Summer Cocktails for Moms

We moms have it hard in May and June.  The social calendar that we tend to throughout the year virtually explodes for the spring season, with graduation parties and birthday parties and class parties and final exams and proms and cookies to bake and brownies to bake and teachers to thank and yearbooks to distribute and camp trunks to pack and backpacks to unpack and trip forms to fill out and letters to send to camp and Father’s Day to plan and little league playoffs and final recitals and band concerts and about a million other obligations that keep our heads spinning.  Until now.  Because now, we have reached Nirvana.  We have reached the end of June.

         

Ah.  Say it with me.  The end of June.  Now exhale.

            

At the end of June, and well into July and August, Mommy needs – no, Mommy deserves - a cocktail.

            

Here are some of my personal summer faves.  Continue here.

The 10:52 Local

A day in free verse poetry

On the Starbucks lanai

dappled sunlight

watching the trains go by

iced grande green tea

sweetened

two dollars and thiry one

cents a day

after spin class

on a warm spring day

I stay hydrated and,

finished chatting,

head to DeCicco’s for

taco meat.

It’s Monday

So that is

dinner always

before piano practice and after

tennis, perhaps a stop at

the candy store

Where I steal a mini

peanut butter cup from Andrew’s

thoughtfully curated bag.

“Hey!” he shouts, but I unwrap

it and, pop, into my mouth it goes.

There are no calories from candy

meant for your kids;

everybody

knows that.

Zoe’s collection is mostly

chewy and bad

for my temporary crown.

I dig through and hand it back.

I could have bought

a Celine bag

with the money spent

on endodontics

but I needed

the new tooth

and the pocketbook

is always only a fantasy

like the beach house

and the movie deal

so I wave

to my reflection

in the storefront window

whenever I drive by.

There are always

nice things, as

my mother would say.

Finished shopping

for camp clothes

all labeled

Andrew’s first time away.

Upon safe return,

will he still let me kiss

him in public?

Do you have time for a mani-pedi?

a friend asks.

I have a book to sell and another

to write

(there’s always something

to write, a text, an email

a pin, a tweet)

but sure, mademoiselle.

Zoe and I will bond in July,

hang out at the town pool

apply sunscreen

and be lazy together.

There’s so much

I don’t know.

An uncertain world,

I manage it

through certain, predictable routines,

and try not to worry

like Brett does

as another train passes.

Digging through the junk,

we find small bits of beauty,

and in that way

life is like the sidewalk sale.

I drink it in.

And that’s my tale.

Looking forward to

summertime in the ‘dale.

Glee

Congratulations to me: I am now an aunt.  On March 18^th of this year, my brother and sister-in-law had their first child, who they immediately started to mess with by naming Boden Kodiak Medow.

            

In my head, I call him Bodie Kodie.

            

Boden is the new love of my life.  Certain that I will never ever ever want to get pregnant or have babies myself ever ever again, I am delighted that others in my family want to do this for me.  My plan is that they will do all the heavy lifting so that I can do much of the holding.

            

My plan has gone according to plan, because holding Boden is exactly what I did for the better part of a week at the end of April.  I got on a plane to San Francisco and left Brett in charge of our 6 and 10 year olds so that I could change diapers and stay up half the night with my newborn nephew.

            

Except that my sister-in-law, Ursula, had slightly different plans for Boden and me.  She is trying to train Boden to sleep without being held, and to learn to self-soothe in the crib.  I believe in self-soothing, really I do.  The ability to dig deep and find inner peace is a great skill to have when you are fired from a job or when you get a bikini wax.  But it is not something I think a 5-week-old baby needs to master. Don’t get me wrong; I know how desperate new moms are for some peace and quiet, having been one myself.  But since then, I’ve trained two kids to sleep and pee and poop at the right times and in the right places and so I know it all works out fine in about five years. 

            

Which is why I held Boden a lot.  Perhaps even a bit more than his mommy wanted me to.  I held him when Ursula took a shower, and when she did some laundry, and while she mixed his bottles.  I held him through an entire “I Love Lucy” marathon on The Hallmark channel, which reminded me how much Brett and I are like Lucy and Ricky and how much I like holding sleeping babies.  Boden and I also watched a bunch of “Friends” episodes as well as some great “Barefoot Contessa” shows, in which Ina Garten throws small dinner parties for her friends in the Hamptons.

            

What a perfect vacation.  Watching as much television as you want and not feeling guilty about it - while you snuggle with a cooing relative that doesn’t resent you yet for anything - is a lovely escape from the real world.

            

The other great thing about babies is that they love to be sung to, and I love to sing.  It’s the ideal relationship, a natural yin and yang.  Many times, after Boden had his bottle and was burped, I would get down to the serious business of rocking him to sleep with a song or twelve.  At first, I was shy, softly murmuring “Hush Little Baby” and “Leaving On A Jet Plane,” two of my own children’s favorites, while holding him in his bedroom.  But by day three, I got bolder, breaking out the show tunes and moving into the public space of the living room. 

            

You need to know this about me: before I was a teacher and a mom and a writer, I was a musical theater actress.  My love of acting out dramatic renditions of musical numbers began the moment I saw the movie “Grease” at the age of 8.  My mother bought me the record, and I listened to it over and over again until I was Sandy.  At least once a week, I would have a playdate with my friend Lisa who was forced to play Danny Zuko to my Sandy, no taking turns, no backsies.  My reasoning for this was that Lisa was dark haired like Danny and I was light like Sandy.  Plus, she was an alto and I a soprano.  Also, it was my house.

           

Eventually, I grew less bossy, but never less passionate about musical theater.  Due to a wonderful lack of judgment on my mother’s part, I saw “A Chorus Line” on Broadway when I was about nine and had memorized the entire original cast recording of “Hair” by the time I was 10.  She wouldn’t let me see the movie because of the brief nudity, but I was allowed to listen to all the dirty words and sing along with gusto.

            

At Edgemont High School, I enjoyed a career as a musical theater gleek, beginning with, poetically enough, the role of Jan in “Grease” in the 9^th grade. Travelling to and attending competitions with the chorus and the a capella choir are some of my fondest memories of high school.  And on Saturday nights, there was nothing my friends and I liked better than to break into four-part harmony while gathered around a keg in someone’s backyard.  (This sounds a lot uncooler than it was.)

            

Lucky for me, my nephew Boden apparently loves a good show tune, because I am in possession of a lot of them.  When he was particularly fussy, I sang over his cries with jazzy renditions of “It’s a Hard Knock Life,” and “Sit Down You’re Rocking the Boat.”  Both of these gave me ample opportunity for dramatic stomping and swaying.  I highly recommend them if you are ever in the company of an ill-tempered infant.

            

Oh, we had fun, Boden and I.  We worked our way from Gershwin to Rodgers and Hammerstein and Rodgers and Hart.  We hit Andrew Lloyd Webber hard, got political with Le Miserables (because what child doesn’t find “Castle on a Cloud” performed with a faux-British accent soothing, I ask you), and then moved on to “Rent” and “Wicked.”  Following my mother’s good example, I even sang him a few tunes from “The Book of Mormon.”

            

Thanks to particularly high ceilings and an open floor plan, the acoustics at my brother’s house are fantastic.  As my voice raised and my eyes drooped along with Boden’s, I imagined that we were in Carnegie Hall together, or perhaps in the EHS auditorium.  At the very least, we were in Tamir’s backyard with a case of beer and the entire winning team of late-1980’s Madrigals.

           

“Aunt Julie to the rescue!” Ursula said as I coaxed Boden through the witching hour of 6-7 pm.  What she was probably really thinking was, She’s a little off key.  What day is she going home, again?  And, Boden, calming down finally, was probably thinking, I can feel Jean Valjean’s pain like I feel the wetness in my diaper.

            

I cried when I left, I won’t lie. 

            

On the security line at the airport, I noticed a group of teenage girls….singing.  I detected a high school choir in my midst.  Sure enough, Vocal Color, one of the top 5 all-female, a capella groups in the nation, was on my flight, headed to New York City for a competition.  When we landed safely on the other side of the country, they broke into song.

            

And I sang along.  Because I was grateful to have been welcome in my brother’s and sister-in-law’s home during such a special time in their lives.  And because I hoped Boden’s brain would keep an imprint of me on it, as this crazy singing woman who loves him so much.  And because, whether I’m happy to be an aunt or excited to be returning home to my own children, I am always filled with glee.

How to Get a Book Deal: Tiger Mom, Diet Mom, and Me

Amy Chua, also known as The Tiger Mother, received a high six-figure advance for her 2011 memoir.  In this book, she recounts in great detail the ways in which she uses traditional Chinese parenting methods to drive her daughters towards perfection in the arts.  This is old news, of course.  But now there’s Dara-Lynn Weiss, aka the Diet Mom.  In the April issue of Vogue magazine, Dara writes honestly and openly about the strict parenting methods she employed to help her overweight seven-year-old daughter slim down.  Within a few weeks, she, too, had a book deal.

            

What do these women have in common?  The publishing world would say that Chua and Weiss are both exemplars of the new “damned if you do/damned if you don’t” parenting genre.  If you push your kid too hard, you get called out.  If you act too lax, you are scrutinized for not demanding more.  Either way, if you are willing to throw your daughters under the bus, there’s always something to write about.

            

It’s not so much about the children in these scenarios as it is about the mother.  The secret to securing a book deal these days is to expose one’s inner bitch to the world. Go to The Huffington Post to continue reading...

