'No' means 'no'

I try to be a “good” parent. You know, the kind of parent that commands some respect. ‘No’ means ‘no.’ I do not allow my children to “talk back” to me. (Well, at least, so my personal dogma states). They must use proper manners. I try. They perform quite well when the need arises, so I have to assume they have figured out the difference between what I do and what I actually mean.

Which is probably how children become good negotiators.

On Saturday morning I attended a very watered down version of a “boot camp” class. A friend convinced me to go. Since the instructor talked most of the time, I knew I wouldn’t be sore. I realized Sunday that if I sat down I would never get up. Fortunately, I don’t sit down much, but I did a lot of pained limping. (My husband is still injured.)

At 7pm, I could no longer avoid shoveling the driveway. I limped into my boots.

“Mommy! I’ll go out with you!”

“No, Gladys, its dark.”

“Please! I’ll stay right where you are.”

“No, Gladys, its really, really cold Sweetie, and dark. Stay in.”

“Please!”

I went out. See, I thought: ‘no’ means ‘no’.

I saw Gladys jumping up and down in the window of our front door. “Thump. Thump.” She kept hitting the door.

I waved. “Thump. Thump.”

A moment passed and then I saw her head pop up above the window and stay there.

Okay, she got a stool. She can watch. Perfect.

She waved. I waved. She tried to get my attention. Then, again she disappeared. (I would find out later that she took her case to her father. She was busy negotiating.)

I saw her head pop out again. Once more it disappeared, and then the door opened.

“Mommy! It will go MUCH faster if you let me help.”

Those are my words. “Honey, it will go much faster if you just let me help.” Those are Mommy’s very frustrated words that come tumbling out when I just don’t have the patience to watch my small children struggle with what ought to be simple tasks. They aren’t simple to them, of course, but to watch them learn can occasionally cause my reserves of patience to empty and my eyes begin to cross.

That is exactly what I say. That is exactly my tone of voice. She knew the right button.

“Alright, Gladys.” I lean my shovel against the garage, and go in to see if she needs help getting ready.

She shoveled a lot of snow for someone who weighs barely 40lbs. We talked most of the time. I thanked her. Towards the end of the driveway, she paused.

“You know, Mommy, I really came out here because you shouldn’t be out here all by yourself.”

Cunning. Empathetic. Caring. Girls shouldn’t be too obedient anyhow.

Wasn’t this about ‘no’ meaning ‘no’?

School's out, Mommy's IN

School has been cancelled Friday due to arctic temperatures. Having grown up further South, my recollection is that school should be cancelled because it “might snow some.” But, since we already have over a foot or so of snow (who’s counting?) on the ground, I guess nothing short of arctic temperatures slows down the people of Cleveland.

We rock even in subarctic temperatures.

And so I bring you my top 10 reasons why it is fun to raise kids in Cleveland in the winter:

1. If there is a hill, you have sledding.

2. The snow banks along the sidewalk keep your toddler from running into the street on the way to the bus stop. (Are you wondering if I defrosted that pancake before I gave it to him?)


3. After losing his gloves once before outdoor recess, my son no longer loses his gloves. Brrrrrrr.

4. Boots are much easier to pull on quickly than most regular children’s shoes.

5. If you are wearing boots, finding four pairs of matching socks is no longer necessary. (Shhh!!!)

6. After the soda pop can explodes in the back of your van, you have a ‘teachable moment’ in which to explain the expansion of ice and pressure formation. And, after the lesson, you can quickly clean the soda from the back of your van with a whisk broom. (I’m not kidding. It didn’t melt even after 40 minutes of running errands).

7. You can make ice cubes, quickly and efficiently, on your front porch. (This makes a great science experiment, is free, and takes less than an hour!) Try it with salt water too.





8. On days that are too cold to make a snowman (snow won’t stick into balls), you can fill a squeeze bottle with water and food coloring for snow painting fun!



9. Inspired by the marks left by our wheeled trash can, Gladys began making designs with her scooter. More winter fun!

10. And, after enjoying that wholesome winter wonderland, you can enjoy a dainty cup of hot chocolate.

Of course, when your toddler forgets the word "leaf" and doesn't believe green is a color of nature, you can take them all downtown to the Cleveland Botanical Gardens to refresh your senses. I can breathe that moist, humid air just thinking about it . . . .

Dress warmly. Enjoy the weather!

The Lucky Pencil

"Mo-om!" Andrew called. "Could you get down the pencil box so I can find my lucky pencil?"

We were getting ready to do homework.

"Andrew, which one is your lucky pencil??" Gladys asked, excited to hear this tantalizing information.

I felt my stomach tighten. "Great," I thought. "It is late afternoon and my kids will be fighting over a rediculous pencil. This is all I need. Think quick."

And then, Andrew answered.

"My lucky pencil is whichever pencil is lucky enough to be chosen by ME."

