Wednesday, July 20, 2016

A Fifth Dimension

The Professor and First Born Prince left this morning for the Fab 48 basketball tournament in Las Vegas.  They already hit the Bacchanal buffet at Caesar’s Palace and are getting ready for some serious high school basketball.  Charming Baby is at sleep-away mountain camp in northern California.

I am wildly excited about being on my own for a few days.  I suddenly have enough time and space to get everything I want to done!  With no distractions or demands, I can focus.  It's eerie, a sense of weightlessness and endless possibility.  Except last week when I was gifted two days like this, I ended up binge watching Ray Donovan and living on rosé and tortilla chips.

You are only wondering why I can’t get to the things I want to when my family is around if you are a man or a Bionic Woman.  There are plenty of to-do's we mothers wish we could accomplish but let go unattended as we are too preoccupied managing active, upwardly mobile people's secular and religious educations, sports and team commitments, nutrition and dining needs, social calendars and physical and mental health programs.

This week I am committing my top ten to-do's to paper so maybe I’ll arrive at Saturday morning with more than tight jeans and edema.

1.     Start at-home yoga practice.
2.     Read articles pulled from top news journals:  ISIS, Brexit, Turkey, RNC/DNC, Pokemon Go.
3.     Purge office files and shred all documents with sensitive or personal information (in case Professor reads this).
4.     Start Marie Kondo–ing the house.
5.     Returns to stores with time-sensitive return policies.
6.     Meet with admissions officer to help them better understand why people make the choices in schools that they do.  This appointment cannot be over the phone because their consultant needs to see my body language and facial expressions. (I offered to text emojis.)
7.     Investigate denied Aetna claims. 
8.     Investigate Aetna for denying claims.
9.     Get blood drawn.
10. Deal with jury summons.

Wish me luck.  Namasté.

Sunday, November 22, 2015

Holiday Drinking Game

Who are those people with reindeer antlers on their car?  Where do they even get them?  I have never seen them anywhere in the pop-up ads on my news feeds or in stores, not even in the holiday section at Vons.  Don’t laugh, they had life-sized witches for $89.99 at Halloween and I contemplated tossing one in to my cart along with the six-pack of chardonnay.

Whether you are extra jolly or beyond stressed out this time of year, I can promise you, you are not alone.  We have reasons we are sad or worked up but, thankfully, plenty of reasons to be happy and rejoice.  Let’s not forget Saturday Night Live had more material this year than they knew what to do with.  May we all find the humor in Donald and Hillary.

I love the holidays:  a) blood oranges are in season, b) blood orange margaritas are my favorite and c) holiday parties, gift exchanges and long visits with family are a great excuse for a drinking game.   

Whether you are traveling or entertaining, raising the bar, or lowering it, your celebrations with friends or family or co-workers may need a little loosening up.  To get things rolling, try the Holiday Drinking Game.  Squeeze some blood oranges, or grab a bottle from your six-pack and sit your most stressed-out relative or friend down:

Drink if you know someone who has reindeer antlers on their car.

Drink again if it’s you.

Drink if you do Elf on the Shelf.

Drink again if it is a perverted elf.

Drink if you have given in the past, or are thinking of giving this year, a preteen Beats by Dr. Dre.

Drink again if they are wireless.

Drink if you bought the Trader Joe’s Advent calendar already.

Drink again if you ate some of it and had to buy another one.

Drink if you have adopted a family-in-need this holiday season.

Drink again if you have spent time or money on this family while your own family is overdue for any of the following:  haircut, dog wash, oil change, teeth cleaning, or mammogram.

Drink if you are traveling for the holidays.

Drink again if traveling by economy-class airplane.

Drink a third time if traveling for the holidays by economy-class airplane with a blood relative over the age of 85 or under the age of three.

If traveling for the holidays by economy-class airplane with a blood relative over the age of 85 or under the age of three through O’Hare, Dulles or Denver, drain the bottle.

Drink if you fill Xmas stockings for adults.

Drink again if you fill your own Xmas stocking.

Drink if you wrap any of the gifts for any of the stockings.

Drink again if you wrap all the gifts for all the stockings.

If you fill Xmas stockings for adults, and fill your own stocking and wrap all of the gifts for all of the stockings, see above.

Pro-Tip:  Drink a glass of water between each challenge.

Sending love and good cheer.  I'm hosting Thanksgiving this year.  Wish me luck!