Battle Hymn of the Mouse Mother

A lot of people wonder how it is that Jewish parents raise such stereotypically successful kids. They wonder what these parents do to produce so many doctors and lawyers, so many rabbis and Hollywood producers, one Itzhak Perlman and the occasional Madoff. They want to know what it’s like inside the suburban minivan of a Mouse mother’s world, to see whether they, too, could drive a perfectly normal child into years of psychotherapy.

Well, I am here to say that they can, because I am doing it.

People see me out with my daughter in public and comment at how well behaved I am, even as she is brow-beating me and publicly humiliating me. So many people wonder why, when my children call me stupid, I am able to remain calm and not smack them upside the head. They say, Mouse mother, how can I emit calm like you, even while raising independently-spirited, self-directed, emotionally strong children? How is it that your children are bright even though you got a D in 8th grade Latin and attended a college known more for its fraternity system than for academic rigor? Mouse mother, please, they beg, tell us your secrets. And so, after generations of protected silence, I am here to squeal the truth.

With a little practice, you, too, can be a Mouse mother like me.

Not sure why you’d want to, but that’s for another memoir with a high six-figure advance entirely.

Anyway! Back to my battle hymn, which is really much more of a whine.

Anyone can be a Mouse mother; you need not be Jewish to lack Tiger skills. So, please understand that for legal purposes, I’m using the term “Jewish mother” loosely. So loosely, in fact, that when I say “Jewish Mother,” I mean absolutely anyone except for Amy Chua.

Here are the things that I, as a liberal Jewish mother have allowed my children to do and/or done for them:

• Skip 2 months of Hebrew school in order to perform in a local performance of The Nutcracker
• Bribe them to play piano, practice the violin, make their beds, brush their teeth, and to be nice to me and others – oh, what
the heck, let’s just say “bribe them constantly” and leave it at that
• Talk them out of playing any and all contact sports for fear of them breaking their noses
• Talk them out of playing any sports that involve running because of the funny way they run
• Allow them to watch no less than 2 hours of television a day and to not let them stop until they had both committed to
memory a complete episode of iCarly
• Suck their thumb until the age of 7 and/or carry around a dirty, beloved shmatte like Linus from The Peanuts
• Write notes to a teacher excusing their inability to do homework because American Idol was on
• Choose all their own extracurricular activities, including fencing, Lego robotics, and a class in which my 5-year-old daughter was taught how to sing karaoke like a drunken idiot at a bar.

Now I know some of these seem unconventional, but if your goal is to have a human child like mine, as opposed to an automaton, for example, then you’d do well by following my example of mediocrity and a little dose of who-gives-a-hoot.
To prove that this type of parenting can achieve the desired results, I would now like to share a few success stories.

A Tiger mother might spend two complete chapters of her memoir explaining how to get one’s children to perform at Carnegie Hall, or at the very least, how to obtain an audition to the Pre-College program at Julliard. But a Jewish mother can boil the answer to that down for you in a few simple words: by kicking and screaming. As a Mouse mother, I prefer to regale you with impressive stories of just the opposite, and so I shall call this instructional section of my writing “How To Ensure That Your Child Never Achieves Much of Anything in The Arts.”

I recently took my daughter, Zoe, for a trial class at a ballet studio where some of her friends were enrolled. After the class, we discussed what she thought about it and tried to decide together whether or not she would be signing up. Being a Mouse mother, I didn’t really care either way. The signature move of the Mouse mother is the shrug, which I did repeatedly as we spoke. I wrote down our conversation verbatim because I thought it was so emblematic of our mother-child dynamic.

Me: So, what did you think of this ballet class?
Zoe: I didn’t see any machines there.
Me: Huh?
Zoe: You remember that place where Andrew took a class once? They had candy and drink machines.
Me: Oh.
Zoe: And ice cream. We used to eat ice cream before his class.
Me: You mean, that hip-hop class on Central Avenue?
Zoe: Yes! And they had stuffed animals to buy and also dance clothes. And a TV to watch.
Me: Uh-huh.
Zoe: That’s the kind of dance class I want to take.

It’s clear to any Jewish mother out there that this girl understands her culture. Zoe knows that professional ballet is just not in her future, so why even try? How smart of her to know that, come puberty, her Polish genes will betray her, ensuring a body so low to the ground that it’s better constructed for potato farming than arabesquing. The closest she will ever come to doing a split is with her Barbie doll’s legs. And that’s so totally cool with her, as long as she can buy stuff and enjoy snacks.

It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

My firstborn, Andrew, proved to be another story entirely. He actually seemed to have some drive beyond the candy-and-shopping aspects of the theater. In fact, he tried out for and was given the coveted role of Fritz in last winter’s production of The Nutcracker at SUNY Purchase. Now, a Tiger mother would have spent weeks, days, and hours preparing her child for such an audition and would then feign modesty and humility but secretly take credit for the child’s success when he did well. But not me. I merely got Andrew a nice haircut and told him to smile a lot in front of the choreographers. Like the Mouse mother I am, I believe a nice Jewish boy with dimples can get ahead in this world merely by knowing his left from his right and by following his own interests.

Seeing that her child has a passion and talent for something of worth, a Tiger mother would certainly push and squeeze and prod and threaten to the point that a) the child got really freaking amazing at the skill and b) the child really hated both the activity and the Tiger mother. Where a Tiger mother values perfection, a Mouse mother values diversification above all else. Why stick to just one thing and become the best at it when you can try so many fun activities and be mediocre at all of them? Which is why, once Nutcracker season had passed, I did not take Andrew to The New York City Ballet. Instead, I took him straight to rec basketball.

Call me naïve, but so far, this renegade technique really seems to be working. And by “working,” I mean its produced children who, at the ages of 8 and 5, are pretty happy doing their job…of being kids.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Dear Scarsdale,

Welcome back! I hope you enjoyed the Hamptons/Europe/the New England coast/horseback riding in the Grand Tetons (circle one). Here’s what I did while you were away.

June:
After nine summers camped out at the Scarsdale Municipal Pool, I have become an expert at understanding its culture. This year, I entered the complex and immediately began a strategic assessment so as to determine the perfect place to sit. The pool is a bit like a middle school cafeteria that way; everyone knows that once you’ve picked a spot, it’s hard to switch out and become a member of another locale. So the first day at the pool is critical. Sun or shade? Hill or valley? Near the new moms or the new grandmas? Find some other Fox Meadowans, or branch off? As Brett and I perused the grounds with our children, chairs strapped to our backs, it all became clear: this was make-it-or-break-it time.

After some deliberation, we settled on the Greenacres Knoll, a grassy rise equidistant between the baby pool and the main pool, favored by a few families from one part of the village. With growing excitement, we realized that neither or our children, ages 8 and 5, would be spending much time – if any – in the two smaller pools this summer. When my children were little, I waded through the baby pool for weeks on end, only wet to the ankles. Then I spent a summer or two submerged mid-thigh, and then the following two fully soaked. Last summer, we turned a corner, and I didn’t even have to get wet! And, now that Zoe, my younger one, is a confident, able swimmer interested in doing handstands in the main pool when not diving off the high dive, we could literally turn our backs on the baby and medium pools.

Truth is, a kid could defecate in one of those small pools and throw up in the one, closing both indefinitely, and it would not affect our nuclear family’s happiness in the least!

We had progressed.

July:
The phone rang one afternoon as I was home working on my novel, jarring me out of my creative spell. I saw the ubiquitous “Scarsdale Public Schools” number pop up on caller ID, and immediately assumed Zoe had been hurt at rec camp.

Turns out, she had actually hurt someone else. “Hi, Mrs. Gerstenblatt, this is Jill, over at Camp Sagamore. We had a little incident at the pool today, in which Zoe hit her friend, Daisy.” Oops, I thought, cringing. I had never received a call like this, one in which you instantly feel like the worst mom ever. As a former teacher, I had certainly made those calls, and now I hoped that Jill over at Camp Sagamore would not think less of me and that Daisy’s mom would forgive us both. “I’m going to call Daisy’s mom next,” Jill explained. “Please tell her that I am soooo sorry, will you?” I begged.

When I asked Zoe what happened, she explained it like this: “Well, Daisy was talking to me in the pool and I wanted to swim. And she just wouldn’t let me! So I punched her.” She took a deep breath. “And then, she punched me back. In the wiener.”

Which is worse, I wondered, sending Zoe off to kindergarten with a strong left hook and her own sense of justice or with an incorrect understanding of her own genitalia?

During the same week, my son Andrew came home from his swanky private day camp – complete with door-to-door bus service each day -- with an announcement. “I think I want to go to sleep away next summer,” he said, between bites of his cookies and milk. I might have gasped. I looked at him across the kitchen island, fighting back tears. “But – but – you said you’d always live at home, even when you went to college! Even when you got married! You never wanted to leave me!” Andrew shrugged. “Yeah, well, I changed my mind. Plus, day camp is getting a little old.”

Well, excuse me. Maybe next summer, we should trade places. I’ll go to swanky day camp with water slides and zip-lines and he can go to the Scarsdale pool and try to find the perfect, quiet spot in the shade in which to read, preferably upwind of the sewage drain and downwind of the distracting chatter of the circle of friends on the knoll.

August:
There is nothing I love better than trying on last season’s cashmere over my workout clothes in 95-degree heat while fighting off others who want the same item because it’s now 75% off.

That’s right: the first weekend in August brings the Scarsdale sidewalk sale! Of course, the sidewalk sale is a bit like the Jewish holidays; they come early or late but never on time. This year, the first weekend in August was actually the last weekend in July, but whatever. I’m not going to try and explain the complexity of this. I’m only going to say that I put it on my calendar and I came, I saw, and I conquered.