"Great! I'm going to choose MY lucky pencil too!" Gladys chimed in cheerfully.



Have yourself a very, very lucky day everyone!

Ambitious. Tenacious. Energetic. Exhausting?

About a week ago I met someone new, a mother. Very early in our meeting she asked me about my background. Before I finished she said:

“Oh. I’m exhausted just listening.”

For the past week, I have been in denial of the comment, looking for ways to bend it into the neat bow of a compliment.

Ambitious. Tenacious. Energetic. . . . Exhausting? Really?

Then Saturday came.

I woke up happy: ambitious, tenacious, energetic. My husband lay injured on the couch. (As much as I am quick to tease, he really was injured.)

I made a full breakfast, ate a pancake before cleaning up, and began making homemade Slovenian dumplings with Andrew and Gladys: ambitious.

After a lunch of dumplings (I ate two), we took a break to shovel the driveway. The 12 inches of heavy snow resisted even the most tenacious of mothers, but we finished half of the driveway (enough to release my van) before we set off for the sled hill.







The deep snow required that I carry Gladys on my back for the 100 yards or more through the trees and up to the top of the sled hill. We sledded. I carried her home: energetic.



Between 4:30 and 5:30pm, I warmed Gladys’ p.j.s in the dryer and brought her back to room temperature, made hot chocolate, showered, dressed, and made a quick dinner that my husband was feeding the children as I ran out the door.

I called ahead to apologize . . . 10 minutes late . . . my friends greeted me with a glass of wine at the bar. (I LOVE my friends). Together we walked over to the funeral home to comfort our friend who lost her mother. I feel I should say something here, but there is nothing to say.

After the visitation, a few of us returned to the bar. We ordered wine and appetizers. The conversation followed the expected thread for post-visitation chatter. At that natural lull in conversation, Cate lifted her glass:

“To Casey!”

“To Casey!” Anna and I lifted ours in humble respect – but with a cheer that could have been interpreted as celebration. Cate and I had met through Casey. Due to her own loss in the Fall, we had never shared our respects together. (The visitation was not Casey's, it was my friend's mother).

“From what I know of Casey,” Anna said, “this is very appropriate.”

“No,” I laughed, “we should be drinking shots to Casey!”

“True. This is far too tame,” Cate agreed with a smile.

“Yes, too conventional, too expected, she’d have a laugh at us.”

We all laughed and followed with our accolades for our lost friend: ambitious, tenacious, energetic - the echo of a eulogy that never was.

We were all surprised when shots appeared at our table. In retrospect, someone must have had heard us. None of us would have actually considered ordering them. (Well, maybe Casey would have.)

I would soon find myself pickled in a way I had not experienced in many, many years. In the next few hours we outlined a multi-million-dollar corporation, reviewed metaphysics, and redefined religion.

The evening ended at an hour more appropriately called morning with that inevitable conversation that ensures safe passage home.

There was no bill.

So, Casey, if you are reading this, thank you for taking us out Saturday night. You are always welcome to stop by. We all had a really nice time. And, we would greatly appreciate it if you would pull up a chair for our friend’s mother who is heading your way. Yes, I know you’ll welcome her. Thank you.

As for the rest of us down here, don’t wait up.

We are too busy being ambitious, tenacious, energetic . . . .



. . . . and, perhaps, a little exhausting.

The Line Up

It is true. I never was a cheerleader.

Sometime in junior high I decided I would try out. My sister dropped me off, shaking her head. My parents probably thought it was a little unusual, but kept their hands in their pockets. The others had probably encouraged my brother to keep his mouth shut. I don’t recall the details.

What I do remember is that the routines were not particularly difficult. The ladies in charge did not seem particularly nice. And, after one full day of being told to smile more, I had simply had enough. My cheeks hurt from smiling. Who smiles THAT much?

Well, a lot of the other girls seemed to manage it.

(I guess I don’t find standing on the sidelines something to smile about.)

The fact that I am not grinning from ear to ear on a minute-by-minute basis should not give the reader the idea that I am not happy. On the contrary, I am deliciously happy.

Just ask my daughter.

Andrew asked her the other day about her paper dolls. “Gladys, why do you always just put a straight line for their mouths?”

I could post hundreds of pictures of faces like these. This is how Gladys always draws faces.

About a year or more ago I noticed it myself. Not wanting to criticize her work, I asked her to draw a ‘happy face’ for me. Honestly, as a parent you start to wonder if there is something wrong. You know, some social worker is going to see her pictures and think she comes from a terribly depressing home.

She drew a circle with two eyes.

“See, Mommy! Doesn’t she have a beautiful smile?!”

“What do you use to smile, Gladys?”

“My eyes,” she said, squinting and sticking her fingers in her eyes.

Our Irish eyes are smiling.

Where do you keep your smile?

I give you a rediculous lymric

Alright my friends, there really is no excuse for this bad poetry, but please let me explain anyway. You see, a mutual friend is collecting "prescriptions of love" for another friend whose cancer is now in remission.

