty surreal to see our street covered in water, a boat bobbing by the curb.

My sister and I thought this was great fun when we had to stop home for dress-up clothes for my BFF's high-school graduation.

My mother, however, was a nervous wreck.

And now, after watching our yard fill up with water, checking to see if our basement was dry--still dry--, hearing the news stories of evacuations and damage and crumbling dams, I finally understand why she was so nervous.

Mother Nature, take it easy on New England this spring, ok?

Sticks and Stones

This is me at the beginning of my 17th year, the summer before my senior year in high school:

What do you think when you see this photo? "Nice suit!" "Whoa, perm!" "Looks like someone should wear sunscreen!"

Or, do you blurt out what a guy in my high school said when I showed him the snapshots of my friends and I at the beach: "Wow, I never realized your legs were so fat."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he started backpedaling and tried to make it sound like a joke. I smacked him on the arm and tried to laugh it off.

But, I didn't really laugh.

It's 25 years later and the memory of that moment still makes me wince. It makes me feel shame, as if I did something wrong.

One comment planted a seed that grew and grew, helped along by other moments in college, until I did some drastic things in order to achieve some "ideal" look. I'm fortunate that, years later, I no longer battle the demons of extreme weight control, but that doesn't mean I always love what I see. And as the holidays of excess---Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas---approach, I have to remind myself that I am so much more than the size of my thighs or stomach.

With two girls looking at me for guidance, I want for them to know that their mom is ok with her body now. But, for mercy's sake, please don't let it take them as long as it took me to get to this point.

What's Your Bar Name?

I'm a wimp when it comes to liquor. The only alcohol I've had "straight up" was the vodka I gulped down one night in high school when I thought I was reaching for my water glass and accidentally picked my father's glass.

And, the so-called "brown" liquors? Oh no, no, no, no.

Except for one night in the 90's, when I went to a media event sponsored by Dewars Scotch Whiskey at the House of Blues in Boston. They were trying to get younger kids to drink their product by mixing Dewars with things like sour mix and Coke.

I showed up at the House of Blues with my Best Friend at the time, and we hung out with a sales reps from one of the magazines I worked with regularly. After a few sweet drinks, the bartender leaned across the bar and asked us if we'd fill out a postcard with information about ourselves, presumably for the Dewars marketing folks.

Feeling warm, fuzzy and giggly, I read the words on the postcard for my two friends to hear: "Name", "Address", "Phone Number", "Bar Name" and "Date of Event".

"Hmmmmmm. . .", I wondered out loud. "What is my Bar Name?"

"Mine is Polly," said my Best Friend at the time.

"Oh, mine would be Kitty!", I said triumphantly.

"What are you guys talking about?" asked the confused magazine rep.

"Oh, you know----your Bar Name! It's the name you give someone when you don't really want to give them your real name!"

"OH! I'd be Dr. W", she said without hesitation.

We laughed over our bar names for a moment when I felt a hand tap my shoulder. I turned to face the same bartender who was now looking at us with a look of complete and utter disbelief.

"Bar Name. . ." he said slowly. ". . .House of Blues".

My Bladder Has Fallen And I Can't Get Up! Why Didn't Anyone Tell Me About Cystocele?

When I was pregnant with my first child, I read everything I could. But, one thing no one told me was that one possible side effect of childbirth could be that my bladder may someday fall out of its normal resting spot inside my body.

Now before I send any of my pregnant readers into a tizzy, please note that this condition, known as cystocele, is fairly uncommon, especially among younger women. But, if you have ever needed a reason to kegel, keep reading.

By the way, if you are male, heed my warning and stop now. Go watch something on Tivo or make a snack.

OK. . .all clear?

Here's the scoop:

It was another ordinary night in the Fairly Odd household in spring '04. Fairly Odd Father was enjoying a night out with the boys to see the Boston Bruins. I was four months pregnant with my third child. Belly was three and Jilly had just turned a year old.

I decided to give the girls a bath, so I got the water in the tub ready. But, as I lifted them into the tub, I felt an odd sensation. It was if something was sliding out of me. Not painful, just not right. I had visions of me birthing my baby right then and there, on the bathroom floor. I thought about an ex-coworker who told the story of how her mother knew she was about to birth her twins when she looked down and saw a leg coming out. "I hope I don't see a leg" was all my brain could muster.

