Angel Kisses

One tradition I love to do with my son is what I call “angel kisses.” Just before I go to bed at night, after he’s been asleep for quite a while, I tiptoe into his room and give him a kiss on the forehead. He’s a pretty heavy sleeper so he rarely even stirs, but he knows that I do it. If my husband and I are going out for the night and a babysitter will be putting him to bed, I can often quash his protests by reminding him that I will come in and give him an angel kiss when I get home, while he’s asleep. So even if he doesn’t wake up to feel it, he knows I’ll check on him before morning.

One of the reasons I love angel kisses is that they give me the chance to see my son when he is quiet and peaceful. At the age of three, he is often rebellious and petulant and disobedient and frustrating to be around. But seeing him asleep lets me imagine him as his most perfect self: calm, unresisting, and sweet. It reminds me of his potential, and it reassures me that he has that calm, sweet boy inside him who someday will once again emerge from the rebellious tot. After a particularly frustrating day, I look at his sleeping face and think, “Why aren’t you like this all the time? Why can’t you stop fighting against me and obey? Why can’t you trust that I’m doing what’s best for you? Why can’t you just submit your stubborn little will to my greater wisdom?”

And then I realize that God must look at me and think the same thing. But then I also remember that He always sees me through the blood of Christ as that peaceful, obedient servant that I could – and should – be. And I forgive my son for his stubborn spirit, just as God forgives me for mine. And I thank my Father above that He loves me infinitely more than I am humanly capable of loving my own dear children.

“Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!" (Matthew 7:9-11)

 

Church Hunting

Looking for a church is a lot like online dating. Think about it: You start off with a list of requirements. With dating, it’s often things like, “Must be within 5 years of my age; must have similar political views; must like the same hobbies as me; must live within 20 miles of me; must be gainfully employed; etc.” With a church, it’s things like, “Must be within 10 miles of my house; must have theologically sound preaching; must be one of these three denominations; must have a good music program; must have children the same age as my kids; etc.” If you find someone whose profile seems to meet those basic requirements, you meet them to see if that profile description really fits. With a church, you go to a service and listen to the sermon and the choir, you check out the nursery and the Sunday School programs, and you chat with the people in the congregation. In both cases, you eagerly wait to see if you feel that magic “click.”

And there’s no predicting that “click” in either situation. Sometimes things look perfect on paper but there’s just no chemistry in person. Sometimes things don’t look that great on paper but you try a “courtesy date” and you end up feeling a connection when you’re face to face. Sometimes it takes a few meetings before you’re really certain of whether it’s a good fit or not. And sometimes, you just have a really solid feeling of “rightness” on that very first meeting.

When I met my husband, I knew right away that he was the right one for me. Five years later, there’s never been a moment of doubt in my mind. This morning, our family attended a church that gave me that same feeling of “rightness.” As with my husband, I’m not committing myself to anything until we’ve had a few more dates and we delve a bit deeper into what we think and believe, this church and I. But I’m really hoping that five years down the road, I’ll still be with this church, without a doubt in my mind that it’s the right one for our family.

 

Why We Don't Need a Pet

We recently took care of my sister’s pet rat while she was away for a few weeks, and my kids were delighted to have a pet for a little while. My son told me often, with longing in his voice, “Mama, I just love this fuzzy little guy.” Both kids were remarkably careful and gentle with her, and spent hours just watching her in her cage. So after she went back home, a number of people asked me if we would be getting a pet of our own in the near future. My reply was a resounding NO. As of right now, there are lots of reasons NOT to get a pet (my kids aren’t old enough to help take care of it, for one thing), but most of the reasons people give TO get a pet, our household already has covered. Here are the reasons why we don’t need a pet:

1.      Pets are happy to see you when you get home.

I have two kids who squeal with excitement and practically turn themselves inside out when I walk in the room, whether I’ve been gone for 3 hours, 3 minutes, or 3 seconds. And if even they get so excited that they pee themselves, they're wearing diapers so I don't have to clean up the carpet.

2.      Pets are nice to snuggle up with at the end of the day.

After supper, my kids love to snuggle with me and read a few books. Plus, they don’t shed on the couch.

3.      Nothing makes you feel as special as a pet licking your face.

Except for your kids licking your face. And your kids are less likely to have just drunk out of the toilet. They may have splashed in it, but they probably didn’t actually drink out of it.

4.      Pets are great for finishing up leftovers.

My kids would snack all day long if I’d let them. That last spoonful of mac and cheese or applesauce or those last few wedges of orange are just the right size to make them happy without spoiling their dinner. They even lick the plates clean so I don’t have to rinse them before I put them in the dishwasher.