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

It’s Yom Kippur Somewhere

I used to get dressed up and attend formal services for the High Holidays at our temple.  I love temples, I love rabbis,  I love most Jewish people, but about five years ago, I started staying home instead.  I can’t quiet my mind in a formal congregation.  I can’t stop thinking about how much my dress shoes are killing me and that I paid extra for that pain.  I can't stop thinking about the kids who take an inappropriate amount of Challah when we gather with everyone to say the motzi in the foyer of the temple.  And I definitely can't stop thinking about what to say to the man next to me who is the same man I cut off on the way into the parking lot.

The High Holy Days are about contemplation.  We are commanded to think about the year behind us, the year ahead of us.  Set goals.  Forgive ourselves.  Atone for our sins.  So the Professor and boys go without me, and I use the gift of quiet time to think and write, and sometimes cook, depending on who is hosting the holiday dinner. 

In between the two holiest days of the year, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (eleven days in between), we are commanded to reach out to people we have hurt or wronged and at least attempt to make things right.  I like to keep my accounts current so I am pretty busy all year long texting and calling people, quoting my therapist, trying really hard to not make excuses for my gross behavior, and hopefully, sincerely, squaring up with everyone along the way.  I believe I am up to date with all of you.  If not, you are invited to call me on my B.S., please. We have until sundown.


Sunday, July 12, 2015


Charming Baby is away for two weeks at an overnight mountain camp.  I am sure he is having the time of his life, but I wouldn’t know for sure because I haven’t received even so much as a postcard.  If I had a girl, I would have three newsy letters by now, complete with details like the names of all cabin mates and a hand-drawn diagram of the bunks and who sleeps where. 

I had originally presented the idea as a one-week trip, but the Professor talked me into two.  Not because he wanted to recreate the lazy BK (before kids) summers of our twenties with afternoon naps and entire days spent trolling around movie theaters, eating as much popcorn and Red Vines as we wished, but because he said it takes a week to get over homesickness and then you really start to have fun.

The Professor, like many east coast kids, grew up going to camp for six or eight-weeks every summer.   (He recalls six weeks, his brother recalls eight.  They both remember starting at age nine.)  When First Born Prince turned nine, the Professor asked about sending him.  You might as well have asked me if I would cut out my heart, throw it on the ground and do the Mexican hat dance on it.

When FBP turned 13, we tried a few of those three-day sports camps hosted at universities where the kids play their sport all day long and sleep in the college dorms and eat in the campus cafeterias.  I didn’t like the fact the kids had unlimited access to their electronic devices, pizza, Coca Cola and candy bars.  He adored the freedom, the long days of lacrosse and making new friends from all over.

Eventually we were turned on to a family-run weeklong lacrosse camp in the Adirondacks.  NO electronics, no candy, no staying up late playing Fooze-ball in the game room, high on partially hydrogenated oil and high-fructose corn syrup.  Just home-cooked meals, lacrosse in the morning, traditional mountain camp activities in the afternoon and enforced lights out.  Even though FBP liked the local university three-day benders better, the Professor and I felt the more traditional mountain camp experience was the way to go and so paved the way for his younger brother to try something similar.

I wasn’t sure about sending CB at age 11.  Yes, younger siblings mature faster but it surprised me that he agreed to two weeks.  Granted, he was going with one of his closest friends, but this is the kid who still refers to the day camp I sent him to when he was five as “Baby Jail.”  A mother’s guilt, fear and shame have no limits.

Thank God I watched the camp’s webinar Parents' Overview last spring.  They told us what to pack, how to pack (Label everything!  Involve the camper!).  The most depressing rule was that campers couldn’t receive food in care packages.  Not even gum.  The most helpful tip for me was about letter writing to our campers -- to just send news about what's going on at home and not dwell on how much we missed them.  I would have written “I LOVE YOU AND MISS YOU SO MUCH!!!!  I CAN’T WAIT UNTIL YOU GET HOME!!!!”  I was forced to be a fake, Chatty Cathy.  I did sneak in a few xoxo's, but I was strong, I even signed off, "Love, Mom" instead of "Mama" which is what he calls me when he's feeling like my baby.  

Perhaps one of his experienced bunkmates is up there coaching him right now.  “Don’t write home, it will just make your mom cry.  Make her think you are having so much fun you forgot to write.”  Maybe that’s what he’s thinking and we can just tell each other the dirty, stinky, bug-bitten truth.  When he gets home.  To his mama.  Next Saturday. 