(deep breath)

I then reached down and pushed something back up into my body. Something squishy and fleshy and not a baby leg. I suppose I should be so very thankful of that fact.

Miraculously, I had brought the phone into the bathroom with me, and dialed my OB/GYN's number with shaking fingers. I got the answering service and will never forget the poor guy who had to answer my call. "Excuse me, what is happening?" I'm not sure what he said to my OB/GYN, but 60 seconds hadn't passed before my OB was calling me back.

I answered his questions:

* no, no blood (thank goodness)
* yes, it seems to be up there again, although I am lying down with my head propped up so I can see my two babies who are still in the tub
* not having any contractions or anything to indicate I'm going into labor

I thought I'd soon hear an ambulance driving up to take me to the ER, but instead he told me to take it easy, go to bed and come in first thing the next morning.

Really? Well, OK!

Except, not OK, because I still had my two girls stranded in the tub (there was no way I was going to try to lift them), and a husband at least an hour away. So, I called my next-door neighbor who (thankfully) knows us well and had a key to the house. I then called my husband on the phone and turned him a little more gray by blubbering the following into the phone:

"(sob) I need you to come home right now because something is falling out of me but I don't think it's the baby but it might be my uterus and (neighbor) is coming to help but I need you home, and I'm freaking out and I need you home (sob)."

My beloved neighbor got the girls out of the tub, ready for bed and tucked in, probably even with a bedtime story, while I lied in my bed and let my mind race. What the heck was going on with my body? Is this my fault for getting pregnant again so close to baby #2? Maybe a VBAC hadn't been such a great idea. Why hadn't I done those stupid kegels?

The next morning, I felt better but was scared to do anything that might aggravate things. I got myself to the doctor's office and went through an exam where he determined that it was probably not my uterus that had fallen, but my bladder. I guess that pushing out my 8 lb, 12 oz Jilly had weakened everything enough that, when a new baby started to sit on top of everything, it made the bladder droop down where it shouldn't go.

This was unbelievable to me.

"Wait. My bladder can fall out of me like that? Will other organs start falling out too? But, how do some women have 10 kids? Are you saying that all of them have had their bladders fall out of them? Why doesn't anyone talk about this???"

I will never forget what my OB said to my panicked questions:

"Listen---I've seen women who have had 10 kids and no problems, and some have one and---poof!---it all falls apart. But, listen, this isn't too uncommon. I have little old ladies who shuffle in here all the time with their uterus hanging down to their knees."

I'm pretty sure I whimpered at this point, thinking briefly of all those little old ladies I had passed shuffling down the halls in the medical center. I sure as hell hope he was joking to take my mind off my own issues.

I was fortunate, though, because my cystocele kind of straightened itself up on its own. Oh, sure, I made sure to sit down more often during the day, especially if that feeling started to come back. But, as my body changed during pregnancy, it seemed to hold everything in place.

I was petrified of what would happen after I pushed out my third, but things were not too bad. D was my biggest baby at just over 9 pounds, but my cystocele came back only mildly after his delivery. I found a wonderful specialist in Urogynocology and paid a few visits to her but we decided to take a "wait and see" approach. My goal was that if I needed surgery to correct things, I wanted to wait until my youngest was at least five years old.

Well, D is 4 1/2, and things seem pretty good. I'm active (hey Shredheads!) and am still crappy at remembering to kegel. I even have a whole set of, um, weights, that I never use, but will probably need to reconsider as my age keeps going up. Although I don't think I'll ever top her achievement.

But, I'll probably never run a 5K again (or a 1K) or do my first triathalon, which is kind of a bummer, but if I can get through the rest of my days with all of my internal organs staying internal, I'm willing to make some sacrifices.

Friends Don't Let Friends Screw Up S'mores

The Year: Pre-children, sometime between 1997-2000

Cast:
Fairly Odd Father (FOF), otherwise known as my husband
College Roommate (CR), my beloved college roommate
BFF, my best friend from high school
SigOth, her Significant Other
Shop Clerk 1
Shop Clerk 2
Various Others, including Yours Truly

The Scene: Cast is sitting around a picnic table next to the pond enjoying the early summer air, bellies full of barbeque and beer. Someone mentions S'mores, and the group glances back at the grill whose embers are still glowing pink. The time is approximately 8:30p.m.