5.      Pets love you unconditionally.

My kids randomly come up to me and give me big hugs and kisses without warning. My son tells me, “I love you, Mama,” all the time, even right after I’ve punished him. Which is almost never because he's just peed on the rug or eaten my favorite pair of socks.

6.      Having a pet makes sure you get regular exercise.

Anyone who’s met my children knows that they make sure I get plenty of exercise.

7.      Pets help you meet people and make new friends.

Strangers come up to me all the time to talk about my kids. In fact, it’s a rare occasion that I’m out in public with my kids that someone doesn’t approach me with a smile and a pleasant comment about them. My latest babysitter is a result of a stranger commenting on how adorable my kids are. And they have yet to bite a single stranger.

8.      Pets assure that you have a daily routine.

We refer to my kids as the “baby alarm clocks” because they wake up within a 15-minute window like clockwork every morning. Their inner dinner bells chime at the same time for every meal. And they conk out at exactly the same time every night. They make sure I have a daily routine whether I want to or not.

9.      Taking care of another living thing is satisfying.

Yes, yes, it is. Especially when it can tell you, "Thank you" in words.

10.   Having a pet is good protection from burglars.

My kids won’t bark at or bite an intruder, but I guarantee you that any prowler trying to make his way through my truck- and Lego-strewn house in the dark will not make it very far. And if he does, the sounds of breaking plastic and muffled groans of pain will certainly wake us up in time to call the cops.

 Maybe someday we’ll be ready to get a pet, but not right now. So if you’ll excuse me, someone seems to be scratching at the door of my office begging to be let in.

 

You Know You're a Mom When...

Every once in a while, I do, say, or see something that makes me think, “Oy, I am SUCH a mom.” There are certain telltale signs that belong to no-one else except a mom. Here is a list of a few of the things that help me to never forget that I’m a mom. Even when I really, REALLY want to forget.

1.          There are nose and lip prints on every shiny vertical surface in your house about 3 feet up from the floor.

The sliding glass doors, the refrigerator, the dishwasher, the stove, the full-length mirrors. You can make circuits around the house with a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels and there will still be fresh prints on every surface by the time you finish a circuit. In my house, these are made by the 3-year-old, who a) is curious as to what’s outside, which makes the prints on the sliding glass doors, and b) likes to make his mother crazy by licking random surfaces, which makes the prints on everything else; and by the one-year-old, who forgets to watch where she’s going and crashes into things. She crashes into every vertical surface, not just the shiny ones; it’s just that only the shiny ones manage to retain the prints.

2.            Your purse contains more items belonging to your children than to you.

My kids are old enough that I don’t need a full diaper bag for short outings like going out to dinner or to the grocery store. But I do need a stash of a few necessary items in case of emergency. So my purse contains my wallet, my cell phone, my keys, and possibly a tube of lipstick, but it also contains two different sizes of diapers, a pack of baby wipes, several Matchbox cars, a small plastic tiger and giraffe, a Ziploc baggie of somewhat crumbled Cheez-its, a small plastic fork and spoon, and a juice box. Yes, my purse is nearly as big as a diaper bag. But it looks slightly classier. At least, it does until I start pulling out all the items mentioned above.

See? I was not exaggerating. This is really what’s in my purse. There is a wallet in there somewhere. I hope.

And I know it’s not just me, because I was recently on a flight with my children and my one-year-old was fussing. The mom in the aisle behind us reached into her purse and wordlessly handed me a slightly sticky board book, and as our eyes met, I could feel her silently telling me, “Courage, sister.”

3.            You narrate yourself all day long.

My 3-year-old son is very verbal and loves to learn new words, so I talk to him a lot. And I explain new, relatively complex words to him on a regular basis. When we go to the grocery store, we talk about the different kinds of fruits and how they grow and why they’re good for you. We discuss why the lobsters in the tank have rubber bands on their claws. We talk about why we have to close the refrigerator and freezer doors right away after we get what we need. We talk about how we have to pay for what we’re buying before we can open it up and eat it (this is a crucial – and difficult - lesson whenever we buy cookies). We learn words like “patience” and “preservatives” and “dozen.” I didn’t realize how automatic this was for me until the whole family was in the car the other day and my husband suddenly burst out laughing because I was explaining to my son some concept like “asphalt” or “curb.” [NB: While I was writing this paragraph, I had to take a break to check on my son and I kid you not, I explained to him the words “outrank” and “trebuchet.” Yes, there was a logical context. No, I am not going to attempt to explain it here.]