The sale, like the pool, has its own, unique culture. You basically find yourself half-naked in the back of a store like Pamela Robbins, giving strangers advice about what to buy. “Oh, my God, that looks awesome on you,” I said to a woman that I see regularly at spin class who basically ignores me, and I her. But today, bolstered by fashion at deep discounts, we could not only speak to one another, we could become each other’s temporary BFFs. “You think?” She asked, turning this way and that in the mirror. “Yes, I think!” I enthused, thinking, Duh, Dolce and Gabana, what a no-brainer. “Here, try this, it’s too small for me but it will probably fit you perfectly.” I added.

Too small for me? Had I just admitted that she was thinner than I was? Who was I, and why had I become so nice? Anyway, after 9 minutes of love-fest, we parted ways. I knew we’d see each other at spin class, but I waved goodbye like she was going to sleep away camp. “Talk to you next year!” I joked, sort of.

August is also when I head to Staples to buy school supplies. The third grade list wasn’t so bad; it was the kindergarten one that got me.

“Twistable crayons, thin and thick markers, and colored pencils, all have to be branded Crayola?” I said aloud in the middle of the store, to no one. “15 thick glue sticks?” The list also included two large boxes of tissues and pump soap and a Purell, plus two containers of wipes per child. At 48 wipes per container, that’s 96 wipes. Let’s say the class has 22 children in it. That’s 2,112 wipes per classroom. I pictured the kindergarteners, very clean and germ-free, stuck to their seats with all that glue, like something out of The Little Rascals.

But, then I thought, given Zoe’s track record, glue might not be such a bad idea.

Is Andrew on the verge of going to sleep away camp? Will Zoe make it through kindergarten without being sent to the principal? Will I ever finish writing my novel? The school year of 2010-2011 has all the answers. Stay tuned.

Your Pal,

Julie

Mirror, Mirror

My daughter, Zoe, is on her cell phone again in the back seat of our car.

I try to tell her that we have almost arrived at gymnastics, but she shushes me with a combination death stare and pointer finger in mid-air. One minute, Mom, that finger tells me. Can’t you see I’m busy, the look signifies.

She’s blabbing away to Tanner Oberstein, her boyfriend.

“Yes, Tanner,” she coos. “I miss you too, Tanner.”

I roll my eyes into the rear-view mirror, hoping she’ll take the hint and get off the phone.

As we pull into the parking lot, she makes her goodbyes. “See you soon, Tanner Oberstein.” There is a pause as she listens. “What’s that? You want to marry me?” Her eyes light up and she giggles before snapping her blue plastic Cinderella phone shut. Zoe gazes out the window, past the grey sky and asphalt, into the rainbow-hued Disneyland of her imagination, and sighs contentedly.

I don’t like to stereotype, but my 4-year-old daughter is such a girl.

Some of it is totally my fault. Like the fact that she enjoys getting her nails done. I confess: I introduced her to this activity, mostly out of desperation. How could I get a much-needed pedicure on a Saturday afternoon, with child in tow? Why, have her pick a color and get her nails done too!

I swear, I only planned on taking her the one time. That was it. It wasn’t supposed to become a “thing.”

But the women in the salon loved her and told her she was so cute. They complimented her clothing choice and they painted pretty flowers on her thumbs.

No one ever offers to paint flowers on my thumbs.

And I thought her self-selected outfit was kind of tacky, thank you very much. What other girl wears a pink and purple costume tutu over Capri-length blue leggings? With a sparkly tank top? I mean, besides from Madonna, circa 1984? It’s embarrassing. Adorable, they said. Your daughter is too sweet.

Zoe left the salon feeling like a million bucks. I walked around the room shelling out about a million bucks in tips to all the nice ladies who made Zoe feel like the princess that she’s pretty sure she is.

I used to worry about what people would think of me if I let Zoe march around in whatever zany combination of clothing she wanted to wear. Would they think I was negligent? Or worse, color-blind? Would they see us together and whisper, “What a shame. There goes a woman who cannot get her daughter to listen?”

But after a few tearful fights about wardrobe choices, I backed off. I won’t say which one of us ended up crying, just that Zoe always gave me tissues when I needed them, and patted me on the back, saying softly, “It’s okay Mom.” Then she went about her business of getting dressed as much like a sideshow attraction as was humanly possible as I re-applied my mascara and looked forward to preschool drop-off.

Sometimes I’ll just watch Zoe and wonder, where does this somewhat frightening – albeit cute -- behavior come from? How much of her girlitudes link directly to me, and how much is passed down through the ages?

Like the Taylor Swift Mylie Cyrus Phenomenon. I’m no geneticist, but I’m pretty sure there is a hot pink, sparkly genetic marker in Zoe’s DNA that causes unrestrained love for these female entertainers. I can’t explain her obsession (and that of many of my friends’ daughters as well) any other way. She was born with it.

While listening to Hannah Montana in the mornings, after she dresses, or before, or right in-the-middle, Zoe puts on her make-up. This involves Q-tips and blush brushes and a great deal of privacy. No one is allowed into her room while she’s getting ready.

There’s even a sign on her door that says so.

When Zoe looks at me as a female role model, what does she see? I hope I inspire more of a foundation in her life than the correct application of foundation.

(The other day, Zoe was scribbling furiously in her notebook. She told me she was writing an article. Now that’s more like it!)
But don’t even get me started about her shoe fetish.

It began, as many stories do, with a pair of espadrilles. It ended, as many stories do, with the following pronouncement: “They hurt my feet, but I love them.”

Now, who hasn’t said that about a great pair of toe-pinching, heel-rubbing, Band-Aid-needing shoes? But, I ask you, how many people say it at the age of 4?


Should I laugh, or should I worry?

I’ve settled on a little bit of both.

When Zoe “flirts” on her pretend phone with her pretend boyfriend, I worry that, someday, she will get her real heart broken by a real boy. I see in her my own enthusiasm for love, which, combined with an active and romantic imagination, can really backfire. Growing up, it was easy for me to assign wonderful traits to boys who really were not so wonderful or deserving of my attention. I hope Zoe is wiser than me, and that she doesn’t fall so hard, so fast. Unlike her mother, I hope she spends more time studying mathematics and less time doodling hearts on her notebook paper.

And I worry that our little power struggles will only grow as she grows, until she’s 12 and she slams the door on me and I yell at her and she yells back at me and I’m on the verge of moving out because we’re living in one of those horrible teenaged TV dramas. I worry that someday she won’t talk to me about her life any more, that she will roll her eyes at me when I ask how her day at school was. Maybe she won’t want to get her nails done with me anymore, preferring her friends’ company to mine.

But there’s still plenty of time before all that happens. If it ever does, that is. (Turns out, I have some Disneylike fantasies of my own, complete with mom and daughter Happily-Ever-Afters.)

So I take her to get her nails done now because I can.

At the salon, I study Zoe’s reflection in the mirrors lining the wall opposite us. Her feet swing far from the ground, her hands barely reach across the table to the manicurist. Today she has decided on two colors, and she instructs the manicurist to paint every other nail blue or purple, accordingly. “Just file, not cut,” she adds with authority.

Then Zoe turns to me. “What are you looking at?”

“You.” I shrug. “And me.”

“Okay.” She smiles, letting me.

Snow Angels

If you really want to know the weather forecast, ask a school crossing guard.

Last week, I did just that. I had missed the report on the radio and I needed to know whether or not another snowstorm was indeed brewing. Moms around town had started complaining and rolling their eyes skyward, so it seemed like a snow day was imminent. But before I cancelled my plans for the next day’s spin class, confirmation was required.

I headed to the elementary school. There was someone I needed to see.

“Hello there!” Tom, our crossing guard, smiled. He held up his red stop sign so that Zoe and I could get safely over to the other side of the street and collect Andrew.

“So, Tom,” I asked, “whaddaya think? Big storm? Or blown out of proportion?”

“Oh, no! This one’s gonna be a doozy. Accumulations of up to 18 inches!” He reported enthusiastically.

My heart sank. “No hesitation?” I asked. “You’re sure?”

“Oh, I’m sure. You better get ready.” He dropped the sign and signaled the cars to pass. “Have a nice day, now!”

Have a nice day? Was he serious?

How could I have a nice day when I now needed to scratch everything planned for tomorrow and get over to the supermarket for…for whatever people always get before a big storm?

I quickly gathered my wits and my children and off to the market we went. The sky grew more and more ominous by the minute.

It was hard to find parking. The supermarket was crowded with other frantic moms looking to stock up on items as if hibernating for the whole winter, instead of just one day.

I was pretty sure I had milk, but I bought another gallon. Also, I remembered purchasing eggs recently, but better safe than sorry, I thought, adding a carton to the cart.

Where was all the bread? The entire section looked ravaged. I grabbed a pumpernickel because that’s all that was left. No one in my house even eats pumpernickel. But I imagined us spending days cut off from civilization, huddled together under one blanket by the glow of my last remaining Jo Malone candle, saved from starvation by this very loaf of bread. Into the cart it went.

Brownie mix was key. As was pancake batter. I stocked up on microwave popcorn, predicting a movie night in our near future. The deli counter line was long. I’m not sure why “snowstorm” is synonymous with “3/4 of a pound of turkey,” but apparently, it is.

Snowstorms remind me of Superbowl Sunday that way. Throw everything into the cart and head home for overstuffed sandwiches. There is no dieting on these sacred occasions. Anything that can be consumed is.

Now safe at home, Andrew began his Rituals for Invoking the Snow Day Gods. “Three ice cubes flushed down the toilet!” he instructed himself, running from the kitchen to the bathroom. That accomplished, it was time to do the Macarena four times, facing north, east, south and west, directly in front of the refrigerator. He then dashed upstairs to put a spoon under his pillow and a penny on his windowsill.