Fairly Odd Father and College Roommate jump up: "We'll get the stuff for S'mores!"

Fifteen minutes later, FOF and CR return from store, park at top of hill and walk down to rest of group eagerly awaiting them at picnic table. A shopping bag is placed in the center of the table and items are pulled out one by one.

First to come out of bag is a box of graham crackers. Next, a bag of marshmallows. Last, a bottle of Hershey's Chocolate Syrup is plunked down on the table.



Silence.

SigOth (confused): "What the hell is this?"

CR (cheerfully): "It's chocolate. For the S'mores!"

Silence.

Me (completely bewildered, looking back and forth at these two people I love dearly): "Chocolate SYRUP? For S'mores? Weren't you guys in Scouts?"

Silent weeping.

BFF: "OHMIGOD! What time does that store close? It's almost 9! Maybe we can still get chocolate bars!"

A flurry of activity as BFF and SigOth leap up and run to top of hill in a sprint to get to the store before it closes. Remember we are in the boondocks, where stores do not stay open after 9pm.

New Scene: At little strip of stores in "center" of town. BFF and SigOth burst into Convenience Store and look wildly for candy aisle. Spotting it, they run up to the candy and see that there are no Hershey Bars remaining in any of the slots. They turn and run to the Cashier who is bored and watching the clock.

SigOth: "Chocolate bars! We need chocolate bars! Our friends were just here to get stuff for S'mores and WE NEED CHOCOLATE BARS!!!!"

Shop Clerk 1 (who speaks ever so slowly and deliberately): "Hey. . .I remember those two. When they came to the register, I thought, "I sure hope they aren't trying to make S'mores." Well. . .we're out of chocolate bars. But, you could try the pharmacy next door. They close at. . .(they all look up at clock as the minute hand clicks to the top position). . .nine".

BFF and SigOth run out the door as if on fire and grab handle of pharmacy door. They pull and. . .it is locked.

SigOth starts to pound on door, yelling, "PLEASE!!! Please open the door! It's an EMERGENCY! We need CHOCOLATE!!!!"

Shop Clerk 2 appears at door and turns key. He opens door a crack and says, "Can I help you?"

SigOth: "PLEASE! Our friends are idiots! They don't know how to make S'mores and we need chocolate bars! Please! Just some chocolate!"

Shop Clerk 2: "I'm sorry. The register is already closed."

SigOth, thinking quickly and digging into pocket: "Here!!!! Take twenty! Don't worry about change! Please!"

Shop Clerk 2: "Um. . .okay."

BFF and SigOth run into store, scoop up a dozen Hershey Bars, thank Shop Clerk 2 profusely and return to gang at picnic table. Friends cheer arrival of chocolate bars and happily begin making S'mores.

Spotlight slowly comes to focus on FOF as he bites into a freshly-made S'more and realizes he hates them and will now have to endure S'more jokes for the rest of his life.




Curtain closes.

Getting a Colonoscopy, or How to Survive a Booty Call

Many of us spend a lot of time worrying about our butt: Is it too big? Too flat? Too wide? Does my ass look too big in these jeans? (don't answer that too quickly, mister).

I daresay, though, that most of us do not spend much time thinking about ye olde colon.

This is a shame since colorectal cancer strikes an equal amount of women as it does men. The kicker? This cancer is one of the most easily prevented cancers.

In September '07, I thought a heck of a lot about my colon because I had a colonoscopy. Although the general recommendation is that people start getting colonoscopies at the age of 50, I was told to start ten years earlier due to a family history of this disease. Some people should start getting screened as young as 30 depending on their risk factors.

The idea of getting a colonoscopy scares a lot of people. I've talked to many whose reaction is, "There is no way anyone is sticking a tube up my butt!" So, when I had to get one myself, I decided to write about it so that some people could learn what a real procedure was like.

And, in honor of March being National Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month (NCRCAM for 'short'), I will republish my thoughts from that September for those of you who are still thinking, "There is no way. . .".

