Summer Lovin'

My 9-year-old son, Andrew, wants to go to sleep away camp next summer, and I guess I’m going to let him, even though my heart will feel like it’s being ripped in two when he steps on that bus to depart. Zoe will follow a few years after, breaking my heart all over again. As my husband, Brett, and I prepared to tour some camps with our children over 4th of July weekend, we reflected back on our own camping days.

Brett loved camp. He went to some magical place in Massachusetts for like 14 summers or something, ending up as counselor of the year and forever branded with “Living Legend” status. (Brett fans will not be surprised to learn that his bunk was always the cleanest, and therefore the model bunk visited by touring families.)

Meanwhile, up in Maine, homesickness was settling deep in my stomach. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t like the idea of being a camper. It’s just that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t help feeling like this was the wrong camp for me. While other campers in other parts of the Northeast were boasting about “living 10 for 2”, I couldn’t wait to return home to Scarsdale after my 8-week sentence was up.

Why didn’t I love camp? Let me count the ways.

1. No boys.
I attended an all-girl, uniformed camp without electricity that required a plane ride because it was that far away from boys. You know those 80’s camping movies, like “Little Darlings” and “Meatballs”? I assumed camp would be like that, filled with raids to the boys’ side and underwear hung up the flagpole. I thought we’d have food fights and dances and color war and that Matt Dillon and Kristy McNichol would teach me how to smoke cigarettes behind the shower house. I assumed there would be an inspirational soundtrack playing as we won the softball game against our rival camp.

I couldn’t have been wrong-er.

Instead, my camp had lots of singing girls swaying back and forth with their arms around each other. When not singing, these girls liked to ride horses. Oh, and we had pine trees. Lots and lots of pine trees.

2. No pool.
My camp did not have a swimming pool. Only a lake. And everyone knows the truth about lakes, right? They are teeming with creatures waiting to kill you. Don’t pretend you don’t know this. Every time I swim out too far into a lake I worry about being dragged down to the murky bottom by either a seaweed monster or the Lady of the Lake. (Here’s the narrative running through my brain when I am on the verge of entering a lake: The LOTL was murdered here long ago, and now she waits. In her long white nightgown, her skin glowing white-green, she waits for unsuspecting feet to kick by her. And then…and then…well, you know the rest.)

Yes, I really believe that.

My lake had other creatures in it, too. There were microscopic bacteria in the lake. After we swam, we had to line up and tilt our heads to one side and then the other for eardrops that smelled like grain alcohol and prevented us from getting nasty infections.

So, was my camp lake in Maine the most beautiful sight ever? Yes. Was I afraid to swim in it? Absolutely. Did I have a lovely, heated swimming pool in my own, empty backyard in Scarsdale, just waiting for me to dive in? You betcha.

Ah, the irony.

3. No canteen.
I honestly thought that this “canteen” thing was a myth until I visited camps a few weeks ago and saw it with my own eyes. You mean, my friends weren’t lying when they said that they got candy at camp and had a game room to hang out in? With electricity? Seriously?

And then I began to uncover other truths, so that “canteen” became synonymous with all the fun things that people did at other camps that I did not do at mine. Like, for example, they didn’t go hiking in the rain. In inclement weather, they went to the movies. And ate candy. In fact, these camps were not quite as outdoorsy or rustic as mine in any recognizable way.

My birthday is July 3rd, which means I was at camp for this particular celebration for four consecutive summers in the early 1980’s. And when I tell you that, on my birthday, I was always canoeing down some river in New Hampshire or on the top of some mountain in the rain drinking water from a metallic-tasting canteen, I am not stretching the truth.

This is not my idea of a good time, people.

My daughter Zoe also has a summer birthday, and I will not leave her out in the rain. That’s why the camp tours are so critical to a mother like me. I am picking a camp that will allow her to spend that special day eating cupcakes while smiling at boys and doing water aerobics in a heated swimming pool overlooking a lake. At dinner, she will not wear a brown and white uniform but rather her favorite tie-dyed tank top. She will visit the canteen as the sun goes down, enjoying the satisfaction of a Milky Way bar while looking up over the lake into the Milky Way. And when the counselors say “lights out,” they will not mean it metaphorically.

The Gerstenblatt clan toured three lovely camps over 4th of July weekend, each one tricked out with golf carts (driven by adorable male counselors) so that we didn’t have to walk to the soccer field/roller hockey rink/tennis courts/skateboard park/senior camp/zip-line/anywhere at all.