Friday, September 12, 2014

Back-to-School Drinking Game for Moms

I was at a volunteer meeting the other morning and my friend who just dropped her son off at his first year of college told me a hilarious new term she learned.  I'm sure you have already heard of the helicopter parent.  Yes, our generation is guilty of that.  Even though we were raised by parents who vaguely remembered which grade we were in or where the school was located, we somehow have become masters of our children's universes, volunteering, organizing and filling out forms until our fingers bleed.

The guidance counselor at the freshman orientation told the parents, "This is where the helicopter lands, people."  She then went on to explain how critical it was for parents to let go.  Lest you become a SNOW PLOW parent.  You know who you are.  Plowing the way ahead for your child.  Making sure the path is clear, tidy and free of nasty rocks that could trip them.  I am definitely in danger of transforming my helicopter into a snow plow.  Thankfully, I get by with a little help from my friends.  They keep me in check, they tell me to let go, they remind me that real men use shovels.

So, in honor of all of us hard-working helicopters and snow plows, I came up with a way to unwind this weekend.    It's Friday, let the games begin!

Back-to-School Drinking Game for Moms

Grab a friend and a bottle.

Drink if…

•  You went to more than one Staples to find the right sized notebooks.  Drink again if you went to more than two.  

•  Drink if you received a text from your child during the school day this week.  Drink again if this required immediate action on your part. 

•  You filled out a registration form by hand.  Drink again if your child is in middle or high school.

•  You signed up for yard duty.  Drink again if you’re friends with the coordinator of yard duty.

•  You’ve already input all dates for all upcoming fall events into your family calendar.  Drink again if you are in charge of any of these events.

•  You are on a first name basis with the principal.  Drink again if you have his/her cell number programmed in your phone.  Drink a third time if you have ever hugged this person.  
•  You have your child in more than one sport.  Drink again if you have your child in more than one sport and one other extra-curricular activity.  Drink a third time if you have more than three.  Beyond that, empty the bottle.

•  You have more than one volunteer position.  Drink again if you are on the board of your child’s school or sport team.  Drink a third time if you are on both.  If you are on the board of more than one school, and at least one sport team, see above.

•  Last, but not least, drink if you have to set your alarm tomorrow for a sports game.  Drink again if you have to set it for SAT Prep courses.  Drink a third time if you have to set it for both.  If you have more than one child doing more than one of these, see above.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Mama's Boy

When we first arrived at the courts near 85th and 5th in Central Park, a huge, muscular middle-aged black man wearing athletic shorts and no shirt was chasing and yelling at a scared looking, smaller 20-year old.  A whole crowd of black guys in basketball gear gathered around what looked like was going to be a fight.

"You think you a man?  I'm a man!  He not a man!  Punch me if you think you a man."

Lots of arguing and hollering, but no punching, thankfully, by any man, ensued.  

Turns out the 20-year old had punched the big black guy's son (17 years old) in the face in self defense.  The 17 year-old had put his hands around the 20-year-old's neck in some sort of fight earlier that evening.  The kid called his dad, who showed up, pissed that a "man" punched a minor, no matter the reason. 

Well, there I was, one of the only three white people at the courts (me, First Born Prince, and Charming Baby) in my J. Crew summer clothes and $3 bottle of chilled water.  CB was next to me, driving his brand new remote control car from FAO Shwarz.  

I typed "9-1-1" into my phone, my thumb hovering over the green call button, just in case, and went over to the benches where cooler-headed players were watching the game that was still going on.  I asked what was happening which is how I got all the details.

FBP was horrified I was talking to them after I promised to just drop him off and then leave, so he went to the other side of the court and pretended he didn't know me.  He kept texting, "Please leave." 

I wanted to make sure everyone knew he was only 14 and confirm they weren’t hoods.  None of them could believe First Born Prince was only 14.  They wanted to know what I fed him, how big his father was, and if we were Catholic (that question had to do with the top NYC high school teams being St. Patrick’s and Bishop Loughlin).  I chatted them up, suggesting they try FBP out, saying he wouldn't ask to play himself because he was shy, being only 14 and all.  They ignored me on that.