Day One: The Prep

I've had a few disgusting things happen to me in my life but nothing could quite prepare me for tonight.

I'm preparing for my first-ever colonoscopy, and thought that the worst part of it would be the procedure in the morning.

But, after fasting all day long and then drinking 80 ounces of somewhat thick, salty-sweet liquid, I've changed my mind.

I am dreaming of food and, inexplicably, unable to watch anything on TV but Top Chef and The Food Network. I almost licked the television screen when they made a muffaletta, despite the fact that I rarely eat any meat.

I'm dreaming of food even during the "cleansing", which is pretty remarkable.

Oh, the cleansing. If you've ever been told you are full of shit, well, you are. You are full of more shit than you think is possible.

I am astounded by this, and hungry. And probably 10 pounds lighter. Wait, let me go check that one. . .

Nope, dammit, exactly the same weight. How is that possible???

The good news is that despite all the rumbling in my belly and the running to the bathroom, there is no pain, no stomach cramps. This isn't like have a stomach bug that keeps you tied to the toilet, sweating and praying for relief. It's relatively easy, but a little messy. Next time I'm wearing ear plugs so I don't have to listen.

OK, all appears to be quiet in the belly region. I'm off to bed to dream about muffaletta and bagels and goat cheese and french fries and ice cream.

Day Two: The Procedure

After complaining about last night, I feel kind of silly posting tonight.

I think I get it now. . .prepping for a colonoscopy: kind of yucky; having the actual colonoscopy: as easy as taking a nap.

Seriously, once the sedatives were put into my body, I disappeared into la-la land, waking only to think, "Oh, this must be the beginning", but hearing the doctor say, "All done!"

I had planned to chat throughout the entire procedure, a la Katie Couric. Instead, I probably snored.

Once I had regained consciousness, I was relieved to hear that all looked good---one polyp was removed and will be biopsied, but this is apparently pretty common. I was on my feet and scarfing down an egg-and-cheese bagel sandwich before Fairly Odd Father's car drove us out of the parking lot.

One benefit of the fasting? It allowed me to see what a flat stomach looks like. Either that, or I hallucinated due to lack of food.

I am a bit worried that the first half of the post may have convinced some people never to have a colonoscopy, so I will attempt to convince those of you who feel this way.

First, fasting isn't THAT bad. You can eat popsicles, jello and drink soda! You can feel virtuous, like "my body is my temple and I will not eat for a whole day!" Plus, after I got through the night, I was no longer hungry in the morning (that is, until the bagel sandwich appeared in front of me).

Second, here is a tip for drinking down glass after glass of HalfLytely (the stuff that will 'cleanse' your system): pretend you are in college, at a bar. Grab your glass like a shot and drink it all---yes, all 8 ounces at once (you know you could do this at one time). As soon as the glass is empty, grab a piece of lime and suck it. The lime wipes away all the nasty taste from your mouth, plus you can almost pretend you just drank a tequila shot. If the fasting is going well, you'll be a bit dizzy anyway, so the illusion of drinking is there. If you repeat this every ten minutes, you will be finished with the solution in less than an hour and a half.

Third, make sure you have NO responsibilities after 6pm. Lock yourself in your bedroom and keep the path to the bathroom open. Watch tv, read, play on the computer, whatever. Light lots of candles in the bathroom for odor control. When you feel the rumbling, run for the bathroom. Repeat this until the rumbling quiets down. I was still able to get a decent night's sleep, with minimal interruption.

Finally, schedule your appointment for first-thing in the morning. My appointment was at 8am, and I was out of the hospital by 9:30. Just get it over with before you have too much time to wake up and worry about it.

All joking aside, do me one favor: ask your parents when they had their last colonoscopy, and if you are 50 or older (or 40 with family history), ask yourself. The procedure is so easy, mostly painless and quick. Colorectal cancer, on the other hand is a horrible, terribly painful disease, and yet preventable with regular screenings.

I lost my dad to colorectal cancer when he was only 62 years old and that was partly because he let too much time pass between his appointments. Don't let too much time pass for you.