I am happy to report that we have made our selection. It’s a co-ed, non-uniformed camp within three hours driving distance from home, featuring tons of electric power. There’s electricity in the bunks, stadium lighting for evening games on the fields, and air-conditioning in the main house. While there are plenty of opportunities for outdoor adventure, there are also indoor, rainy-day activities so that no one has to catch pneumonia on her birthday. (Unless she really, really wants to. This camp offers lots of choices.)

While boys and girls have separate activities, there are certainly opportunities to develop crushes and flirt at evening campfires.
It’s not “Meatballs”, exactly, but it will have to do.

The lake doesn’t even look that scary.

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!

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.

Making Friends with the Past, Part II

In case you didn’t read it or don’t remember, Part I of this series took a hard look at the somewhat misguided preparations I made for my 20th Edgemont High School reunion. When last you saw me, I had secured the perfect outfit for the event but had an ill-timed encounter with a dermatologist and her v-beam laser.

“So, what else is there to say?” my friend Jessica asked. “How can you even have a Part II? Everyone knows that the biggest piece of the reunion experience is the getting ready component. Did you lose the ten pounds? Get a boob job, tummy tuck, or Botox? How’s your hair? How’s your husband’s hair?”

Like me, Jessica had graduated from high school in 1988. She had recently attended had her own 20th reunion on Long Island. She talked like such an expert that she may also have crashed some others, just for fun. I hung on to her every word.

She explained that the event is really just about the women. “They all look great, better than they did in high school. But the guys get old and bald. The captain of the football team is now fat, and the brainy nerdy guys are the best husbands of the bunch.” She shrugged like this was common knowledge.

I pondered it for a minute. “Your husband is bald.”

“Like a baby.” She added.

“And mine was a brainy nerd.”

“Doesn’t Brett still brag about winning the perfect attendance award in high school?” Jessica asked.

“And he’s a good husband.”

We nodded in unison. “Amen to that.”

Case closed? I wasn’t so sure. My friend Steve, with whom I was planning the reunion, was the captain of the football team in high school, and he still looked great. I decided to put Jessica’s logic on my brain’s back burner.

And before I could say Karma Chameleon, the months of anticipation were past. On a crisp evening last October, Brett and I headed into the city for the reunion.

Had anyone changed dramatically, I wondered? It was time to find out.

Now, there’s two ways I can go with this story, from this point on. I could either tell witty anecdotes filled with quippy dialogue, filling you in on all the details as Brett and I chatted it up with my ex-boyfriend and some old frenemies. I could mention that everyone looked great, not just the women. I could tell you that, at two in the morning, the last of the group made its way down to the street from the roof-top bar where we had spent the evening. My prom date, a mild-mannered pediatrician, patted Brett on the shoulder and smiled, declaring that he was now one of The Guys. I could tell you that, as Brett and I debriefed on the ride home, he decided that my ex-boyfriend, Joe, a graduate of my class who I dated after college, was his favorite person at the event.

“Really!? That’s so bizarre!” I declared, shaking my head.

“What? Joe’s a cool guy. He’s smart and funny and interesting, and…”

“And he broke my heart, remember!”

Brett was quiet. “Good thing he did, too.”

“Huh. Hadn’t thought of it that way. Remind me to send him a thank you note.”

So, that’s one way to re-tell this story. This is the other.

In a lot of ways, this reunion was surreal. Two decades have passed, and yet, as soon as I think of high school, I can go right back there. If I watch an 80’s movie like Valley Girl or hear a certain long-forgotten song, my reaction is actually visceral. It’s as if there is a souped-up DeLorean with a flux capacitor waiting outside my house to zoom me back to 1987.

This ability of mine to go back to the future proved to be both good and bad. In response to the reunion, I immediately acted like a teenager again, focusing on all the outward appearance stuff and feeling irrationally insecure. The main difference this time was that my 38-year old brain could talk the inner teen down from the ledge. Yes, I could obsess about what to wear and how I looked, but concurrent with those actions, I understood just how silly my behavior was. I also knew that none of it really mattered, having the benefit of 20/20 hindsight.

Also, as much as I remember about those good old days, I also seemed to have forgotten quite a lot of it as well. Here’s an awkward moment: when an old friend tells you a story about you and you don’t remember it at all.

“How could you forget that?” Paul asked. “It’s like the best memory I have of you,” he said.