4.            You find yourself translating from “child” to “English” whenever someone else is in the room.

My 1-year-old doesn’t speak much yet (her vocabulary consists of “Mama,” “uh-oh,” “wow,” “ow,”and “quack”), but she does have a few sounds that mean something to us although they aren’t actual words. When she points to something, she makes a sound that we have decided means, “What’s that?” so whenever she says it, I repeat, “What’s that?” so anyone listening will know what she means. She also has begun saying “k” to mean both cup and book, so I repeat the appropriate word both to teach her and to fill in anyone nearby.

And although my 3-year-old speaks quite clearly and is generally understandable to strangers, his speech often requires context clues to make any sense. For example, the other day he put on his police helmet with the green visor and informed me, “Mama, you look like a big green potato!” This comes off as a pretty bizarre statement in and of itself, until I ask him, “Oh, just like Quack the duck looked like a big green potato when his friend Chirp the bird looked at him through a green glass bottle?” Strangers probably still think he’s crazy, but at least they know he gets it from his mother.

5.            You can identify the specific object causing a crashing noise from the next room.

Any mother of a toddler can tell you that you very quickly develop a sense of knowing which crashes are ordinary, harmless play and which require motherly intervention and/or medical attention. Dull plastic thwacks are generally toy trucks and do not need to be checked out; sharper wooden clunks could be furniture being damaged and require a quick peek; resounding metallic clangs or the sound of shattering glass are definite immediate response indicators. If the latter category is followed by the sound of a small body hitting the floor and then silence, 9-1-1 should be dialed on the way to the scene.

Obviously, this list is a mere sampling of the signs of motherhood. These are only a few of the more common and recognizable signs. Although I suspect the most common and recognizable is that haggard, exhausted, vaguely unkempt look and vacant expression that is so universal among moms of tots.

Why I Celebrate Halloween

Halloween, like many other US holidays, has its roots in pagan celebrations and other celebrations that many Christians consider heretical, occultic, or, at the least, unsavory. Its true name is, after all, “All Hallows’ Eve.” It is steeped in folklore about witches, demons, zombies, and ghosts. In many cultures, it is considered a time to contact the dead. But also like many other US holidays, over the years it has taken on a different significance, and the traditions associated with it have come to have very different meanings than they originally may have. So let me share why I celebrate Halloween.

Halloween is a time to dress up and pretend to be something other than what you are. I love Halloween for the same reason that I love theater. It allows me to shed my mild-mannered, introverted persona and take on the personality of someone more exciting and more assertive. Instead of a suburban housewife and mom, I can be a pirate, or a gypsy, or a princess, or a superhero. I can shed my usual jeans and sweater and put on a tiara and chandelier earrings and suddenly become glamorous. I can take a break from saving the change in the bottom of my purse by donning a mask and a cape and saving the world from evil.

Halloween is also one of the few times in our modern society when we go and visit our neighbors. Sure, I chat frequently with the people who live next door, but what about the family down the street or around the corner? I may see them when I’m out walking, but I never have the chance to actually introduce myself and my family. Trick or treating at Halloween gives me the opportunity to meet the people around me. And the neighbors with grown kids love to see how my kids are growing from year to year. Halloween can truly be a community holiday, if you let it.

Halloween is also a chance to splurge on candy. I don’t let my kids have candy very often, and when I do, it’s a very special treat. So getting a whole bag of candy and getting to eat more than one piece at a time makes Halloween a special, fun time for kids and parents alike. I have fond memories of sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace in my parents’ living room, sorting through my bag of Halloween treats and deciding which candy I would eat right away, which I would save for later, and which I would give to my sister. Kit Kats, Three Musketeers, and $100,000 bars were in the first category. M&Ms, Twizzlers, and Tangy Taffy were in the middle category. And anything involving coconut, nuts, or peanut butter always fell into the latter category. My kids aren’t quite old enough to be that discriminating yet, but I look forward to a few years from now when the careful negotiations begin: “I’ll trade you two packs of Nerds and a bite-size Baby Ruth for that full-size Snickers bar.”

And finally, because of its connection with All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day, Halloween is, to me, a holiday of remembrance. Celebrated by many branches of the Christian church, All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day are celebrated immediately following All Hallows’ Eve, with prayers for the souls of family and friends who have died. The Mexican celebration of Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, is also a day to remember, pray for, and celebrate loved ones who have died. These holidays celebrate the dead, not with fear but with affection. So on Halloween, I remember those I have loved and loss. I think of my parents, my grandparents, my brother-in-law Glen, my friend Nancy. I recall all the love and laughter they brought into my life, and I am grateful that I was blessed by knowing each one of them.