It is a wonderful thing.

It deserves better than this.

I wrote a lovely poem for him and his family in November. In December, I dedicated a thoughtful Haiku to accompany nearly 1000 cranes. Now, in January, this group of friends is dedicating a final, personal prescription book. Each person or family should complete a page for this book.

Like I said, there is no excuse for bad poetry (oh, its not even a poem, its a lymric, even worse). Here it is anyway.

There Once was a Man from Ohio

There once was a man from Ohio,
Who was handsome bald – me oh my Oh!
Although he was sick,
Smiles did the trick
I can’t make that rhyme if I try - no.

I will have to try something new now,
To keep you from feeling too blue now.
This IS what I know. I’ll give it a go.
What is this poor poet to do now?

I’m not even writing this poem,
Not sure what it will even show him.
What I want to say,
Won’t come my way.
I’ll have to leave this one at ho-em.

Well, Cancer just isn’t that funny.
If it was then I’d make some money.
It turns out it sucks,
So forget big bucks.
I write poems like moths make their honey.

I am glad these poems are over,
(If your dear wife reads this I’ll owe her.)
‘Cause Valentine hearts,
Just rhymes with farts.
And in March – What fool rhymes with clover?

I forgot that ‘prescription of love.’
That’s what I am supposed to think of.
For what you should do? I haven’t a clue.
Did you read that fool poem above?

New Years' Resolutions

We cut our New Years’ cake and went around the table.

“I’m going to get better at making things from wood. You know, like the picnic table in the backyard. And, I want to get better at cooking dishes from all over the world,” Andrew said.

I have to admit that his resolution was not entirely expected by me. But, we do try to allow them to set their own goals. Knowing that my childrens’ resolutions generally require my assistance on some level, I kept mine pretty simple.

“I’m going to find a new vegetable dish that this whole family likes every month.”

My children did not seem very excited. I reassured them.

“Yes, I know. You don’t love vegetables. But, we don’t try new things with vegetables very much. You LOVE smoked pork. If I bought a frozen pork chop and microwaved it, you wouldn’t like pork either. You’ve never tried really GOOD vegetables. You’ll see.”

That’s what I said. I hoped I said it convincingly. It is true. We always have vegetables around, but they are rarely very inspired. I went on to say that we could cook vegetables from all over the world, so we could do both our resolutions at the same time. We talked about options.

Jump a few hours. I’m making a grocery list.

“Andrew, what do you want in your school lunch this week, Honey?”

“Spinach tortellini and pumpkin bread, from scratch.”

“Spinach tortellini from scratch?”

“Yes, that is one way that I like vegetables. That’s the plan, right? You know, to cook vegetables that we all like? Remember, I tried a free sample at the store.”

Sigh. Spinach tortellini? Really?

On Saturday, Andrew and I made spinach tortellini from scratch. I could have said ‘no’ but somewhere deep inside I felt that I was setting a precedent for the year. And, that somehow a failure in this realm was better than giving up entirely. It wouldn’t hurt to fail once. So we waste a few eggs and a few cups of flour. It would be a funny memory. We went to the grocery store. We started cooking.

The filling was easy: chop, dump, stir. No cooking. I played ‘sous chef’ and chopped the spinach, but the kids did the rest. (Even Emeril has a ‘sous chef.’)

The first batch of pasta was in the mixer looking like a bunch of rough pebbles. All of the ingredients had been added, but it needed more moisture. So, we added more egg and oil and mixed some more. We kneaded it and put it in the bowl to rest. Skeptical, I thought we should make one more batch. Disaster waited. We would need several tries.

This time, I gave Andrew all of the ingredients and set off to find a diet Coke.

“You can do it,” I encouraged. “Just add the eggs and oil until it looks right,” I said not really sure what it meant to ‘look right.’


When I returned, Andrew was using his entire strength to knead the dough. When the first batch was fully rested, I cut it in half and gave it to him, along with the pasta machine. We talked briefly about how to use it. I told him to run it through three times on the first setting, folding it each time. We looked again at the recipe and decided that setting 5 or 6 would work just fine.

“I can do it, Mom. Okay?”

When my husband walked through, Andrew was cranking the machine and easing out the dough all by himself. My husband offered to help. He began to make a suggestion. But, quickly saw that Andrew had it under control, probably more than we could ever imagine.



With each strip of dough, Andrew cut out circles and gave them to me.



I filled and wrapped the best tortellini I have ever had. The kids gobbled them up.



Today, Andrew has spinach tortellini and pumpkin bread (we made that Sunday) in his lunchbox.

Once again, I have a newfound respect for my son and the additional resolution to remember to ‘let them fail’ just a little more often.

So, what was Gladys’ resolution? She wants to learn how to clean better.

I’m hoping she figures it out.

Maybe she’ll teach me someday.