“Well, then I’m so glad you have it!” was all I could come up with in response.

I didn’t know what to say. Is the appropriate retort something like, “Please don’t take it personally! If I knew how to not forget I would have definitely remembered!”

Perhaps more than the wrinkles, that made me feel old.

Although my forgetfulness was not a hit with that particular friend, senility worked really well with the female frenemies. I was able to go up to them and be like, What did I hate you for? Oh, who the heck remembers? Come here and give me a hug! Call it time and distance; call it mellowing out and maturing. Call it early onset dementia, if you must. There was something really beautifully “kum-ba-yah” in all that collective memory loss.

The morning after the reunion, there was more socializing to do. It was like an after-prom party only instead of going to the beach we held a bagel brunch in the EHS cafeteria. This was a family-friendly event, with a magician entertaining our children in the senior lounge. Several teachers and administrators from the district came by to say hello.

At one point, I was standing next to my former 6th grade teacher, a man who I have known since I was 10, pointing out to him my kids and husband, and discussing my own career as a 6th grade teacher. I was simultaneously wishing away a little bit of a hangover, cursing at myself for having that extra margarita and for staying out so late. I was actually on the verge of asking him for the keys to the nurse’s office so I could grab some Tylenol.

Now that was an exceptionally surreal moment.

The principal of EHS then took us on a tour of the campus, pointing out the changes made in the decades since we’d been students there. We kind of marched in a line behind him, which made me feel a little bit like I had for 7th grade orientation, only I wasn’t wearing my rainbow-banded blue tracksuit this time. But as I turned to my right, I realized that I had gone on that very tour with Lindsay, who stood beside me now. Granted, her two-year-old son was having an absolute meltdown, and his screaming was preventing me from hearing anything the principal was saying, but other than that, it was just the same as it was in 1983.

On the walk, I got to take a moment to visit a memorial set up for Lois Van Epps, one of the most wonderful teachers that I have ever known. Although I had said goodbye to her in my mind years ago and had tried to honor her in my own teaching, I had never been to the spot on campus dedicated to her memory. There was something very moving about that for me, but I figured that if I burst into tears, my former classmates might think I was crazy in addition to senile. I pretended instead to have hay fever as I dabbed at my eyes and said another silent farewell to Ms. Van Epps.

My memory may not be what it used to be, but as I strolled the campus, a mantra of recollections filled my mind.

Here’s where we took our senior class picture.
Here’s where that backpack flew out the second floor window.
Here’s where I stood at graduation.
Here’s where a junior made fun of me when I was a freshman.
Here’s where Mr. Mallia blew things up in the name of science.
Here’s where I hit a car in the parking lot.
Here’s where I hit another.
Here’s my picture from the musical Grease.
Here’s where I hung out with friends on warm days.
Here’s where I hung out when I cut gym class.
Here’s where I hung out.
Here is where.

The reunion weekend was fun. And it flew by. Just like high school.

Secrets and Lice

4:15. Lola’s mom rings the doorbell. I run upstairs to let her in, thinking how great this play date has gone. You see, my daughter, Zoe, is just entering her Winter Cotillion Coming-Out Season. In the South, this kind of socializing occurs around one’s 16th birthday, and involves grand balls with traditional dancing and months of preparation. In Scarsdale, we introduce our children to society much younger and without most of the hoopla.

At three and a half, Zoe is making the rounds formally with her preschool friends’ mommies and babysitters, getting escorted from school in foreign car seats, and being jettisoned off to other people’s playrooms for an hour or two of snack time and creative play. She is enjoying unfamiliar delicacies like fruit roll-ups and traveling to new vistas. Heathcote one day, Greenacres the next.

At long last, my daughter is experiencing the height of preschool sophistication. She is going independently on play dates. And so, to return the favor, I also host her cute little friends at our Fox Meadow home.

I feel some pressure about this. Will I have the right kind of snacks to please this unfamiliar half-pint now standing in my kitchen and perusing the cabinets with Zoe, hands on hips? Will the brand, flavor, and quantity of juice options suffice? How many times should I ask Zoe’s friend if she has to make pee pee? And, always, the big question lingers: what will I do if the girls don’t get along?

But no worries today. Lola has been a pure delight. She more than approves of Zoe’s collection of cheesy Disney princess dress-up and has been hobbling around the basement in Cinderella heels for the past twenty minutes, with a sparkly purse dangling from a chain on her wrist. She and Zoe have invented a game they call “sister” in which they, well, call each other sister. They are busy preparing a play dough picnic when the doorbell rings.