So tonight, I’ll happily and without guilt dress my kids up in costumes, take them trick or treating, let them eat candy, and imagine my loved ones looking down on us and enjoying the holiday as much as we are. Because that’s why I celebrate Halloween.

Storm's a-Brewin'

Even here, where we consider ourselves “hardy New Englanders,” the threat of a coming storm makes us nuts. We stock up on bread, milk, and batteries. We buy generators, sump pumps, and snowblowers. We clean out the fridge and keep the candles and flashlights handy in case the power goes out. We fill the bathtub with water and the car with gas. We cancel school and work from home and just generally hunker down until things blow over.

Most of this preparation is good planning. It never hurts to have a few things stockpiled. But the frenzy and panic that seems to accompany the planning sometimes seems a bit overboard to me. Yeah, there might be a power outage. So what? It’s October; it’s not like it’s mid-February and the temperatures will be below zero. Throw an extra blanket on the bed, wear mittens in the house if you really need to, and call it a day.

After all, most of us have been through bad storms before. Hurricane Bob, Hurricane Gloria, the April Fools’ Day Storm, and how about the Blizzard of ’78? I was nine years old when that one hit, and I remember it very clearly. No school for a week, no power for a week, my dad’s work was shut down for a week, and we had to shovel out the front door every hour so it didn’t get stuck behind the snow. Our gas range still worked and we had a fireplace, so we threw a bunch of food into a cooler (as I recall, we kept it cold with icicles broken off the eaves) and pretended we were camping. We cooked hotdogs on the fire and beans on the stove. We ate canned goods and played board games by candlelight. When it got chilly, we put on another sweater or snuggled closer to the fire. It wasn’t a hardship, it was an adventure!

I don’t intend to minimize the effects of this storm. I’m sure that plenty of people will struggle with power outages and flooding, and many of them will wish they had a generator or a backup sump pump. But the majority of people who are panicking are the ones who will be able to manage just fine with what they’ve got. So let us “hardy New Englanders” lead the way by not freaking out, but by celebrating our hardiness and survival abilities by taking whatever this storm throws at us in stride. If the power goes out, tell ghost stories by candlelight. If you’re keeping warm with a fire in the fireplace, break out the marshmallows for toasting. Since your whole family is together, spend some time just chatting and enjoying each other’s company. Don’t forget: this is the storm you’ll still be talking about 30 years from now! Be sure to make some great memories out of it.

 

Date Night In, or, Cooking Is Sexy

Now that my husband and I have two children, it’s harder (and more expensive) to find a babysitter. So although we still have a Date Night every now and then when we go out on the town, have dinner out, or go see a show, these days we’re a lot more likely to have an in-house Date Night. And in some ways, those are even more fun.

I love in-house Date Nights because I don’t have to put on makeup or do my hair or even wear shoes. (In fact, barefoot is preferred.) I don’t have to make sure there’s no dirty laundry sitting outside the laundry room or on the bathroom floor or clear the clean laundry off the stairs before the babysitter comes. I don’t have to take the emergency diapers out of my purse or make sure my cell phone is charged and in my purse. All I have to do is wait until the children are in bed.

And then the fun begins: we cook.

Really, that’s one of my favorite parts of Date Night In. I love cooking with my husband. After all, food is sexy. Preparing food is very sensual, in the most literal meaning of the word. Food smells good, it feels good, it looks good, and it tastes good.

Let me describe an example of how cooking can be very sexy. One of our favorite menu items on Date Night In is risotto, which has got to be one of the most sensuous foods on the face of the earth. You begin by melting butter in a pan, then frying up some onions and garlic. Sensuous smells begin to pervade the house, wafting into the living room where your partner is lighting the fire in the fireplace. He comes in to investigate just as you pour in some white wine, releasing a cloud of even headier aromas. Naturally, the two of you have to share the remains of the wine, so it won’t go to waste. And since risotto requires near-constant stirring, you are trapped at the stove, at the mercy of any little snuggles and kisses that your husband feels the need to send your way. What could be sexier than sliding past each other while you’re each working on different parts of the meal, a glass of perfectly chilled wine in your hands, stopping now and then to feed each other little bites of creamy deliciousness?

And then, of course, dinner itself is eaten by the fire with a bit of extra candlelight and some soft music. No reminding children not to throw food on the floor. No letting your own meal get cold while you cut up someone else’s meal, or coax someone to eat “just one more bite,” or hop up to get a few more noodles or another spoonful of squash or a slice of bread. No loud voices, either happy or sad. No chairs or tables being kicked. Just you and your sweetheart, quietly enjoying your dinner and each other’s company in a way you don’t often get to do.

