Sticky Situation

Somewhere in my career as a parent I read an article about how toddlers have a difficult time making generalizations. Toddlers, for example, will put a blue marble in their mouth. The parent will say something like,

“Honey, please don’t put that in your mouth.”

And, the toddler, theoretically unable to extend the generalization, will put the red marble in their mouth to determine if they receive the same reaction. The parent will thus repeat the recommendation, and the toddler continue this “testing” until they have exhausted all of the marbles, or, more likely, until they have exhausted the parent.

As the mother of three, I can quickly debunk this theory. I have three kinds of children. I have a child like George, who will listen to your recommendation and likely refrain from putting anything else in his mouth ever (including food). I have a child like Gladys, who will find your reactions intriguing and change up the test by “testing” with multiple marbles at once. And, I have a child like Andrew, who will explain that he is merely practicing his oration skills and will convince you to buy more marbles and encourage the others to chew them as well.

They are all perfectly capable of generalizations.

I also know, for example, that as soon as George learned the word “cow” everything with four legs of a similar shape (horses, zebras, even giraffes) became “cow.” And, having been called “Mommy” by enough children who do not belong in my family, I know children are very capable of understanding that “Mommy” can easily be generalized to mean “the woman who is currently in charge.”

In our house, like many houses, we have an “all food in the kitchen” rule. This means that my children are highly discouraged from wandering about with pretzels and bologna and cheese and other things that I might later find behind the piano. (This is not to say that I keep a pristine house, but rather that I have a distaste for cleaning bologna from behind the piano – especially very old bologna).

Sunday evening in our house, like in many houses, we watched the Superbowl. This annual tradition brings with it food outside the kitchen. Yes, indeed, there were chips and dip in the family room.

So, as a parent of three, I am jumping to the conclusion that George’s behavior tonight falls under the category of “mimicking” behavior, and not a lack of listening or ability to generalize. But, just in case,

“No using syrup as a dipping sauce for pretend French toast on the living room couch. Please. Um, especially when left unattended for an embarrassingly long few minutes.”




Thank you. The Mommy.

Ranchero Venezuela

I try not to pigeonhole my children. Certainly, I imagine that they will be doctors, lawyers, engineers, perhaps the President of the United States. I am their mother. I can tell you with certainty that they rank far above average, show uncanny brilliance, and will be successful in anything they attempt. That is my job.

My first born, particularly, might as well be Mozart as far as I am concerned. Just ask me. Much to my surprise, he received a guitar from his loving grandparents for Christmas. Yes, he has asked for a guitar in the past, but I have not passed this information on to anyone. I have made it clear to him that he must master the piano before taking on another musical instrument. (I know, what a mean parent).

So, when my young musical prodigy received a guitar, he immediately recalled that his piano teacher also gives instruction in guitar. He plays his guitar all the time. He walks around the house strumming it, sometimes picking out parts of a tune. He insisted on bringing his guitar to piano lesson.

“But Mom, he teaches guitar, he can teach me how to play this. Right now it sounds beautiful, but I can barely play a song on it.”

Heavy sigh.

He ran into the family room to grab the guitar on his way out the door. He keeps it very carefully in the box it came in. It is a very special item. He carried it carefully out the door.

In a similar manner, my first-born son convinced me to enroll him in Spanish lessons just last week. How do you say no to a child who desperately wants to learn a foreign language?

So, my first-born son, walking quickly-but-carefully into the Arts Center for his guitar/piano lesson, confessed his plan.

“Mom, just think, we can go to Mexico and I’ll get a job playing guitar in a restaurant!”

Oh, and why is his name Ranchero Venezuela?

For the same reason that Sally, I mean Gladys, is Fonsero Venezuela.

I am sure it is all in the plan. Sometimes, they even tell their mother.

Finding Myself in the Rain

I leaned against the spitting rain, the biting wind, forcing the double stroller ahead of me. George, six weeks old, and Gladys, almost 2 yrs snuggled beneath cozy blankets. Andrew, 4 yrs, held firmly to the side of the stroller, half running, feeling his mother’s tension veiled in her words.

“You’re doing great, Honey! Hold on tight . . . we’re just a few minutes late . . . I’m SO excited you are finally going to meet Mommy’s friends!”

My mind wandered from the details of the next hour, and back to how that particularly unlikely hour came to be.