We are “new” friends, Lola’s mom and I. We seem like-minded and could probably become good friends if either one of us had the time to sit for coffee. The fact that our daughters like each other is a nice start, and the promise of future play dates is made. Plus, Lola’s mom notices, we have the same chandelier! Friendship is surely on the horizon.

Just then Lola comes up from the playroom. “Hi, mommy.”

“Hi, there, sweetie! Did you have a fun time with Zoe?” Lola’s mom asks, bending down to give her daughter a hug.

“Yes! Yes!” Lola coos. I am about to congratulate myself when Zoe joins the group.
She does not look happy, and points at Lola’s head.

“That’s MY headband. I want it back. NOW.” Being the younger child in my family, Zoe has never been afraid to fight for what she wants. Lola is also the youngest in her family, and therefore, cannot be bullied by the likes of Zoe. She is scrappy and feisty and holds on to that headband with the kind of fierce determination not seen since 1984 when Vanessa Williams fought to keep her Miss America crown.

“No!” Lola screams. “Yes!” Zoe screams back.

A cat-fight ensues. Lola’s mom and I are almost shocked into inaction. I actually laugh. Then we snap out of it and try to peel the toddlers apart before there is blood. Zoe is on the verge of decking Lola with an upper-cut to the left when Lola’s mom scoops up her daughter, grabs their belongings, and takes Lola barefoot and headband-less out to their waiting mini-van.

My own frantic heartbeat is now the only sound left in the entry hall. I shut the door, take a deep cleansing breath, and turn to Zoe. She smiles at me and slides the silver J Crew headband over her hair.

I am wondering if a fledgling friendship with Lola’s mom can survive this type of catastrophe when, two days later, I receive an email from her. The header is “Not Such Good News.” That’s not promising, I think, double-clicking the icon.

Lola has lice.

Now this doesn’t bother me as much as it would bother some. I appreciate the heads-up from mom (pun somewhat intended) and put the name of the famed Scarsdale Nitpicker into my phone in case I needed to speed dial her at some later date. I immediately round up all headbands, princess crowns, and other dress-up paraphernalia and place them in plastic bags to suffocate any lice that might be trying to hatch there. “Die, suckers, die!!!” I cackle, which feels rather good.

Since Zoe and Lola are in the same preschool class, Zoe too must have been checked, and unlike Lola, found clean.

At least for the time being.

When I arrive at school for pick-up, I am greeted by one of those signs on the classroom door: Impending Doom! Your Child Has Been Exposed! The appropriate boxes are checked off in red. Pink eye? Strep? Typhus? Radon? Peanut Butter? Weapons of Mass Destruction? There’s so much to be afraid of these days, I’m amazed the list is contained to one page and that it isn’t glowing or oozing.
A group of moms is whispering to the left of the sign. “Do you know who it is?” They ask. The anonymity and secrecy of the form – knowing someone has lice but not knowing which someone – is killing them.
Armed with the answer makes me feel kind of cool. But then I think about why I am privy to this private information (“hey, lady: your kid might be next”) and stop gloating.

I am not a nosy person in general. But I am somewhat ashamed to say that, when presented with one of those Cholera forms, I always try to figure out who the carrier is. I know I am not alone in this. I don’t want to know the information so that I can alienate the child or fault the parents. I am not looking for a Hester Prynne to make an example of. I just feel like information is power; it gives me a (perhaps false) feeling of control. I have even been known to quiz my son in order to determine who in his first grade class has strep.

What? You thought I was perfect?

Meanwhile, in order to contain the lice, Zoe’s preschool class clears out all bedding, dress-up clothing, soft toys, and carpeting. By the end of the week, the place looks rather depressing, with children wandering around mumbling to their hands as if they were puppets, with no place to sit comfortably.

Still, the preschool families carry on. On the evening before the second lice check, there is a cocktail party for the parents in Zoe and Lola’s class. It is a lovely get-together, sophisticated and friendly. One friend has gotten her hair blown straight for the occasion. Another, donned almost 24/7 in workout pants, wears heels. It feels nice to be so social in January. Like a grown-up playdate, complete with dress-up.

The next morning there is indeed bad news from the preschool: two more cases of lice have been discovered. What’s more, the moms of the two infected children have lice as well. I try to remain calm as a flashback forms of the night before. Did I bump heads with anyone at the soire? Share hats? How far can these buggers jump, anyway?

