Birthday Order

I see that I blogged about Firstborn’s Prince’s birthday party four days after we threw it. It has now been two-and-a-half weeks since we had Charming Baby’s big day.



As mothers, I think we sometimes get caught feverishly trying to do for one child what we did for the other or end up proclaiming things like, “Well, life isn’t exactly fair.” I have a friend who sent out gorgeous birth announcements for her first son, and then mocked up a fake one for her second, put it in his baby book, pretending she sent them out, and swore me to secrecy.

Experts say birth order affects our personality and so far, my first hand experience says that must be true. Charlie, my firstborn, always knows exactly what he wants and works me over until he gets it, usually in a very systematic and loving fashion. Sometimes it takes me weeks to figure out that I was hoodwinked.



It was tricky working with Sam to help him decide what he wanted for his party. Martha Stewart does not do Sponge Bob Square Pants, I refuse to have three themes going at once, and Sam kept changing his mind.

He also wasn’t sure about who to invite. I learned a long time ago to not force my kids to invite the whole class. It seems very inclusive and proper the first few times you do it and then, eventually, you realize, it’s your kid’s birthday, they only have a handful that they are going to remember, so why not make it their version of special?



We were able to celebrate everything Sam loves about being in Ithaca—the great outdoors. We had a “camping party.” While I couldn’t salt the yard with frogs, or fill the Koi pond with trout, I had visions of canoe races, camp games and Primitive Pursuits instruction by local guides, but Sam (how did he get to be so wise?) wanted to keep it simple—“just a tent and campfire, Mom.”


We told spooky stories and roasted marshmallows. It was really fun, minus the part where I accidentally made a 5-year-old cry with the dead-man-body-parts-passed-around-in-paper-bags game.


Thinking back, it occurs to me that Sam, my little confused baby, masterminded a plan to get chocolate, marshmallows AND birthday cake, all in one afternoon.

What next?

iTry, iLike, iScared

Last week's cover of The New Yorker haunts me.

I am trying out an iTouch before I upgrade to an iPhone. I got one free with the purchase of my MacBook Pro (brilliant marketing scheme to get university students hooked on apple). I have been holding off because the ATT cell coverage is only 2/3 as good as Verizon (I know because my husband has ATT and I have Verizon and I am always the one who can get a signal when he can't). I realized that even with only WiFi access to the internet, I have become an addict!

Having a notebook computer was bad enough, enabling me to ignore everyone at airports and dull meetings. But now I can lose myself in my own little world in even more places. The social norms vary all over the place--in Europe it's perfectly acceptable to check your mobile device while at lunch. In fact, almost everyone has one right next to their water glass. Here, we are still trying to figure out what's acceptable and what's rude.

I am setting some boundaries for myself. I want to be totally present in my day to day interactions. And please shoot me if I ever scroll down a screen while taking my kids trick-or-treating!!

Slave to Love

My younger son’s internal clock has NOT reset since the daylight savings time change. So, every morning at 5:30 I feel a warm little hand on mine and hear a soft whisper.

Sam: Mom?

Me (one eye open): Yes?

Sam: Will you play with me?

At first I tried to get him to go back to sleep with me. That doesn’t work. He lays there having a conversation with a pretend friend, chuckling to himself. It’s like being in bed with a drunk with a low I.Q.

Then, I started hauling myself out of bed so he wouldn’t wake up my older son who needs sleep or my husband who likes sleep.

After a week, we now have a routine. Sam waits patiently for me in the kitchen while I brew my coffee. I have trained him on the rules of engagement. No chitty chat until I’ve had my first sip. He sees me bring me the cup to my lips.

Sam: Are you ready?

Me: Sure, what’s on the docket?

Sam: Let’s make books.

He lords over me while I do all the work, instructing me to make this larger or that smaller. He seems as happy as a middle manager in a factory who’s ahead of schedule. I kind of like this game.

Sam: Can we play something else now?

Me: Sure. Cards?

Sam: No, can I tie you up? I want to practice my knots.

I make a mental note to delete “Man. Vs. Wild” shows.

Me: Okay, but let me refill my coffee first, and you must leave one hand and my mouth free.

Even though I am not a huge fan of some of the activities he comes up with, I really look forward to this pocket of time we have discovered. He will be sleeping in and moving on soon enough. Now if I can just get him to play the cooking prep game...

Character High

Running inspires my writing. Beyond the high I get from the adrenaline rush, I love to people watch and get material for characters.

Sundays are especially good for this on a college campus. As I finished panting my way up the south hill this morning, I tried to time what I thought was an oncoming heart attack in front of a pre-med student. Hint: They are not the ones wandering around in front of a fraternity house looking for their shoe.