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Much of this post was published in September 2007 and then republished on New England Mamas in March 2008. For those of you who read the original posts and should've gotten a colonoscopy that year, this is your reminder.

Teach Me How to Read (again)

I used to be the kid who went to the library every week and left with a stack of 10, 12, 15 books teetering in my arms. I'd go home, find a corner and read. And read. And read.

When my friend Michele and I were tweens, we'd go to each other's house . . .and read. Yes, just hang out and read.

I pretty much knew I'd be an English Major in college by the time I was 14. Once in college, I took only one (required) Math class and not a single Business class in order to take more literature and philosophy classes.

I still go to the library every week, but now I now leave with a giant bag of books for the kids. If a book makes it in the bag for me, it often goes unopened and unread. And, on the rare occasion that I make it to a book store for some "alone time", I wander the racks aimlessly until I find myself in the children's section picking out books for the kids.

It makes me sad that I no longer know what to read, nor do I make time to do it.

I know that I have replaced my "reading habit" with the internet, the short articles in The New Yorker (ok, the cartoons) and with silly reality television. Just typing this has made another 1% of my brain turn to a cottage cheese-like mush, like on those Hulu commercials.

But, when I venture into the library or bookstore now, I have no idea what to pick out. I want to read for fun, not reference. But, I cannot read those Twilight books and hate anything with the word "Shopaholic", "Lust" or "Alien" in the title. And, I don't want horror, goth or anything with a "quest".

If you ask me who I like to read, I struggle a bit to remember and then recall devouring the short stories of Sandra Cisneros and Pam Houston, reading Barbara Kingsolver and Richard Russo, crying over Carol Shields. I just grabbed three of my favorite novels from my bookshelf and they are Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, The Bone People and The Shipping News. Published in 1974, 1984 and 1993, respectfully. Not exactly the latest and greatest, you know?

So, Book People, please come forth and lay your favorites on the table for me. This mama needs to unplug and sit up late, curled up on the couch, with nothing but the ticking of the clock and the sound of pages turning to keep her company.

My (not very) big, fat Greek Wannabees

I used to want to be Italian.

I was so envious of the big family gatherings with its noisy conversations, the joking, the copious amounts of food, the little children running over the old peoples' feet. The dozens of cousins.

On Sunday, my kids wanted to be Greek.

We were at the baptism for the third child of close friends. Walking into the stunning Greek Orthodox church for the ceremony, I was reminded of when their other two children were baptized and of their wedding. We have been part of several of this family's big events, and I recognized quite a few people.

After the traditional and lovely Greek ceremony, we went to a function hall for dinner. It took a little while, but pretty soon, my kids were off and running through the building with the other kids, acting as if they too had dark hair, dark eyes---in other words, acting just like they too were cousins.

On the dance floor, the girls joined the circle to dance to the Greek music.



I later told them that one of the things I love most about this type of gathering is knowing that the same music and dancing, these customs, have been done by people for thousands of years. Being a part of it is like being a part of the link between the past and the future.

The girls really enjoyed the traditional Greek music and tried to figure out the dance steps the grownups were doing. Jilly almost made me spit my drink out when she excitedly said, "MOMMY! We HAVE to get this CD!"



Even D enjoyed the dancing, albeit for different reasons. Seems he already knows how to pick 'em.

Hell bound?

When I was 16, I met a girl who told me my parents were going to hell.

I was at the beach with my friend Michele, who was a year older than me and able to drive us an hour-and-a-half to the seashore.

As we sat on our blanket, listening to classic rock streaming from our boom box, a smiling blond girl approached and asked if she could talk to us.

So innocent was I, that I assumed she just wanted to meet some kids her own age. I scooted over and made room on our blanket. The three of us started to talk about our lives: where we were from, our favorite bands, our schools and friends.

And, then, abruptly, talk turned to religion. Specifically, her religion.

I got a sick feeling in my stomach as I realized that she had joined us with a mission. A mission to convert us to her religion, which happened to be a form of Christianity. Michele and I were Roman Catholics, but not particularly good ones. I mean, we were good kids, but we weren't heavily versed in the bible and didn't know much more than what we'd learned in CCD. And, I had not put much deep thought into religion other than to go through the motions at church and in class.