Second graders know almost as much as crossing guards do about these things. They just rely on different means to the same end.

As I put away the groceries, I couldn’t help but notice that I now had enough milk and eggs to make a soufflé for ten people.

The precipitation hadn’t even begun when the call came in from the district office announcing the cancellation of school for the next day.

“Goody!” My children shouted, moved enough to dance the Macarena once more.

“Movie night!” I called, trying to get into the spirit. “Get your pajamas on and meet me in the sunroom in ten.”

“Zoe, remember to put your pajamas on inside-out,” Andrew instructed as they headed upstairs.

“Okay.” She nodded.

“Why?” I called up after them.

“Dunno,” Zoe confessed.

“Because then we’ll have a snow day! That’s the last thing you have to do before going to bed.”

“But, Andrew, school has already been cancelled for tomorrow,” I reminded him. “You don’t have to conjure any more voodoo.”

“Still,” he shrugged, not taking any chances.

It’s hard to argue with that kind of logic.

We awoke the next morning to a world blanketed in white. It was beautiful and serene and my children seemed cherubic in their inside-out pajamas. They helped me make chocolate chip pancakes (two eggs down!) and then played some imaginary games that Andrew came up with.

Eventually we made brownies (using two more eggs) and played a World Championship game of Uno. Then Zoe watched a Disney princess movie while Andrew and I read some Harry Potter.

What are we going to do next? Andrew and Zoe wondered.

The snow was falling heavily, so going outside was not yet an option.

“Uhm…a game of Clue? Wii?” I suggested.

“No,” Zoe said.

“Nuh-uh,” Andrew concurred.

I looked at the clock.

It was only ten in the morning.

How was that even possible? Had the space-time continuum been warped by the snow?

What the heck were we going to do with the rest of this day?

“I want to play Quiddich!” Andrew called.

“I don’t like that game!” Zoe countered.

“Andrew, why don’t you practice piano while Zoe and I apply tattoos to her arms and color her hair with Moxie Girl dye?”

“I don’t want to practice piano right now,” he said. “I’ll do it later.” He flopped dramatically onto the couch and sulked.

“I don’t want tattoos!” Zoe whined. Then she too flopped dramatically onto the couch next to her brother.

They were on the verge of boredom. That, I could handle. It’s the slippery slope from antsy and bored to Let’s Kill Each Other In The Manner of Lord of the Flies that I fear.

I had hoped to sneak up to my office for some quiet in which to write, but for now, it looked like it was time to get cracking.

Eggs, that is.

“Everybody, to the kitchen!” I called, summoning my best impression of Meryl Streep’s impression of Julia Child.

“Why?” They asked.

“We have several soufflés to make!”

“Uch,” they groaned.

“Fine, cupcakes then,” I said in my regular voice.

“Ooo!” They agreed.

So that was a relative success, and I was now down to only 16 eggs. I boiled a bunch for snack later on in the day.

The hours between 11 am and 3 pm dragged on interminably. The romance of the snow day, created the night before, had worn thin.

And then, like magic, the snow stopped. Sun came out. The outside world beckoned.

“Kids!” I cried. “Get your boots and hats and ski pants and thermals and socks and gloves and scarves and sleds and let’s go play in the snow!”

45 minutes later, we were dressed.

“I want to make a snow angel!” Zoe cried.

“I’m going to throw snowballs at Mom,” Andrew declared.

“And I’m going to make a snowman that looks like Tom the crossing guard, decorate him with hard boiled eggs and cupcakes, and hope he has the mystical power to ensure that school reopens tomorrow!” I smiled, chasing them out the door and into the thick snow.

Now, who wants some hot chocolate?

iTube

“Zoe, you are so smart,” I told my four-year old daughter the other day as she spelled out the word pony.

She looked up at me and smiled. “I’m not just smart. I’m K-Mart smart!”

I swear! That’s what she said. Then she walked away from me, humming “Be true, be you, Moxie Girlz!” I was horrified, but the tune was kind of catchy.

Okay, so maybe my kids watch just a little bit too much television. But I no longer have a real babysitter, so sometimes I call on my friend Nick to stay with the kids in the sunroom. Nick is cool. He “gets” my kids and teaches them all about SpongeBob and iCarly. And he’s always available, whenever I need him. I just turn on the TV and hit channel 33, and there he is.

My lovely old friend, Nickelodeon.

It’s not the shows that really bother me. It’s all those darned commercials.

Commercials are what started me on my zhu zhu pet hunt a few weeks back. The kids saw a commercial for these motorized hamsters, and asked that I “add it to the list” of toys for Hannukah. “The list” started out in an orderly fashion, as a few items scribbled on my iPhone, but in recent weeks, it has escalated into a black hole of every toy, doll, truck, video, movie, and game ever made. Every item they seen on a television commercial or played with at a friend’s house gets added to the ubiquitous list. “The list” should now just be called “Toys R Us.”

Anyway, zhu zhu pets were a top-of-the-list item. So when I received an email from Toys R Us.com, declaring, “we have the hottest toy of the season – zhu zhu pets!” I started to panic. Those hamsters were the hottest toys of the season? Who would have guessed such a thing? I went immediately online to purchase some, my heartbeat embarrassingly quick, only to find that they were all sold out at Toys R Us, Target, and WalMart. Amazon had them available from third party sellers who were jacking up the prices. A motorized hamster for $10 is cute. At $35.99. it becomes roadkill.

But now I suddenly really, really, really wanted these zhu zhu pets. The chase was on. I told my mom about them so that she could use her high-powered shopping skills in the greater metro New York area, hopeful that together, we could succeed, like Batman with Robin by his side.

Sure enough, a day or two later, my mom called me. “Did you get the email from Learning Express? They’re getting their shipment of zhu zhu pets today!”

“Holy Bat-hamsters, Robin! I’ve got to get down there now!”

The only problem was that Zoe was home sick and I, too, was feeling under the weather. There was no way I could get these toys with Zoe in tow, since they were for her. I made the decision to leave her at home with Maria, our cleaning lady, turn on the television, and then dash down to the village. I was victorious, purchasing both Nums Nums and Pipsqueak, as well as a whole host of equipment for the hamsters to play on.

“It’s easier to get a swine flu shot than a zhu zhu pet,” I joked to Ken, the store’s manager.

Just then, a voice from behind a display to my right said, “We’ve got our sound bite!” Suddenly, a camera crew and a reporter made themselves known to me. “We’re doing a story about zhu zhu pets for Nightline,” the reporter explained.

“Funny! I’m doing a story about zhu zhu pets for the local newspaper!” I replied. Turns out my witty little bit of dialogue got me on television. This is ironic, since the very thing I am having issues with is how much time my family watches television.

At this point, I don’t think a few more minutes of television viewing could hurt. The damage is clearly already done.

Competitive Parenting for Beginners

If there were such a manual as “Competitive Parenting for Beginners,” my husband Brett and I would be the authors of chapter 6, “Arts and Crafts Projects that Leave Others in the Dust.” Forget chapter 4, “Scream-Coaching from the Sidelines” and chapter 10, “Throwing Your Money Around.” That’s just not our style. We are psychotic creative types. And, since our kids are only 7 and 4 years old, we’re just getting started.

Brett and I made the discovery that we are co-dependent in our artistic insanity when our son Andrew was Child of the Week in his preschool class. This is one of the earliest opportunities parents have in the lives of their children to show off their own artistic agility. We recognized the prospects for greatness right away, as the cogs in our delusional minds began churning in excitement.

The directions for Child of the Week are rather simple: create a 24 x 36 poster that celebrates the child. In normal households, those directions would lead one to glue on a bunch of cute family photos and call it a day. In our house it became an opportunity to engage in a series of roundtable discussions that would eventually lead to a culminating thematic exploration of Andrew’s first four years on earth. We would have to create a single point message, visual identity system and multi-point integrated marketing campaign. Andrew would be the first-ever branded Child of the Week.

At the very least, this was certainly an occasion that called for foam core, Exacto knives, Photoshop, and a whole lot of string.

What emerged was a kick-ass poster, if I must say so myself.

We still have it. I’m on the verge of inviting you over to see it.

In the center, Andrew is dressed like Spiderman and is crouched in the famous spidey-pose. This large, colored image is mounted onto foam core and is raised in two dimensional, bas relief. Andrew seems to be jumping out from the center. Radiating out from behind him is a gigantic web of black string. At the end of each corner of the web, groupings of photos are arranged by genre (“family,” “favorites,” “friends”). Each has its own think bubble a la comic books. It’s intense.

Kindergarten provided several other opportunities for artistic parental acrobatics. There was the Thanksgiving Turkey Vader, a cardboard turkey dressed with poultry-sized mask and cape (made out of a black garbage bag), brandishing a red lightsaber (made by covering a packet of chopsticks with the red plastic pull-chord from the same garbage bag). This was followed by the 100th day of school project. Late into the evening, we strung together 100 paper balloons, each one celebrating something that Andrew had learned.

“Is this…normal?” I asked Brett as I sat counting and then re-counting the 99 luft balloons.

“Who wants to be normal?” He asked, half-joking, half twitching.

Kindergarten culminated with a book jacket jacket. This is a costume made out of a paper bag that celebrates the child’s favorite book. It fits over the child like a vest, so that he or she can parade around the school in it and be laughed at by the 5th graders.

Andrew’s favorite book at the time was the Caldecott winner, Make Way for Ducklings. Hence, his book jacket jacket was covered in felt ducks, gold medals, and feathers. Lots and lots of feathers.

Alas, Andrew was absent from school that day, saving him from the humiliation of looking like the littlest member of The Village People.