I continued my search, hoping for someone with a huge backpack, glasses, preferably on their way to the library. I spotted a smartly dressed girl walking into the Johnson Business School building and thought she looked a lot like the investment bankers I know. Likewise, the guy cradling a notebook the size of the Manhattan White Pages reminded me of a man I would trust to defend me in a court of law. Isn’t it funny that the girl in the fashionable dress, obviously on her way to brunch with a preppy-looking boyfriend, is familiar, too, just like my friends who can be found at the tennis club on a sunny afternoon nursing their margaritas?

Turns out I was able to catch my breath, scoop up a few ideas, and head home, ready to rough up the heroine in the short story that is due tomorrow...

Something's Fishy

Last night I got to experience Lynah Rink, filled with several thousand passionate hockey fans who help create an atmosphere that is unparalleled in the sport of college hockey. The Cornell fans--the "Lynah Faithful"--are clever and fun and make themselves as much a part of the game as the players do.



Hockey is delicious to watch—speed, coordination and lots of tough guy figure skating. And the Ivy-League fans show their support with creative chants, yelling out everything in perfect unison, from a Harvard goalie’s girlfriend’s phone number, to the tease, “Ironic, we invented the Heimlich: YOU choked!” when Harvard surrendered to a three-goal lead. (Physician Henry Heimlich was a Cornell grad.)

The most notorious taunting is the fish hurling. For Big Red fans, The Cornell-Harvard rivalry dates to the 1909-10 season. The baiting tradition began in 1973, when a Harvard fan threw a dead chicken (some say it was alive!) at the visiting goalie, alluding to the Cornell College of Agriculture and Life Sciences. Big Red fans have been tossing fish on the ice ever since. It’s our farm boys’ way of poking fun at the fishing industry in the New England area and telling the Harvard players to go back to Boston Harbor. As an added treat, while the fish are being thrown, the Cornell band plays the theme from the movie “Love Story,” in which Cornell beats Harvard in hockey.

My husband claims the fish throwing is a lot tamer than it used to be. He remembers the good old days when they managed to toss an entire shark out there. This year there were numerous official warnings that fish and alcohol were strictly forbidden! I really hope, like so much of life, that we don’t lose the fun and silliness. I think I should have let my boys sneak fish into the game last night. I deferred to my husband who had a lot more to lose than the dinner I was planning to donate--he is an employee of the university and season ticket holder.

So, as we continue to try to raise our sons without pushing down their spirit, I’ll have to either wear a disguise (I think I have a Harvard sweatshirt around here somewhere) or pretend I don’t know the Professor sitting next to me when my boys and I are thrown out next year.

Go Big Red!

Enchanted Times

My friend from home just left. We dined, wined, hiked, walked, and talked for three days straight. She and I both had a great visit. Something else happened, too. My friend was infected by the Ithaca bug.

She was bitten right before my very eyes. I noticed it when she heard the Cornell Chimes* in the Clock Tower in the center of campus. She stopped walking, cocked her head sideways and stood completely still, enjoying the marking of the hours.

And then I knew for sure she was a goner, when later, on our trip to Taughannock Falls State Park, she was giggling like a kid and swore she felt the mist from the waterfall on her face.

I am pretty sure of my diagnosis. Either that, or it was the 30-degree drop in temperature from California to Ithaca that turned her cheeks rosy red and caused her eyes to glisten, making her look so inspired.

* Cornell Chimes: Visitors are welcome and encouraged to attend the chimes concerts to fully appreciate these icons. Something essential would be missing from the campus without that cheery tintinnabulation that serenades Cornellians and visitors daily. In the words of Albert W. Smith 1878:

I wake at night and think I hear
Remembered chimes,
And mem'ry brings in visions clear
Enchanted times
Beneath green elms with branches bowed
In springtime suns,
Or touching elbows in a crowd
Of eager ones;
Again I'm hurrying past the towers
Or with the teams,
Or spending precious idling hours
In golden dreams

Down for the Count

Ladies and Gentlemen, in the first corner, we have the reigning Heartbreak Champion of the World:

Firstborn Prince

The contender for the title, this evening:

Charming Baby

Halloween was sweet as ever this year. There were the elementary school parade and parties. Then, we traveled to the Berkshires for my father-in-law's birthday. We all had fun Trick-or-Treating in the historic town of West Stockbridge, Mass. before dinner.



Except my older son is on the brink of feeling too old to Trick-or-Treat and my younger one isn’t exactly toddling around anymore, so I was feeling very nostalgic and maybe a little PMS.


It’s a good thing we had a special celebration for my father-in-law Halloween night or I might have gone home and cried a river, reminiscing over costumes past: Pea in the Pod...Fonzie ...Lion...Knight...Space Man...Batman and Robin...S.W.A.T. Team with one member A.W.O.L. ...Astronaut with uncooperative Martian ...Motocross Riders...Ninjas...Boxers with one reluctant challenger.



I suspect the only reason Sam agreed to be a boxer with his brother this year is so they could have the boxing gloves which they have been using daily since we bought them in early October. He protested the costume on the eve of the school parade and again as we were dressing to go out Trick-or-Treating. We went several rounds.

They don't call me Mama Ali for nothing.