So, on that summer's day, I got a little prickly as this smiling girl spoke about the need to accept Jesus--to be "born again"--or risk going to hell.

I asked her, flat out, about those people who live good, respectable lives but didn't accept Jesus as savior. Like. . .her parents (she had mentioned that they did not follow her religion).

"Well, I guess my parents will go to hell", she said casually, as if she were discussing where they might go on vacation.

"Are you kidding?" I said. "I refuse to believe that my parents, who are good, kind people, will go to hell."

"Well, yes, they will, unless they accept Jesus into their lives".

I wasn't sure if my parents had "accepted Jesus into their lives", but I was fairly certain their spotty church attendance and inability to quote scripture was not boding well for them.

Somehow we got rid of her, but this episode has never truly left me. It has probably been a big reason I no longer believe in the Christian view of Heaven and Hell.

I decided yesterday that, in addition to my other Resolutions, I wanted to make a real effort to show people more kindness and gratitude for what they do for me. I want to "see" those anonymous people that enter in and out of my life---the kid who bags my groceries, the person selling me coffee from the drive-through window, the man asking for change on the corner. I want to be better about thanking them, saying hello or lending a hand when I can, especially when I am busy, preoccupied, stressed, late.

I want to be a better person here on this earth, right now.

And, while this may not be enough to get me into a Christian heaven, I still think Jesus---man or God, whichever you believe---would approve.

Boys Don't Make Passes at Girls Who Wear Glasses

My Dad used to say the rhyme above, probably hoping that his oldest daughter would not become a trollop, and that I'd always wear big coke-bottle glasses.



Sorry, Daddy, I got contacts at 16.

Earlier this week, I took Belly to the eye doctor. She had been complaining that the letters in books were hard to see. Turns out, she does have a slight farsightedness issue and could use reading glasses. So, I took her down to the neighborhood store to pick out some frames.

Before we left, I talked to her about her friends who wore glasses. I even showed her the girl I think of when I think "coolest little glasses wearer".

That was it. She wanted glasses, and she wanted them now.

The frames she picked were way cooler than anything I ever wore as a child. And, they are pink, natch. Silly things cost as much as my glasses, and I have a sinking feeling she will misplace them in a month. I almost wish she needed them all the time because at least they'd be more likely to be on her face than "oh, where did I leave them"?

But, now maybe, just maybe, reading won't be such a chore for her. Even if the effect is minimal and the letters' clarity is more in her imagination, I'm hopeful this will be the trick.

But, Daddy, she quite possibly may look even cuter in glasses, so we could have trouble.

When a Nutter Butter is Public Enemy Number 1

Back in the mid 1970's, I was in elementary school in Western Massachusetts. Every day at lunch, they had an interesting way of insuring children ate the slop that was set in front of them. They offered us crack on white bread for dessert.

Of course it wasn't really crack, but it was the most silky, gooey, creamy peanut butter I have ever had, stored in huge white drums. If you finished your lunch, you were allowed to go back into the lunch line and get a piece of soft, nutritionally void white bread with a huge dollop of peanut butter slapped across it. We would cradle this bread lovingly in our little hands and eat the open-faced sandwich in tiny bites, savoring every bit of it.

I am very doubtful that this scene takes place in any public schools today.

It's strange how a food as ubiquitous as peanut butter has become Enemy #1 in the Food Allergy Wars. Every preschool my daughter has attended has been "peanut free". Elementary schools have "peanut free tables" where allergic kids can sit and be safe from the humble nut. I feel guilty when, out of desperation, I make a PB&J and bring it into a public space. We eat it huddled together and then afterward I scrub their hands before they touch anything.

And, yet, I understand all too well why this is necessary. Because although peanut butter (Skippy only) is a staple in our home, my oldest daughter, Belly, is allergic to milk. Well, not really milk, but casein which is a protein found in milk.

This means that she cannot have ice cream, yogurt, butter, cheese, Cheetos, pizza, milk chocolate, donuts, Cool Whip or even certain types of cereal, bread, soup, crackers and TV dinners. In some cases, especially when it comes to TV dinners or Cool Whip, this is a good thing. But, when she attends a birthday party, she can't eat the cake. When she goes to the movies, the popcorn is verboten. When the Ice Cream Truck rolls around, I have to quiz the guy on a Push Up Pop's ingredients until the rest of the neighborhood is ready to throw me under the tires.