We still have that creation, too. I might wear it next Halloween, just to see who reads the newspaper.

Last year, Andrew and Brett entered Scarsdale’s window painting contest, which in first grade is actually not a contest.

“Everything is a contest,” Brett replied, having set up his art supplies 6 hours before anyone else on Garth Road in order to “prime” his “canvas.” Andrew was still home sleeping.

“It’s the bagel shop window, Rembrandt.” I rolled my eyes. Some people get so carried away.

For this year’s window painting contest, Brett made a colored mock-up of the actual design days before. I can’t tell you what it was, though, since we had to miss the event. Andrew will be unveiling the design next year, so until then, it remains top-secret.

“You know that in third grade, the kids have to paint on their own, without parental intervention.” I warned Brett.

He took the news pretty well. “That’s okay. Pretty soon I can help Zoe with her windows!”

Ah, yes, Zoe. A few weeks ago it was her turn for Child of the Week at preschool. Brett and I make several trips to Michael’s craft supply store in anticipation of the week ahead. But as we began to discuss the conceptual framework for Zoe’s poster, a question lingered: can we out-do ourselves? Has greatness at this level of poster mania ever been achieved twice?

The legacy of one-hit wonders haunted us.

Luckily, what emerged was akin to Michael Jackson’s second solo album, Thriller. It was even better than Off the Wall.

After three hours huddled around the kitchen island, we stood back to admire our handiwork. The poster was a life-sized, cardboard dress suspended by pink leopard-print spaghetti-straps attached to a real hanger. The “dress” was fringed in black, silver, and pink ribbons and bedazzled with rhinestone studs. It was tacky. It was fancy. It was so Zoe.

“We did it!” We called out to each other and to the kids who were glued to the television set in the sunroom, in lieu of having attentive parents to play with.

Zoe came wandering in. “I’m hungry. You forgot lunch.” We conceded that we had, in fact, skipped some meals in order to concentrate on the poster. Then she saw it. “What’s that?” She snapped.

“It’s your Child of the Week poster!” We exclaimed.

She scrunched up her face, and turned her head to the side, deliberating. “Why is it blue? I hate blue.”

“It’s silver. The dress part is silver.” I cooed soothingly, trying to keep the level of conversation from escalating.

“But the poster is blue! I said no blue!” She may have stamped her foot. “And I want a cheese stick!”

Brett and I exchanged sad looks as he headed to the refrigerator. Clearly, this child was not getting it.

As Zoe chewed greedily, I paused to consider whether or not Brett and I were getting it. Perhaps our need to achieve on behalf of our children was not really good for them, or good for us.

But then I imagined the upcoming Jackson Pollack workshop that Brett would be leading on Thursday in Zoe’s class and the dress-up tea party I had arranged for her on Friday. If I played my cards right, there were years of science fairs, historical re-enactments, and creative extra credit projects in my future.

I looked again at that sparkly poster and pushed the doubt away.

That's Life

My four-year-old daughter, Zoe, came home from preschool the other day with a great idea. One of her little friends had brought an actual, live animal into the classroom for “show and share” time, and Zoe was inspired. “Can I bring my hermit crab to school, Mommy? Pleeeeeze?”

“Of course!” I agreed. “What a fun idea! We can take the crab out and let him walk around on the carpet. Your friends can even take turns picking him up.”

Unfortunately, when we got home to tell Sponge Bob Square Crab the good news, it was too late.

I recognized the signs of Sponge Bob Square Crab’s expiration right away. The poor thing, usually tucked tightly into his shell (hence the moniker “hermit”), was limply hanging out, exposing his entire face, neck and both claws to the elements. He was not just resting. He was resting eternally.

Zoe and my seven-year-old son, Andrew, were not as certain about Sponge Bob Square Crab’s demise, having never experienced death up close. “Oh, look, Zoe,” Andrew began, “I think your crab is getting ready to move into a bigger shell!”

That big shell in the sky, I thought, holding my tongue.

Shame on me. All I said was, “Uh, yeah, maybe that’s what it’s doing. Let’s wait for Daddy.”

I have some classic moves as a parent. One example that springs to mind is the “Why don’t you wait until Nana comes to visit” move. This strategy allows me to get out of buying my kids expensive things like tap dance shoes or video games, but then they get them anyway. I also have been known to use the “Your teacher won’t let you” excuse when I don’t want my kids to bring something particular to school. I have no idea whether or not the teacher really won’t let this item into the classroom, but it seems reasonable enough to my kids, and so they stop fighting me and put the toy away.

But my best, by far, is the “Let’s wait for Daddy” move. “Let’s wait for Daddy,” is code for “Mommy doesn’t want to handle this. Mommy is going to put you to bed, have a glass of wine, and make Daddy play medical examiner on the corpse of a deceased crustacean when he gets home after a long day in the city.” It also means, “Then Mommy is going to make Daddy break the sad news to you at breakfast tomorrow and bury the thing in the backyard before he takes you to the bus.”

It takes a village. Truly.

Anyway, before there was Sponge Bob Square Crab, there was Superchick.

Superchick was born last spring in an incubator in Andrew’s first grade classroom. Although a lot of the eggs did not hatch, Superchick and one other (aptly named Fluffy) made it into this world.

The first weekend after the chicks hatched, one of Andrew’s friends took the pair home to care for over the weekend. Andrew was there for a play date, and when I picked him up, he begged to be able to take the chicks home the following weekend, if the teacher selected him.

So, sure enough, the following Friday, I got the call from Andrew’s teacher, Mrs. B. Mrs. B is awesome. She’s really into teaching and really into the kids. She’s calm and organized and a lovely person. She’s the kind of teacher you always want for your children and sometimes are lucky enough to get. So when Mrs. B asked me if I’d like to take Superchick home for the weekend (Fluffy having already been taken to the farm earlier in the week), naturally I said yes.

The first day with Superchick was, hands down, the most fun I’ve ever had with a chicken. We took her out into the sunny backyard and watched her climb all over the rocks and peck at the grass. I have video of her stepping over Andrew, lying in the grass, and resting in the crook of his arm. Superchick was so lively and strong and silly. She had this wobbly little chicken walk and she chased Zoe up the hill, following as she called “Here, Superchick! Here!”

On Saturday morning, Superchick seemed lethargic. She couldn’t find her footing on the feeder, and kept slipping off it and landing on her soft little butt. I took her out of her cage to see how she managed on my kitchen floor, but her balance was no better. Up, down. Up, down. Every time I would right her, she would slip back onto her tush.

I kept a close eye on Superchick while lying outright to my kids about her condition. “She’s just so worn out from playing yesterday with you guys!” And “Let’s let her rest. She’ll be much better tomorrow.” I shooed them out of the house to attend birthday parties and to go to the park.

Late that Saturday night, I found Superchick lying flat on her furry back, feet up in the air. She looked over at me and sighed through the glass. Superchick wasn’t dead (yet), but she sure was pretending to be dead and it was freaking me out.

“I’m on the verge of killing the beloved class pet! I damaged the circle of life! I am a failure as a mother!” I confided to Brett. “This is a disaster!”

I hardly slept that night, picturing Superchick lying prone in her cage, never able to lay eggs for the world.

I emailed Mrs. B the first thing Sunday morning. She wrote back immediately, asking me to call her at home. An intervention was quickly arranged. “Let’s meet at the elementary school. I don’t want the chick to die in your house,” Mrs. B explained.

“Neither do I!” I agreed. “Good plan.”

I woke the kids to tell them the “exciting” news. “Guess what? Mrs. B called to tell me that Superchick is going to the farm TODAY! We have to get her ready. Right now.”

So the kids and I propped her up in her cage only to watch her topple over again. We put her in the car and headed over to our rendezvous spot with Mrs. B.

“Hi!” She smiled as we stepped out of the car. I rolled my eyes at her, but kept up the charade.

“Hi, Mrs. B! We are soooo excited for Superchick’s big day!” I fake-enthused.

“Yes!” Mrs. B began. Then I opened the car door, revealing Superchick’s glass box. “Holy…I mean, how do you do, Superchick…? Wow, you look…just great…?” she trailed off, momentarily losing the ability to stay enthusiastic.

Superchick, lying on her back with her feet straight up in the air, just turned her head toward Mrs. B and sighed.

“Andrew,” Mrs. B said, regaining her composure and looking my son in the eyes, “Thank you so much for watching Superchick this weekend. You did a great job.” Her sincerity brought tears to my eyes.

Because he really did do a good job.

And I probably did, too. But sometimes these delicate little creatures just don’t make it, even under the best of circumstances.
At least that’s what I tell myself when I think of fate of that poor little fuzzball, Superchick, and of Sponge Bob Square Crab as well.

You know what will make me feel better?

A dog.

Definitely!

I am an American Girl

Last spring, I wrote an article about having a summer birthday party for my daughter Zoe with several members of her preschool class. I called it the Seasonal Birthday Party, or SBP. The idea of the Seasonal Birthday Party is to streamline the celebratory process. Parents of pre-schoolers in particular are inundated with invitations to parties for their children’s friends, because the nice thing to do at a young age is to include everyone. But why attend similar parties for 3 and 4 year olds every weekend, when parents could just plan one each season for all the kids in the class and be done with it? This had been the crux of my argument.

Further, I had asked deep, probing questions like, do children really require so much personalized attention on their actual birthday? And how many gifts does one child really need?

According to my now four-year-old daughter Zoe, the answers to those questions are “yes” and “a whole lot.”

Oh, she had been pretty happy with the SBP at first. She had danced with the kids in her class and had enjoyed her ice cream sundae. But why were there so few presents for her, she wondered aloud in the car the way home, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the meager pile of gift wrapped boxes in the back row. “Because only the host children exchanged gifts,” I tried to explain.