I watched several games and started to relax when I saw the players didn’t argue unnecessarily and were making fair calls.   It felt safe, safe enough to leave my baby.  
I waited for him back at my in-law’s apartment, keeping an eye on my phone, waiting for the text saying he was on his way home.  Finally, at dark, liked we agreed, I received, “On my way.”  I exhaled a long, slow breath.

Expecting a jubilant son, I was surprised when his eyes flashed anger as he walked in the door.

“Mom, why did you hang out there for so long, talking to everyone?  You ruined it for me!”

“I am sorry, but with that crazy fight going on, I had to make sure it was okay.”

“A whole hour, and why did you have to talk to them?”

“Oh, big deal, they were nice.  They wanted to know what you ate.  They wanted to know all about you.  They were actually great conversationalists.  I was making sure they were sane.  Give me a break.  Did you get to play?”

“They called me ‘Mama’s Boy’!”

“I am sure they were just joking around.  You know, like you do with your friends.”

Dropping his shoulders, a grin appeared on his face.  He sat down at the table, helping himself to a huge slice of pizza.

At first no one would give him the ball but when one guy had no other choice except pass it to him, the only open man, FBP immediately sunk a clean shot.  The team got excited, “Mama’s Boy can shoot!”  He got a little bit of action, mostly just supporting his new found team.

He went back, alone, the next night, making me promise I wouldn’t go watch.  He stood court side patiently waiting for about 45 minutes until the self-appointed team captain finally made eye contact with him. 

FBP asked, “Do you have 5?”

“Yeah, we got 5.”

FPB looked down, wondering how much longer he would have to wait.

The captain laughed, “You the 5th, Mama’s Boy!”

He went back again several times.  On Saturday, he was there from 2:00 until 7:30.  A woman who knew one of the players brought a cooler full of sandwiches to the court.  They offered one to FBP.  

CB and I rode bikes by the courts later that same day and peeked through the bushes, making sure he couldn’t see us.  He was the only white guy, playing a quiet game, not getting in anyone's face, but he hustled and got himself open and took plenty of shots.  His team high-fived him when he made baskets. 

I took a few photos with my iPhone and then pedaled off, pretending we didn’t know the smiling white boy on the court.  

When we were getting ready to leave New York City, I asked him if he told the guys he had been playing with all week that he was leaving.

"Yeah, I told them."

"Well, what did they say?"

"They said, 'We expect you to be dunkin' next summer, Mama's Boy.'"

Wednesday, May 14, 2014


Everyone used to think it was an earthquake to fear if you lived in California.   Now we know it’s a wildfire.  The first time I lived through one, I was nine years old living in a suburb of San Diego.  The fire raged in the state park adjacent to our subdivision.  I recall police cars and rescue vehicles driving through the neighborhood with bullhorns telling us we needed to evacuate.

“Bullshit!” was all I remember hearing from my dad.

He was up on our wood-shingled roof with the garden hose, wetting everything down.  He had the sprinklers in the yard on at full blast and did not seem the least bit concerned that we might lose our home, or our lives.  I remember crying and telling him I wanted to evacuate like all the normal people.  He told me if I was so worried about it to go jump in the pool.  He was not packing a damn thing and if I needed to do something about it, how about making myself useful with a hose.

The second set of fires I recall raged when I gave birth to my second son.  The most devastating wildfires in California history sparked that day and by the time I was cradling my newborn, the entire hospital was filled with smoke.  Nurses were wearing masks and we were told that half the staff couldn’t make it in due to evacuations and road closures.  I wanted to remain in denial with my new sweet baby but left a day early so that women who needed legitimate medical care could have my bed.  Let’s face it, all I was doing was lying around taking Vicodin.  We went home to 3 inches of ash on our doorstep and a sig alert, which required us to remain indoors for a week.  My four-year old and my husband were bouncing around the house while I tried to bond with my newborn. 

The third round was exactly four years later and although we were fortunate to not have to evacuate, we saw people we know suffer from the fires.  I recall spending most of my time on the phone reassuring the Professor’s relatives in New York who were going crazy over our safety that we were OK.

I have also dealt with smaller fires that affected my Grandma.  We spent hours one year trying to find her when she was taken to an evacuation center by “helpful” neighbors.  She slept on a high school gymnasium floor when she could have been tucked into bed in my guest room 15 miles away.

Tonight I see friends on Facebook offering their homes to friends who have to evacuate.  I think about how you can remove the terror from most situations if you stay calm and rely on a little help from your friends, swift neighbors or non-conformist fathers.