What about you? Is this topic near and dear to your heart? Or, are you sick of all the rules surrounding what you can or can't pack in your child's lunch box? Please join me as I talk more about this subject with Kristen Chase of Motherhood Uncensored. I'll be the guest on her weekly online radio show this Wednesday night, July 9th, at 9pm. If you'd like to call in, I'd love to talk with you and hear your thoughts on this subject.

Just don't feel sorry for Belly. As far as allergies go, hers isn't so bad. As the guy at Whole Foods said as we searched the freezers for dairy-free pizza: "At least she isn't allergic to gluten. Now THAT sucks."

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow, Part V (The Finale)

A long, long time ago (February), I got the bright idea that I'd post photos of my "Life in Hair". Little did I know that it would take me six months to do so. To refresh your memory, Part I (let the humiliation begin) is here, Part II (shorter and shorter) is here, Part III (short and blond) is here, and, finally, Part IV (red isn't dead, yet) is here.

I'm finally up to my days as a married lady. You'd think that marriage would've calmed me down, but, alas, I still don't know what I want (when it comes to my tresses at least).

Here I am on my wedding day. Reddish hair, fresh face and hot. Oh, so very hot.


Eighteen months later, I was a momma. For whatever reason, this meant no hair coloring or hair cuts. Did I think that a hair cut would interfere with breastfeeding? Either that or I was just too tired to remember that I had hair.

Oh, and that cute kid in my lap? That is Belly.

A couple of years later, I was back to coloring and cutting my hair, but as this next photo shows, I had forgotten about sunscreen.

That chubby bug in my arms? Jilly.


My third, D, came some quickly after Jilly that there was really no time to think about switching hair styles. . .it was all I could do to keep track of the kids.

A few years later, I started to play around with color and shorter cuts again, which you can see in this really flattering photo. Glamour shot, isn't it?


So,this is where I remain to this day. Sure, the color has gotten a bit redder from time to time, and the length goes up and down a few inches, but now the only thing that really is starting to look different is my "maturing" face.

Thanks for sticking with me through this. Jess at Oh, the Joys! once suggested I turn this into a meme, but I don't think she thought it'd take me half a year to complete it! So, if anyone else wants to take a walk down memory lane and post their Life in Hair, please do so and let me know.

Finally, if you want to weigh in on your favorite photo in the series, let me know! I have a hair appointment coming up in a week or two, and I'm willing to take suggestions. . .

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Double your pleasure, double your fun and come read what I have to say over here.

Have You Been Half Asleep, and Have You Heard Voices

My grandmother lived on the banks of a pond, and I'd visit her every summer, often spending several nights sleeping in her small home with my family. One of my favorite sounds was the call of the bullfrog who we called Charlie.

My grandmother died when I was in my young 20's, but I lived in her house after she died so that it wouldn't fall into disrepair. Charlie was out there every summer night, singing his song.

My mom lives there now and although it's been a while since I've spent the night (she lives only 20 minutes away, so we just make day trips), I would know Charlie's song anywhere.

Which is why I stopped dead in my tracks when I entered my bathroom late tonight and heard his familiar song outside my window. A bull frog. Outside my window. In the suburbs.

I hope he sticks around.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow, Part IV

Thank you all so much for the kind comments about my short-blond-hair stage (from Part III. Also, part I is here; part II is here). Meg Ryan? Really??

Your compliments almost make me want to go back to that style, but then I remember that "short" and "blond" requires upkeep. I can see myself now with dark roots down to here, shaggy bangs, uneven layers. . . it just isn't pretty. Maybe in a few years, I'll have the time to try that style again.

Predictably, after years of short and blond, I got bored and decided to try red. Oh, how I loved the red hair on the boxes of hair color.

Here is day one, in a semi-permanent burgundy color (the year is 1996; I will meet my beloved shortly after making the switch to red):



Here I am in more of a "Carrot Top" shade. . .and, no, that is not my hairy leg in the photo.



Here I am with disastrously short bangs. . .