“But all my friends were there!” She rationalized.

“Yes, but they came to celebrate with you, not to get you stuff you don’t need.”

She pondered this for a while, looking out the window at the passing cars on the road. “I don’t get it.” She concluded.

I sighed. “On your actual birthday next month we are taking you to the American Girl store. You will get lots of presents then.”

“Oh! Then that’s okay.”

So there you have it. The cat is out of the bag. I caved.

It had not been my intention to undermine the SBP. It’s just that the American Girl party had been planned by my mother since Zoe was about 6 seconds old. (My mom, who helped to deliver Zoe, cut the umbilical cord. Then, holding the clamps high, she had announced, “On this day, four years hence, my granddaughter Zoe Rebecca Gerstenblatt shall have an American Girl celebration!” Or something like that. I was on drugs at the time and can’t remember it verbatim, but you get the gist. A trumpet may have blared.) This event was meant to be, with or without a class celebration.

So, on July 14th on this year, while France was celebrating their independence by eating croissants and watching fireworks light up the sky over the Seine, Zoe and I headed into Manhattan for her birthday lunch at the American Girl Café.

Correction: lunch with Nana, GG, Auntie Sheri, Rosie, JaJa, and my friend Dana and her daughter at the American Girl Café.

When this group had convened in the entrance of the store, my mom gave everyone play-by-play instructions. “Right now, we are here, in the lobby on 5th Avenue. Next, we will head straight to the third floor to shop. If anyone has to use the facilities, stop on 2 and we’ll re-group later. We start lining up for lunch at 1:45.” This was her Superbowl. She chugged some Gatorade, threw a whistle around her neck, and clicked the heels of her Chanel flats three times. Game On.

In addition to those participants mentioned above, both my dad and my step-dad came by the store from their respective New York City offices to say hello to us all and to wish Zoe a happy birthday. Then my dad stayed for a bit to shop with us ladies.

“Jeez, Jules, this place is nuts.” My dad declared, shaking his head at all the moms holding girls holding girl dolls.

“I want that one!” Zoe whined.

“Which one, pussycat?” My mom asked, bending over to look at the case with Zoe. She pointed. “That one?”

“No, THAT one!!!!” Zoe wailed, pointing at the exact same doll.

This was going to be fun.

“What can GG get you, Zoe? Come with GG and let’s look over here.”

“I had this idea 65 years ago,” Great-grandma Rosie said with awe. “I raised three daughters that liked to dress up just like their dolls. I could’ve made a fortune!” She mused. “Stupid.”

“Here, Rosie, look at the Rebecca Rubin doll. She’s Jewish! She’s from the Lower East Side, just like you!” I enthused.

“Really? My word. This I’ve got to see.”

“Jules,” my dad said with finality minutes later. “This is nuts.”

“I believe you’ve already said that, dad.”

“And your daughter, she isn’t being very cooperative or grateful.”

“Yeah. Maybe we should leave her here.” I tried for a smile.

“Can I get Zoe’s doll these shoes?” My sister-in-law Sheri asked. “They are so cute. I wish they came in my size.”

“Look: a hair salon for dolls!” My aunt, JaJa, exclaimed. “And, oooh…puppies!”

“Jules, I think I have to write to that newspaper of yours.” My dad was back from his wanderings. He held up his left hand, revealing pink pajamas in Zoe’s size, and his right, holding matching doll-sized ones.

“Why?”

“Because I’m On The Verge!” he laughed.

Twenty exhausting minutes later, we were the proud parents of Julie, the 1974 American Girl. Julie had secured a groovy canopy bed to sleep in, a new bathing suit, several outfits, two dogs, a change of shoes, two pairs of pajamas, and a lot of grown-ups around her in need of a stiff drink.

We headed to the café for Bellinis and sticky buns.

That night, Zoe and I settled in to her bed to read all about Julie.

“She’s Julie like you, Mommy!” Zoe said, now exhausted and back to being her sugary sweet self. “She has long blonde hair like you, too.”

“Yes, you’re right, puppy.” I agreed. “This doll is supposed to be like me.” From the 70’s, with bell-bottoms and a small braid in the front of her hair. I opened the story.

“For Julie Albright, life after her parents’ divorce held as many ups and downs as the hilly streets of her San Francisco neighborhood.” I stopped. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I called out.

“What?” Zoe asked, clearly concerned.

“Nothing, pup. This is just…familiar. That’s all.”

I kept going. There were more similarities. A best friend named Ivy Ling who loved gymnastics. (I loved gymnastics. I also loved my friend Pat Li.)

“I’m tired,” Zoe yawned.

I finished reading. “Most of all, Julie missed having her whole family together.” I tucked Zoe and Julie into their beds and thought back on the day.

I pictured my 97-year-old grandmother talking animatedly with my best friend from 7th grade. I thought about my mother-in-law, newly diagnosed with stage four breast cancer, who took the train in from Rhode Island with my sister-in-law for the day just to be a part of the experience. My aunt JaJa, who made me feel so special as a child that I couldn’t end a visit with her without crying hysterically. My mom, who had been looking forward to this day for so long. And crazy little Zoe, the center of it all, hugging her new Julie doll and having no concept of what this day really meant to me. To all of us.

It’s good to be an American Girl.

School Daze

Imagine, if you will, a suburban household at 8:15 a.m. Let’s just pretend that the house exists on a quiet, shady street, in the middle of bucolic bliss. Like perhaps in a village 30 minutes north of New York City.

Oh, what the heck, let’s just call it Scarsdale.

So it is 8:15 in the morning in Scarsdale, and it’s September. And in this particular place at this particular time, the household goes into momentary panic mode. For argument’s sake, let’s just pretend that there is a mom and three elementary-aged kids inside this abode. Now, I’m just guessing here, and remember that this is pretend, so I can make up all kinds of crazy stuff if I want to, but I think the mom is shouting at two, if not all three, of her children, at this very moment.

“Molly, put on your shoes!”

“David, where is your homework? Did you do it last night? Did you put it in your homework folder?”

“Remember the permission slip!”

“Don’t forget that you are going home with Tyler after school!”

“Please eat your lunch today – I packed your favorite!”

“Brush your hair!”

“Brush your teeth!”

“Pee!”

“The bus is coming!”

“The bus is here!”

“YOU MISSED THE BUS!!!”

It is now 8:16 am. The children pile into the minivan with an over-the-top, harried mom, who is on the verge of cursing under her breath in all manner of colorful language. She cannot believe that the children need to be driven to school again when she pays taxes for the convenience (and green-ness) that is known as the yellow school bus.

If all that carbon monoxide is green, that is.

Is this your morning?

Welcome back-to-school, everyone! Happy September to you all. Hope you had a nice, relaxing vacation down the shore or up the coast or right here in the middle.

My summer was lovely, thanks for asking.

Yes, I missed you too.

For those of you who know me, you know that I always – and I mean like 30 plus years of always – go to Nantucket for my summer vacation. Not this year. This year, my children and Brett and I tried something different, something novel, something completely in-law-less.

First, we went to the Jersey Shore. Way down. Exit 13 off the Garden State Parkway, where no Scarsdalian has gone before.
Down there, people come from Philly, and random parts of Pennsylvania that I’ve never heard of, and even Delaware. I didn’t see anyone I knew. For seven relaxing, sun-filled days, I didn’t see any Bodyfit or Circle of Friends stickers on any cars, or any New York license plates whatsoever.

“What’s that accent I keep hearing everywhere?” I asked Brett one afternoon in Cape May, as we strolled the quaint Victorian streets with our kids. “Is it…southern?”

“Yeah. We’re in the beginning of the south, you know.” Brett teased.

“New Jersey was a part of the Confederacy?” I paused, trying to think back to 11th grade. “Really?”

So close to home, and yet a world away from all the New Yorkers in Massachusetts.

On the Jersey Shore, we played a lot of mini-golf. We ate something called “water ice” which is basically Italian Ice, only somehow better. Creamier. Like sorbet. (Brett thinks they removed the national label for political correctness. I’m like, “is the term ‘Italian Ice’ derogatory? Since when?” We debated this for quite some time. When on a family vacation, you can do this sort of thing since no one has to leave to catch a train to the city or a bus to school.) On the Jersey Shore, we walked the boardwalks and spent six hours straight in inner tubes at a water park and then rode on huge Ferris wheels perched next to the Atlantic. We bought hermit crabs painted as Sponge Bob and kept them as pets in fancy cages bought at the five and dime in town. We jumped off a private dock into the bay located right in our own backyard. And we all had a blast.

But wait: there’s more. Then we spent a week in the Hamptons, reconnecting with our peeps. Get-togethers with different friends from Scarsdale moved seamlessly from lazy afternoons on the beach to tranquil evenings all together, with wine in hand. Every day was more restful and beautiful than the next.

And then September 7th arrived and my summer came to a screeching halt.

Registration for fall classes nearly sent me over the edge. Is Andrew elite enough for junior elite tennis? Will Zoe get off the waitlist for preschool gymnastics, and will her name be selected by lottery for the coveted Wednesday Coach Terrific class? Will my doctoral committee member who is on sabbatical in Sweden (or Denmark? Maybe Norway? Definitely not New Jersey) ever get back to me about revisions to chapter five of my dissertation?

Coming home after summer vacation is like being in a car commercial: I go from zero to sixty in under five seconds.