In June 2002, seven months pregnant with my first-born, I decided to join the NE Ohio Chapter of MIT Alumni. I still knew fewer than a half dozen souls in the Cleveland area. The past year had changed me, as other years had I suppose, but in a much more personal way.

Only one year earlier, I had quit everything I had built up since graduating college. My last day of work in May 2001, I was confirmed pregnant. That was the plan – I had decided to take on the adventure of a lifetime (most people just call it motherhood, I suppose, but for me it was a very big decision). I decided to stay home: full-time. I would do it at least until the children were “old enough,” whatever that meant. I didn’t know. I felt blind, but excited, even adventurous.

At 11 weeks we lost the baby.

The event, dramatic as it unfolded, paled in comparison to the emotional turmoil. I recall the two days of recovery in a cheaply paneled motel room near Whitefish, Montana. But, I digress.

The following months were spent on relocation, fertility treatments, and various applications (Would I ever be a mom?). And, of course, rebuilding myself, reminding myself daily that even the most valid decisions, the best plans . . . some things, I learned, were just out of my control.

I wasn’t sure exactly who I was. Was I an ex-engineer? A mommy wanna-be? I settled on the term “lady of leisure,” which I would say with a half-smile, and a wink of confidence, followed by tears after I returned to my car.

So, in June 2002, seven months pregnant with my first-born, I attended my first meeting of the NE Ohio Chapter of MIT Alumni. I spent three days deciding what to wear, three hours brushing my hair, and 30 minutes looking in my mirror practicing how to say “I’m a stay at home mom” in the most convincingly proud manner.

I wasn’t even sure I was considered a ‘mom’ yet. The word stuck to me uncomfortably, like the sticky syrup in my hair would a few years later. I walked in, belly first, full of confidence. I fully expected no one would understand my decision to stay home. I steeled myself against the anticipated sideways looks. But, if I met only one person that day, I would consider it a success. If I found some way to contribute, to be part of the community, then I would celebrate all the way home.

The meeting was just a meeting, uneventful in a normal sort of way. I went home vaguely proud of myself; sheepishly realizing that my harshest critic looked back at me in the mirror every single morning.

(That “critical old lady” in the grocery store reflected the evil witch of my own conscience.)

Those successful men and women at the MIT meeting, comfortable in their own skin, never questioned the validity of my decisions. They accepted my successful life in MY definition of success.

Eventually, I met more than a few great people, and I had the honor of participating on a terrific committee.

At one particular meeting, I walked out of the restaurant with a gentleman with a cane. I felt honored to meet him, even more honored to know him as a fellow alumni. On our way out, we enjoyed a few minutes of private conversation. He leaned towards me.

“You know,” he said, “you are very sharp and ambitious. I am sure when you feel like it, you will have no problem enjoying any career you choose. But,” he continued, “you are doing the most important work right now. You are the most successful person.”

So, with the spitting rain drenching my hastily brushed hair, my three children and I entered one of the nicer restaurants in the Cleveland area. Still panting more than I prefer to admit, I answered the hostess.

“I’m with the MIT Alumni Club.”

She looked at me. She looked down at her list quizzically. Just then, I saw one of my friends waving me over from the table in the corner.

“You brought them! You finally brought them all. Oh, we are so delighted to see your new baby.”

A chair was pulled up, and I joined the group with honor, leaving my harshest critic back in the car, at least for now.

Gladys' 4th Birthday

We celebrated Gladys’ birthday with friends yesterday. My burning desire to record this event leaves me befuddled at how to start. The party was a typical, traditional party at home.

The fabulous smoked ham menu we had planned changed at the last minute. The budget to which I restrict myself begged for ham – you know, something that works well for leftovers. The menu became freshly smoked salmon (with dill/chive cream cheese, red onion, boiled eggs & bagels), mushroom strata, stuffed French toast with marscapone and orange marmalade, homemade waffles, assorted bacon and sausage, shired eggs (ramekins of ham, eggs & cheese), fresh banana bread, and homemade scones. Phew.

Fortunately, I didn't cook.

The man who lovingly read between my words and catered this elegant spread declines to be mentioned. However, I share with you a photo of the piece de resistance; the work of a man preparing for his little girl’s fourth birthday.