Word on the street is that Pantene conditioner should be combed through one’s hair and left on for ten minutes. Done weekly, this can ward off lice. I think the class moms should run to CVS and get supplies for everyone. I also think that I should buy stock in Proctor and Gamble and consider going to school for my Nitpicker’s license. There are areas of our economy that are strong, after all!

I hear that LiceEnders is visiting the middle school that day, so I go over and get in line, trying to blend in with some Popham sixth graders. I emerge from the nurse’s office clean, though not without some funny looks from the staff.

“Didn’t you resign from here?” One teacher asks, not unkindly.

“Yeah, but I can’t resist the free lice checks!” I laugh. “I’m a recessionista, remember?”

“I personally don’t see what the big deal is.” Another teacher shrugs. “It’s not like an STD. I mean, to qualify for lice, all you have to do is live. It shouldn’t be so taboo.” There are nods all around.

Ah, society. Zoe has faced her first Winter Cotillion and emerged relatively unscathed. I am happy to report that she and Lola have made-up and are back to sharing toys, though headbands are verboten.

Lola’s mom and I are on our way as well. Last weekend, at a birthday party, she and I chatted over pizza and cake.

“You know, I was thinking. You should really write about this lice thing,” she suggested.

Giving me an idea for an article? Letting me share her secret with all of Scarsdale? Now that’s someone I’d like to be friends with.

A Strong Case of Grandmother Attachment Disorder

I know she’s probably very busy right now, but I’d really like to sit down with the new First Lady and have a little chat about our mothers. In case you haven’t heard, Michelle Obama’s mom, Marian Robinson, just moved into the White House with the first family to help take care of Malia and Sasha.

“There is nothing that makes me rest more, now that I have to work, than to know that my kids are being loved and cared for by someone who's teaching them values and discipline, and giving them a little extra candy every now and then,” Michelle Obama told reporters on the day in early January when the announcement of her mother’s new (albeit, perhaps, temporary) living arrangements became official. Upon hearing this, some journalists went online, on the air, and into print with responses like, good for her. How lucky to have such a dedicated grandmother to escort the Obamas and to support the girls through this rough transition. Other journalists saw this as a way in to a story about boosting the profile of a “forgotten” generation of active, vibrant and often overlooked senior citizens.

Not this journalist. This journalist read between the lines of that comment, and saw the deeper, grittier truth there. This journalist, a mother of two like the First Lady with a grandmother attachment disorder of her own, saw her own world reflected right back at her. What this journalist saw was a classic combination of the eye-roll delivered while voicing the word “candy.” Now, taken out of context, this move is meaningless. But when used in conversation about one’s mother and one’s children in tandem, it becomes a rather significant gesture. You see, what the First Lady said was “sometimes my kids get extra candy from their grandmother.” But what I heard was, “When it comes to my children, sometimes my mother doesn’t listen to me.” Watching her that night on CNN, I knew I had found a true friend in Michelle Obama.

In all fairness, the Obamas have said that when Marian Robinson takes care of the girls at their house, she follows the rules pretty well, giving Malia and Sasha organic snacks and only allowing them one hour of television viewing a day. However, when Ms. Robinson takes the girls to her own house, all bets are off. There is candy a-plenty, movies on the DVD player, and late nights spent hanging out together and playing board games.

Sounding familiar to anyone out there?

A lot of grandparents and their adult children have a similar understanding. When I send my three and six-year-old children to “Nana’s country house,” for example, I know that Cheerios will be swapped out for Fruit Loops and donuts. The rest of the day is a nutritional downward spiral from there, as “chocolate chip” becomes synonymous with “lunch time” and “more noodles” is the code for “dinner.” Under my mother’s skilled hand, the traditional food pyramid is turned on its head and spun like a top until it resembles a double-helix of sugars and complex carbohydrates.

It’s like magic!

But do not misunderstand me: this is not a criticism of my mother, nor of the First Lady’s mother. It is merely a fact of life. Under the guidelines of Grandmother Attachment Disorder, I know full well – as does Michelle Obama -- that there is a price to pay for a little “me” time, and that this price is well worth it.

We love our mothers, we need our mothers, our children beg for our mothers. Don’t let their cheerful, calm, sweet exterior fool you: these keen seniors know we need them, and, because of this, they have the upper hand. Herein lies the crux of the attachment disorder. Because if my husband and I need someone truly loving and responsible to watch the kids while we go to work, or ever hope to get a weekend away from the children, we have to know that, while we’re not looking, these grandmas are gonna break some of our rules.