To manage the stress of September, I tried to plan ahead. Really I did. This year, I went to Staples for school supplies over Fourth of July weekend in order to beat the back-to-school crowds. Only they hadn’t gotten their back-to-school shipment in yet. “Come back in, like, August?” The girl behind the counter said. “You know, when everyone is like shopping for back-to-school stuff?”

“But, you see,” I wanted to tell the clueless sales girl, “that’s exactly when I go on vay-cay-shun!”

Some people handle back-to-school planning differently. To stay ahead of the crowd and get a leg up on the latest fall trends, my friend Sloane did some clothes shopping for herself on one of the muggiest days of the summer. “I bought leather leggings,” she confided as we watched our kids splash in the town pool a few weeks ago.

“In August.” I countered.

“Yeah. It was like 94 degrees out.”

“You so needed those.”

“I did. And the cute booties that go with them. Now I’m all set for fall.”

Sloane is going to be styling’ in her black leather leggings with coordinating booties and I still cannot locate 5 inch Fiskars scissors to satisfy the particular demands of a second grade school supply list.

But the worst is behind me now. The kids are successfully off to school -- with or without scissors -- and the after-school activities have been lined up for the most part, with coordinating carpools in the works.

And now that it’s underway, I remember how much I love September. New books, new clothes, a hint of chill in the air. The promise of something; a fresh start. A few hyper moments each morning are worth it. Because once the kids are out of the house and off to school, I can breathe in that clear fall scent in relative peace, and look forward to the season ahead.

Whatever it may bring.

With or without leather leggings of my own.

It's Our Party

I used to think jumping up and down on a trampoline with three year olds was fun.

But approaching the 50th time, I started getting a little tired of it.

Am I allowed to say this in print? I don’t need to spend any more Saturday mornings or Sunday afternoons at Tumblekids or Wonderjumpers. And I’m just guessing here, but think I could live out the rest of my days very satisfactorily without attending – or hosting, for that matter – another Coach Terrific party. I love my children and I love celebrating their birthdays and milestones with them. I’m just not sure I have to keep inviting the world along to watch.

Now, just so everyone is clear about this: I am guilty of many celebratory offenses myself. I have been known to go ga-ga over personalized Internet invitations and to race to the best bakery for the Perfect Cake. I once hired a groovy guitarist for Zoe’s birthday and actually sang harmony with him at the party. (Who can resist a Crosby, Stills and Nash tune, I ask you?) In fact, in the context of the larger world, these are hardly “offenses” at all.

But also, just to be clear, sometimes I think we have gone a bit too far. Like, when you look at us collectively. All the parties, all the hoopla. Every year, for every kid in the village. Are we mad?

I really like throwing parties. I am outgoing and social, and so I kind of get a high from having entertained well. But I think there’s a danger in that, too. Andrew’s fourth birthday party was held at a local gym. 30 of his closest preschool friends were invited, along with all the grandparents and many friends of mine from high school and their kids and maybe a few strays I picked up on the over way to the place. For the invitation, I arranged a photo-shoot of Andrew in a green Power Ranger costume jumping up and down and posing mid-air on the gym equipment, looking fierce. It’s not like I hired a photographer or anything; I took the digital images myself and uploaded them into Shutterfly and made an invitation. It was fun for both me and Andrew, but let’s just call it what it was: a little bit nuts.

It was then that I realized the ugly truth. The preschool birthday party is the gateway drug to the bar mitzvah.

Each year from that point on, the need to succeed would get greater and greater, until I couldn’t outdo myself anymore. Nothing would get me high enough. No overnight sleepover in the Museum of Natural History, no all-access passes to the tween concert of the year. I imagined myself, several years in the future, line dancing upside down in a zero-gravity simulator transformed to look like Mos Eisley’s Canteena, dressed as Princess Leia. Welcome to Andrew’s Intergalactic Coming of Age Party: The Bar Mitzvah That’s Out Of This World!!!! What a bad trip that would be.

The truth is, until fairly recently, I felt a lot of pressure about throwing these somewhat elaborate, although now typical, parties for my young children. I’m not proud of it, but I’ll admit it. I started worrying in January about Andrew’s April birthday because venues book months ahead, especially if you want to get “the best” time of day at “the best” party place, whatever that may be.

“There is always a theme on top of a theme on top of a theme at these things,” Brett added when I told him the topic of this week’s article. “I’m at this party last weekend and I’m like, with the bowling alley, weird science, and a hired Sponge Bob character, did ya really need the piñata, too?”

“Plus, this party circuit is an endless cycle,” Brett continued. “We’re either going to parties or planning our own or attending our own. We’re purchasing gifts, opening gifts, returning gifts, re-gifting gifts or donating gifts to the school fair where we win them back in the raffle. At these parties, everyone arrives with toys wrapped in the same paper from the same toy store. We eat the same tiny slices of pizza and huddle in the corner by the veggie plate, waiting to get our goody bags and go. It’s Groundhog Day!”

So I guess I’m not the only one frustrated by this.

“The thing is,” Brett elaborated, “everyone feels the same way about these events, and yet it’s an accepted and routine part of our culture. People talk about breaking the cycle but no one ever does.”

Until now, that is. Enter the Seasonal Birthday Party, or SBP.

I’m going to give credit to my friend Lila for this one, and then I’m going to snatch that credit away from her and say I came up with it first. Why? Because it’s a brilliant idea and who wouldn’t want to be aligned with that?

The SBP is really great for those of you with 3 and 4 year olds with a large network of preschool friends. When Andrew was in preschool, he attended at least 25 birthday parties between the months of November and June. It was then that Brett and I first discussed the idea of the Seasonal Birthday Party. What if the parents got together to plan four parties a year, grouping the children together by birthday season? The fall party could be a Coach Terrific party, the winter one could be at a gym, the spring one could have a children’s entertainer and the summer one could be at the town pool. Everyone would be celebrated, and everyone would be included. How awesome! How revolutionary!

And then, like most great ideas on the verge of implementation, it fell by the wayside and we stepped back into the familiar pattern of individual (but pretty much all the same) parties.

Truth be told, I worried a little bit about the group party thing. I worried that my own child wouldn’t feel special. That maybe, in this world of personal parties, he would feel gypped. (And then he would grow up to always feel slighted by the world and it would somehow all be my fault. If only I had let my child have his own 4th birthday party!)

But now that I’m on to child number two, I know that things in general need not be taken so seriously. So when my friend Lila approached me a few weeks ago, suggesting a group party for the five children in our preschool class with summer birthdays – including Zoe’s – I jumped at the idea. She and another friend had already thought it out, deciding to have the event at an ice cream parlor where the kids could make their own sundaes.

“What fun!” I enthused.

“It will just run an hour, I figure,” Lila added.

“Only an hour! Genius!”

“And no gifts – just the hosts will exchange with each other.”

“Amazing!”

And so, given the job of creating an evite for the event– an evite! So simple, so green! – I got to work and sent it out. The next day, I received a phone call from the mom of another of Zoe’s classmates. She hoped she wasn’t imposing, but her son Peter’s birthday was in June, and, well, this was like the best idea she had ever heard of in her life, and, so, could Peter join the summer celebration as a host, too?
Absolutely! The more the merrier!

It’s not just my party anymore. And that’s really something to celebrate.

Bookstalking 101: Summer Reading for Kids

Are you ready for summer reading, boys and girls? Moms and dads? Children of all ages? I am. And I’m going to tell you what to read this summer, because I’m pushy like that. And also because I care.

First of all, let’s start with the kids. The school summer reading lists are coming out, marking my favorite time of year. There’s nothing I like better than a slightly clueless 12 year old roaming a bookstore with his or her mom or dad in tow. Why is this? Because I love books. And I love giving advice. Combine the two, and you’ve got my favorite pastime: giving people advice about what to read.

I’m a little bit embarrassed to admit this, but I actually stalk families at Borders.

“Don’t say that you stalk them,” Brett told me while reading a draft of this article. “That’s kinda creepy.”

“But that’s what I do! Like, in a friendly, helpful kind of way. I’m a bookstalker.”

“Yeah. See, that’s creepy. Call it something else. Like Booktalker.”

“I don’t like that. It sounds too much like horse whisperer.”

So, what I mean is that, occasionally, I “follow” families around the aisles in the back of the store and listen in just to get a sense of whether or not my services are needed. And if so, I pounce.

Imagine me hiding behind a copy of the latest Secrets of My Hollywood Life by Jen Calonita (a must read if you are a 10-14 year old girl, btw. So good!). I am pretending to be absorbed with the text, like Clark Kent with his newspaper, on the verge of fighting crime as Superman. Only I’m a female, and I don’t wear glasses. Plus, I would look weird in all that spandex. But you get the idea.

“I think this one seems good,” a mom might say to her son, clearly exasperated after ten minutes of failed attempts with different titles. “Get this one.”

The child crinkles his nose at it, as if the book smells like moldy cheese. He’s not convinced that this is what he wants to read during rest hour at camp.
Besides which, “this one” is a 400 page monster of a classic with words printed so closely together that even I might fall asleep by page 7. This boy must be saved! It’s time for the Bookstalker.

“Hi, there,” I’ll begin, putting on my most friendly, wide-eyed facial expression. “I know a lot about these books. Maybe I can help. Tell me what you like to read.” It’s usually as easy as that.

The mom smiles and relaxes as she hands me the school’s summer reading list. The child is so stunned that he drops the tome that he was holding onto my toes. But that’s the price you pay as a bookstalker. Sometimes, matching kids with appropriate texts can hurt just a little bit.

Now, I must admit that I am pretty well-read in the YA genre (young adult, natch), having spent over a decade as a middle school English teacher. And although I am no longer teaching middle school, I do meet regularly with a bunch of enthusiastic (and by that, I mean loud) 13-year old girls for a monthly book group. We eat home-baked goods while throwing jellybeans at each other, and I try to get them to talk about the book. It’s fun. Really.