I should mention, too, that my very classy friend also read between the lines and realized that the smoked ham smelled, well, fishy, considering every birthday I have thrown for Gladys has (yes, every time) included smoked salmon (oh, and also included my very classy friend). I believe we also served it at her baptism (not my friend, the salmon, although she was there too). She appeared at my door with a beautiful tray of smoked salmon. The gesture threw a classy flourish on a sisterly ‘Do I have to think of Everything for you?’ which she wouldn’t dare admit to have thought. Anyway, fish has become a currency of our friendship, though no one keeps the books.

I try to be practical – but they know me a little too well.

Which brings me to the champagne punch. Feeling, well, practical, I decided to thrift the punch. (I know. I know.) By some twist of destiny, in searching out my special tulip bowl I received as a wedding gift so many years ago, (to fill with goldfish crackers, of course), I stumbled upon a bottle of champagne.

Fate required mimosas.

I made Gladys’ cake Saturday with the children. The bottom layer MUST be carrot cake, the top two layers chocolate. I found this both amusing and frightening. Gladys doesn’t like carrot cake: Andrew’s favorite. She tortures him and reels him back like a woman well beyond her tender years. While they slumbered, I decorated the triple layer heart cake to Gladys’ specifications. She loved it. Sunday morning, George tested to make sure it met his taste specifications. (Oh, yes, quite to specification.)

I finished Gladys’ bright green tulip jumper Saturday night. While we were sewing together Saturday afternoon (and I was dutifully changing thread color for every new seam) Gladys declared her plan to NOT wear the dress at her birthday party. I kept my cool.

“Well, Honey, if you don’t really want it, I guess we could sell it on the Internet.”

Here dashes a green streak of corduroy on her birthday, proving that she did in fact wear it until it spontaneously became sticky with syrup. She then became a streak of pink corduroy (with wings, of course). No, she doesn’t play me like a fiddle, more like a cello really.

Then, there was the entertainment. I admit that I generally rely on an incredible mix of fascinating individuals to provide their own amusement, but this time I even planned a craft. The children “beaded” their scarves. This, in fact, went precisely as planned. (Except for a few moments when I couldn’t find George. He sat sweetly listening to a story read by a five-year-old girl.) What I did not realize was that the actual entertainment would come later, in the form of a box.

Here is a picture of a man of great prominence in his company, dragging children, shrieking with laughter, through my home on an in impromptu sled.





Simply put, nothing about this party looked, smelled, or even sounded as I had planned it. Everyone who surrounds me with love added something unexpected.

And that, simply put, is a perfect party.

Thorough Party Preparations (Gladys turning 4)

Gladys’ birthday party will be this Sunday, a brunch. I have thought of every detail. We have a fabulous menu: smoked ham, mushroom & swiss egg strata (casserole), homemade waffles, champagne punch . . . yummmmm.

This morning, Gladys and I made special paper flowers to decorate our home. She lovingly picked special colors and dedicated each flower to a different guest.

I have a fun, easy, and really cool craft planned (which will double as the goodie bag – I’m feeling so clever about that). We will bead scarves. Here is a picture of the “example.”

I am even making a special jumper for Gladys to wear, which she designed all by herself. She picked the color, drew the flowers (which I transferred to her choice of fabrics), and picked their ultimate locations on the jumper. I used the same simple pattern as her heart jumper from the first day of school.

So cute!!

As I was feeling rather posh and clever and generally rather full of myself, I noticed something in the corner. It was, you see, a very elegant and festive decorative item that I had spent a lot of time on in December.

But, unfortunately, even the most festive and elegant holiday decoration loses its luster come January. In fact, it even loses many of its pine needles. The words ‘fire hazard’ come to mind.

So, yesterday morning, January 22nd, I dragged our pitiful, dried out, tree out to the curb.

For the record, this is what a Hoover vacuum canister looks like after cleaning up from a tree that has witnessed two presidential administrations.


Go Hoover!

Sigh.

Okay, now we are ready for the party.

Well, another bottle of champagne wouldn’t hurt.

The Wrinkled Truth

About a year ago, in weeks preceding my birthday, I discovered something. Perhaps it was the time passing, wobbly but swift like a child newly freed of his training wheels. Perhaps it was the arctic temperatures, the air dry from a thermostat set higher than my otherwise green conscience should have allowed. Perhaps it was that extra cup of coffee, (grabbed in haste by a woman deprived of sleep, devoted to family), persistently and insidiously squeezing every last molecule of moisture from a soul who nearly worshipped her water in days gone by. In the end, it was that old lady smiling, squinting from the bright snow, gazing back at me through the salt encrusted windows of my own minivan who told me the truth.