We have to know that while they will never ever put our children in harm’s way (except for that one time at Nana’s country house when my son Andrew ate too many donuts and then jumped on the couch and then threw up), they might just choose to ignore most of our advice in favor of their own special brand of care. And, annoying as this sometimes is, we have to agree that there’s something really great about giving up control of our children to the person or people who helped make us who we are.

For me, that means looking the other way as an ever-increasing parade of stuffed animals march into the house behind my daughter every Monday, when Nana is in charge of school pick-up. It also means that, courtesy of Nana, my son has enough Kooky pens to barter his way through the rest of elementary school.

If my mom were on the verge of residing in the White House, she would hire a decorator to turn her living quarters into an intoxicating hybrid of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory and Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. Entrance to her rooms would not be guarded by secret service, but rather by a portrait hung somewhere between Carter and Ford of an animated Fat Lady, a la Harry Potter. Only those who know the secret password would be allowed inside. (The secret password would be, of course, “candy,” except on alternating Tuesdays when the password changes to “gum.”)

But as The First Lady and I also know, grandmothers provide services that go beyond spoiling our kids. After Andrew was born, my mother moved in with us for a week. I was exhausted and getting used to breast-feeding and incredibly nervous about taking care of this tiny new person. Having my mother there made a huge difference in my sanity and in my growing comfort with becoming a mother. Many friends of mine hire a baby nurse to help them handle the transition to motherhood. But I couldn’t think of anyone more qualified for the job than my very own mother. I mean, really, who better to pass that torch? Who else could possibly ensure that I made the same mistakes from day one?On Andrew’s third night home from the hospital, the three of us put our heads together and made the executive decision that it was time to give the baby his first bath. We outfitted the kitchen sink with the new molded plastic bath seat from Buy, Buy Baby and surrounded ourselves with hypoallergenic houte couture baby bath products, Supima cotton baby washcloths, rubber duckies big and small, and custom-monogrammed infant hoodie towels.

Andrew wailed like a maniac. “Are we doing the right thing?” My husband Brett screamed to my mom over the deafening roar. He and I were trying desperately to keep Andrew’s soapy, writhing, red, and wrinkled seven-pound body from slipping onto the tumbled marble tile beneath us.

“Is he too cold? Is the water temperature okay?” I called out to my mom, to Brett, to any sort of God. “Maybe we shouldn’t be giving him a bath yet?!” I wondered, loudly and with increasing frustration.

“Mom! What do you think?” I cried.

And there she was, camera in hand, aiming the lens at the three freaks by the sink. “I think he’s fine. Smile everybody!”

At the end of that week, my mom moved back to her apartment in the city where my step-father was patiently waiting for her. That day was one of the loneliest days of my life. Brett had gone back to work, and I remember thinking: how the heck am I going to do this? Who put me in charge here? I suddenly had a new job title and a new way of framing myself to the world, and the whole thing, as awesome and exciting as it was, was sincerely overwhelming.

In the days following the announcement about Marian Robinson, I imagined the First Granny packing up her suitcases and some boxes of candy-coated contraband and heading to DC from Chicago. I thought about how she probably wasn’t just doing this to help Sasha and Malia, but her daughter Michelle too. Because no matter how old we are, how accomplished in the world, or how brave, there are times in our lives when we just need our mommies. I would think that becoming First Lady of the United States would certainly qualify.I mean, if you’re speaking to the press about your views on world hunger, your mom is the one who will tell you that you have spinach in your teeth moments before going on camera. When you need to figure out what to wear to a diplomat’s dinner party, you can trust your mom’s brutal honesty to pull you through. And in a leadership position that probably allows very little room for real relationships, you can vent to your mother, worry with your mother, and gossip like hell about all of Washington with your mother.

Overall, you can tell that I’m very much in favor of this new living arrangement for the Obama family. But I do have one serious concern: now that they are all living under the same roof, whose rules…rule? I believe that, like the very government they are running, the Obama household will rely on a system of checks and balances as outlined in the US constitution. The President will serve as the executive branch (natch), his wife will act as the judiciary branch (as all mothers do), and the First Granny will get to have a say in just about everything as the legislative branch of the family.

Maybe I don’t need to talk to The First Lady after all. Malia and Sasha are clearly in good hands. And so is she.