And when I’m not reading YA lit with them, I’m reading it with my grad students. As professor to these 25 teachers and teachers-to-be, I lead discussions each week about new, noteworthy and classic titles in the genre. The adults don’t throw jellybeans like the kids do, surprising as that may be. But they do have just as strong opinions about the Twilight series.

If you are a middle schooler, or a parent of such a creature, listen up, because I’m only gonna say it once.

Obviously, read the entire Lightning Thief series. The fifth and final installment just came out on May 5th, and the movie version of the first book will be released next year. The author, Rick Riordan, spoke at the Scarsdale Middle School in March, so he’s become a bit of an institution already around here. It’s what we in the business of bookstalking call a “no-brainer.” If you like those, read Kiki Strike or The Mysterious Benedict Society. Read Susan Beth Pheffer’s Life as We Knew It because my teen book group loved it. If you are interested in questions about life and death, read Elsewhere and Heaven Looks a lot Like the Mall (both of which I would call Lovely Bones lite). Read Diary of a Wimpy Kid for laughs and The Graveyard Book if you want to get spooked.

If you are a girl going into 8th grade, read Dairy Queen by Catherine Murdoch, and when you finish it, read the sequel. Read anything and everything by Sonya Sones. Read Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson. (Not my book group girls – please, read it with me in September! Wait! Don’t cheat! I’m serious! And don’t throw that at me!) Read Wintergirls or Thirteen Reasons Why if you like to get depressed, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. And if you are an older boy (8th -9th grade and up), read The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian because Sherman Alexie rocks, or Cory Doctorow’s Litle Brother (a sort of play-on-words of Orwell’s Big one).

And, yes, I know I sound ridiculous saying “rocks” about an author.

If you want to read along with me this summer, I am going to read The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins. It’s destined to be the next runaway hit for teens. I can’t wait to put on the sunscreen, lie on a beach chair, and dig in to this futuristic, dystopian tale.

Don’t worry, grown-ups. It’s your turn next week.

Married...with Children

News flash! According to a new, long-term US study, people who are married with children are not all that happy.

Now that’s not exactly what the study reports. “After analysis of all the data, the researchers found that 90% of the couples had less satisfaction in their marriages after their first child was born.” I’d hate to think where it went from there after the second, third, and – dare I suggest it – fourth offspring joined the family.


The study also states that “children increase stress on marriages.” Really? Huh. I hadn’t noticed. I’ve been so busy enjoying potty training, projectile vomiting, tantrums, time-outs and homework that I haven’t even seen my husband Brett in weeks. How would I know if there was stress on our marriage, when all we do is talk about the kids or email each other about bills? Pure bliss!

Obviously, those of us who are married with children didn’t need this study to shed light on the matter. But now we have scientific information! Hard, cold facts! There it is in black and white: life was more fun B.B.

Before Baby.

In B.B. 2001, Brett and I spent three magical weeks traveling through Italy. We sipped cappuccinos and watched the sun sparkle on the ocean in Capri. We toured Tuscany, going from one wine tasting to the next. We visited Rome and Florence in all their summer glory. We bought Prada and Gucci. We ate delicious pasta and saw incredible artifacts everywhere we went.

And then we took a pregnancy test. In Italy. It was a beautiful moment, a spectacular place to discover this happy news. I remember climbing the hills in Positano that day, Brett and I holding hands, carrying between us our own special little secret.

Suffice it to say, I haven’t been overseas since.

But now that my children are a little bit older, I’d like to really start traveling again. Yes, sometimes I like to travel with them, but to call that sort of trip a true “vacation” would be misleading. Traveling with your kids is like moving to a different whine-zone. We usually meltdown at 6:00 Eastern Time, but this week, we are facing bad attitudes in Central Mountain Time. Although we have room service here, which is nice!

Last year, Brett and I were both working full-time. When trying to plan for a vacation, we faced a feeling familiar to working parents: guilt. “Can we go away without the kids during their school vacation?” I whispered to Brett one night over dinner.

Sensing that his own parents may be trying to ditch him, my son Andrew’s head snapped up from his mac and cheese. His big doe-eyes searched my face and then Brett’s. “What are you guys talking about?”

“N-nothing,” I stammered. “Just on the verge of planning a great family vacation!” And so, we decided that a tropical resort with a terrific kids’ club would be the perfect compromise. Brett would get to play tennis, I’d get a massage at the spa and read six novels, and the kids would make lifelong friends while learning how to swing from a trapeze. Then we’d meet every day for lunch at the all-you-can-eat buffet. What a happy, well-adjusted family we’d be, just like those people in the TV commercials! What could be better?

The first thing we didn’t anticipate was the toddler room at the Kids’ Camp. Two-year-olds cry in the toddler room. All day. They have snack, they cry. They paint, they cry. They get taken to the beach in fun little golf carts? Cry, cry cry in harmony. It’s like a twisted game of monkey see, monkey do. One starts, and the others follow along. Zoe took one look at the group and, naturally, burst into tears. When I picked her up two hours later, she was still crying. She had gone swimming and played in the outdoor gym area, the counselor told me. But had she ever, for one minute, stopped crying, I asked? No.

Andrew’s experience was not much better. When we picked him up at the end of his first day in Kids’ Camp, he looked like a war-torn refugee. His hair was a mess, he was wearing someone else’s shorts, and his bathing suit could not be located. “What happened?” I asked.

“You left me! You said you were coming back to get me after swimming!”

“But it is after swimming!” Brett explained, motioning to the schedule.

Apparently, the schedule that Andrew’s group followed was not the one Brett and I had followed. We planned to get him at 2:00, but Andrew understood things differently. A counselor explained. “He has been waiting for you for three hours. He thought you may have forgotten him.”

At which point, Andrew collapsed into a heap at my feet, dehydration and shock finally settling in. Once we roused him, he declared in no uncertain terms that he was NEVER GOING BACK THERE and furthermore that he HATED THIS STUPID ISLAND and when could we go back HOME?

Andrew still hasn’t recovered fully from that “vacation.” I suggest that, if you ever meet him, you do not utter the words “Dominican Republic” in his presence.

Ask anyone else who has taken their toddlers on an airplane or into a different time zone, and you’ll get mixed responses at best. Recent example. My friend Kate had decided, much to everyone’s surprise, to take her three children, ages 6 and under, to California by herself. Dave was recovering from surgery and couldn’t make the trip. It would be fine, Kate reasoned, once she got to Disneyland and her awaiting, helpful sister-in-law. The only hard part would be the flight.

Ah, delusional Kate. Raise your hand if you are already laughing at her. Let’s look back, shall we? Kate’s flight out there with the kids went well. But by day two, things had taken a turn for the worst. It began with downpours and frigid weather. This was followed by 4:00 am wake-ups every morning by her two-year old, whose circadian clock was all messed up from travel. Next came pneumonia that resulted in three out of the four of them needing antibiotics.

The list of disasters was biblical.

Kate came home and started taking five-minute mini-vacations alone in her car. “Is it lame to go away alone? I’d like to be all by myself for just one 24-hour stretch. Is that too much to ask?” Kate pleaded as we ate pizza with all five of our kids one night.

“Here,” I sighed. “Have some more wine.”

That’s why, these days, more often than not, my friends and I dream of real escapes. I picture myself lying on a lounge chair on powdery sand, with nothing but the turquoise sea in front of me. No “Mommy, will you help me build a sand castle?” No, “Mommy, you said you would swim with me again!” Spending time with my children is wonderful and lovely and fleeting, and I know it. Rationally, I understand how precious these years with them are, and just how fast they will go.

But sometimes mommy just needs a break!

I explained this to Brett last August, after two months of Julie-the-cruise-director, on-duty lifeguard patrol, and he agreed. Our tenth anniversary trip to a tropical destination was greenlit. I booked us at a four-star resort for the first week in December. A real vacation in 2008 A.B.

After Baby.

And then the place was hit by a hurricane.

Our money was refunded in November, but by then, Brett had lost any enthusiasm for travel. “Let’s just stay home and be miserable like everyone else,” I believe were his final words on the matter.

But anyone who knows me knows that I don’t really listen to Brett. I gave him two options: he could baby-sit the kids while I went away, or he could come with me. And so began our weekend at a posh boutique hotel in New York City.

When I tell you that the cool, roof-top lounge was closed twice when we tried to go there, and that the only reservation time we could get for the swanky bar was at 2:00 a.m. will you be the least bit surprised? No, of course not. You are a wise reader, catching the sarcastic tone of my narrative and knowing that this couldn’t possibly have turned out to be the Happily Ever After vacation that I had hoped for.

As Brett and I tried to sleep one night, there was some sort of traffic jam on the streets below. For a good hour and a half, we lay in the dark listening to honking cars mixed in with angry shouting from frustrated New Yorkers. Expletives in a myriad of languages flew up to our windows. I tried to pretend it was the sound of palm trees rustling in the balmy wind.

“Happy anniversary, honey.” Brett murmered. “I got you something very unique.”

“What’s that? I can’t hear you over the sound of the ocean waves!” I shouted.

“A parade in your honor. One honking taxi for every day that we’ve been married. That’s roughly 3,650 honks.”

“That’s so sweet of you. I’ll tell all my friends about it when we return from this tropical paradise. G’night.”

“G’night.”

That night, I missed my bed. In my quiet house. With my beautiful, sleeping children in the rooms next to mine.

Vacations are great that way. As much as I love to get away, by the end of the trip, I always find that I am excited to come back home. Especially now that I have children.