I discovered a skin care emergency: wrinkles, carved by joy, but beyond my years.

I did what any logical woman would do: research. I considered my options. Since I have two very good friends in the skin care industry, I consulted them each at length. I heard about chemistry, derm layers, pores, moisture barriers and moisture absorption and departed my friends with samples of each of their products (bless their hearts). Both friends ensured me that in just three or four weeks, I would certainly be pleased with the improvements.

Since both of those friends have integrity beyond question, I had to assume both made excellent recommendations. Both products would certainly work. One was more expensive than the other, and that was certainly a consideration. But, I wanted to know which one was right for ME. After all, everyone’s skin is certainly different. How would I know? Which do I use first? Would using the first one make my skin so nice that the effect of the second one would not be noticed?

I had a plan.

On the left side of my countertop, I placed Jane's cream. On the right side I kept a sample of Jill's. Every morning and evening for four weeks I put Jane’s cream on the left side of my face and Jill’s on the right. Yes, I really did that.

After about a week, I noticed a difference on both sides of my face. I happened to run into Jane at preschool and mentioned my experiment.

“You aren’t really doing that.”

“Of course I am really doing it. How else will I know for sure? If they are both the same, then the less expensive one wins.”

“That’s, well, unique. Let me know how that works out. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” she hurried off, seeking shelter both from the snow and her crazy friend.

Right. Well, as it turned out, Jane's won. I could really tell a difference. And, in the end, I was willing to pay a little extra for the product I preferred.

Of course, I’m not suggesting that you should buy something simply because of my test, but if you have been wondering, try your own experiment.

Just try it. Really.

Oh, but don’t tell anyone in the preschool parking lot. They will think you are as nutty as their friend MIT Mommy.

Colorful Character

Vote for Miss Sunshine for President! I did.

(Although she wasn’t on the ballot literally, as parents, we always vote for our children, for their future. In the picture, she is showing off her pretty stars.)

My children and I watched Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s “I have a dream speech today.” The media brimmed with links between Dr. King and President-elect Obama, two unmistakably charismatic black men. I understand the historical significance of a man of color reaching the White House. Perhaps we have all been holding our breath all these years and can now give a collective sigh. After tomorrow, that symbolic event will be part of the tapestry of American history like so many other events that have shaped the great nation we have become.

I listened closely to Dr. King. He spoke of non-violence, unity, the fact that our destinies are woven together, some specific grievances (many of which serve as a vivid reminder of what life was like in the 1960s), and, of course, the dream that we will all one day be judged by “the content of our character, rather than the color of our skin.” Today, those ideas are so unarguable, that in itself should be considered a great success.

(Trust me, I don’t brush aside the fact that there is still prejudice of all stripes. We may never stamp it out entirely, but our objection to it is an important first step.)

The phrase that speaks to me, however, is the concept of being judged by the ‘content of character,’ not race, not religion, not the Prada bag on your shoulder, not the fancy title on your business card, not even the teeth missing in your head.

This ideal clings to us as Americans.

What does that mean, really? Are we ever judged by the content of our character? Would I be ready for such scrutiny?

In context, I believe he wanted to tell us that jobs should be given to those who best fill the position, people should go to jail only if they have beyond-a-doubt broken the laws to justify such a punishment: people are responsible for their successes AND their failures. Government does not give or take away, but simply arranges the structure within which we succeed or fail on our own.

I hope that the historical significance of President-elect Obama’s inauguration does bring a sense of blue skies to those who have for so long felt unable to succeed within the framework of America. I also hope that the government continues to create a framework within which the people of America can succeed, fail, and pursue happiness to their heart’s content.

It is within that framework that Dr. King’s dream finally becomes true that “we should be judged by the content of our character.” That doesn’t mean everything will be easy. That means you have a chance, and whether or not you take it is your responsibility: tough love, directly from Dr. King himself.

Mr. Obama will be judged by the content of his character every single day for the next four years. I hope he has the strength of character to vote for little Miss Sunshine, too.

As for my character? I plead the Fifth.