And now with hair that is in desperate need of a cut. . .


Now before you tell me, "UGH! You should never have done red!", you should know that the person writing this has red hair on her head. So, be kind. I do have a box of blond color in the bathroom, though, in case I need to make a change, pronto.

Next up. . .my hair at marriage and after the birth of each of my three children. Trust me, I should never, ever go "natural" with my hair.

Why I Married My Car

$16,000.

That was my salary my first year out of college. Ahhh. . .the glamorous world of advertising.

With this paycheck, I had to afford rent, food, gasoline (for my mom's beat-up Chevette) and, of course, alcohol. . .while living in a top 50 metro. I remember that I budgeted $10 a week for food, and $10 a week for drinks out with my friends. Good thing I had my priorities straight.

At some point, the Chevette died and I had to get a new car. I got an Escort for about $8,000. I don't remember what my car payments were, but I was drowning in them. While talking to my dad, somehow it came up that the cost of my car would be about the same as the cost they'd have to pay for a wedding should I get married at some point (hillbillies don't need real fancy weddin's). Because I didn't really foresee a wedding in my near future, I asked them if they'd consider paying off my car loan with the promise that they'd never have to cough up money for some future nuptials.

The deal was made, they paid off the loan. In essence, I married my car. I married an Escort. Not surprisingly, that marriage did not last too long, and I traded the Escort in for a Jeep a few years later.

Less than 10 years after my "wedding for a car" deal, I married a real live man. But, I stayed true to my word and did not ask my parents for any money to pay for the wedding or honeymoon.

I never regretted this deal, because it helped me avoid the one thing my father had begged me to avoid at all costs: credit card debt. I don't recall him ever warning me about drugs, men or sex, but I do remember his commandment:

Thou shalt not charge more on your card than you can pay off in a month.

So when I heard this on the radio today. . .

"The (average)* 18 year old owns an (average)* of four credit cards. . .",

*am not sure where the 'average' goes and can't find the original source.

. . .I think my dad must be rolling, er. . .shaking, in his grave (he is cremated).

Four credit cards at 18. I bet none of those kids are driving around in a lame Escort with a "Just Married" sign in the back window.

The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round

I am afraid of school buses.

Nothing bad has ever happened to me on a bus (except for being excluded from the "way back" by the cool kids). And, I realize that schools have taken steps to make their buses safer for kids.

But, when I was in grade school in the 70's, I was made to watch a Bus Safety Movie that scarred me for life. It was sort of Scared Straight for 5th graders, minus the jail scenes.

In one scene, a little girl exits the bus and runs in front of it as she crosses the street. Her handmade Valentine card slips from her folder and flutters to the ground, directly in front of the bus' grill. She stops and runs back to grab her Valentine just as the bus driver steps on the gas. Cut to the Valentine blowing away down the street.

Another scene has a group of kids roughhousing as they climb over a snowbank to get onto the bus. The last kid in line slips and slides down the bank. . .under the bus. Buh-bye.

There were other equally horrifying scenes which probably live on in my subconscious somewhere.

So, while I may not remember a lot of what I was taught in school, I have internalized one thought:

Stay away from the bus.

Maybe THAT is why I homeschool.

You Down with OCD? (yeah you know me)*

Tap (right). Tap (left).

Wait. Did I tap left? Tap (left). That was too hard. Need to tap right again. Tap (right).

OK, better.

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Did I shut off the light?

Walk back to room. Light is off.

Turn it on. Turn it off.

Am I ok with that? No? On. Off.

Walk away.

Wait. Need to check that it is definitely off.

Go back and check.

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Need to count. Start at zero. Get to twenty and wonder if I thought of the number 17. Start back over at zero.

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This was my teen life. I'm not sure what brought it on, or what made it go away.

But, it did go away.

I think.

There are times, though, when I wonder if I have just suppressed it. Like tonight, when I walked into the kids' room and saw stuff everywhere. The rationale side of me said, "go to bed; they can clean it up in the morning". The other side said, "we need to do it now, now, now, now, now, now". So we did it now.

And, then I felt better.



*in spite of the cutesy title, I'm not sure if my behavior qualifies as OCD; I do know it was something I couldn't really control.