And then there’s the lingering. Oh, the lingering. When you have small children, there is no lingering at mealtimes. When the kids are done eating and freed from the table, you’re back on duty whether you've finished your own dinner or not. And if you decide to finish your own dinner while you’re on duty, you know there’s a pretty good chance some of it will get knocked on the carpet by a rambunctious child, or spilled on your lap by an unexpected bear hug, or stolen by a child who refused to eat it when it was on her plate but wants to eat it all when it’s on yours. So lingering is a precious, precious thing on Date Night In.

Altogether, it adds up to a pretty special evening. But then again, any time I get to spend time with my sweetheart is a very special evening. 

What a Crock

Having grown up in New England, it should come as no surprise that autumn is my favorite season. I love seeing the first pop of red at the top of a maple tree, I love the way the sun glows on all the brightly-colored trees along Route 128, I love the smell of fresh mulch and burning leaves, I love the crunch of crisp fallen leaves underfoot, I love the pumpkins and huge pots of mums that suddenly pop up on doorsteps everywhere. But one of the things I love the most about autumn is cooking.

My mom was a great comfort food cook. She taught me to make wonderful casseroles, meatloaf, stew, and pasta sauces. And most importantly, she taught me how to use a crock pot. I love cooking with a crock pot. I think one of the things I like best about cooking in a crock pot is that it makes the house smell wonderful, not just at suppertime but all day long. It builds the anticipation from lunchtime on, giving you little hints about the wonderful meal to come. The scent of garlic, of thyme, of bay leaves, of chicken stock, of smoky ham or spicy sausage or earthy lentils. It smells like love, and it smells like home.

My dad worked the same job for over 40 years, and we had supper as soon as he came home from work at 5:00. So every night, he would walk in the door to the smell of something delicious coming out of the oven (or the crockpot). It was like a little welcome home present every night. When I was a little older and my mom got home from work at the same time that my dad did, she would leave me nearly-finished meals to add the final touches to. I would pop the lasagna or the shepherd’s pie into the oven; I would stir a few extra herbs into the simmering sauce in the crockpot; I would bake the cornbread or the biscuits. And whenever I did, I felt like I was giving both my parents that same welcome home present at the end of a long, tiring day.

This may sound like a very old-fashioned attitude, but I love to be able to give my husband that same welcome home present. I know how hard he works, and I like to show him that I appreciate his hard work. So I hope that every night when he comes home from work, he can smell in my cooking the same love my mom cooked up for my dad.

It might not work for everyone, but for me, cooking for my family makes my house feel more like a home.

 

Mother's Little Helper

When I was in junior high, a friend of my mom’s who lived on the next street from us asked if I would be interested in being a mother’s helper for her a few times a week. I had no idea what that meant until she explained to me that it was like babysitting, except that she’d be home. She’d started doing some work from home and was finding it difficult to do with her (then) three kids underfoot. At the time, the only experience I’d had with kids was helping my parents out in the church nursery, but I liked kids and knew that babysitting could be pretty lucrative, so I agreed. She taught me how to change a cloth diaper, including the invaluable tip of sliding the pin through your hair to pick up a bit of oil so it’ll slide through the fabric more easily (a tip I’ve used over the years in many circumstances other than babysitting), how to distract a crabby child, what little ones can and can’t eat, and the art of spelling out certain words. It turned out to be some of the best training I ever had for babysitting - and for parenthood.

Because of that, I’m looking forward to having a mother’s helper myself in the near future. We made a connection with this young lady in a very unusual way. We were out to dinner with the kids at the local Chinese buffet and, as usual, my daughter was flirting with and waving to everyone in sight. A teenage girl and her mom in the next booth were obviously charmed by her, and when we waved goodbye as we left, she jokingly asked, “Do you need a babysitter?” She was a bit surprised but also very excited when we stopped and told her, yeah, we did. We quickly discovered that we knew several families in common from my stepdaughter’s school years, so references were easy to check on both sides. We exchanged information, and in the next few weeks she’ll hopefully be coming by after school to give me a few hours of respite from the kids.

It’s funny to think back to thirty years ago when I was in her shoes, and I wonder if thirty years from now, she and I will be chatting on the future equivalent of Facebook as I now do with my mentor, reminiscing as her children go through the stages that my children are going through now. Maybe I’ll be sharing pictures of my daughter’s wedding with her, recalling some funny story or tidbit from today. Maybe I’ll be sending her a recording of my son’s band, or a video of his first professional football game, or a news article about his graduation from medical school. Maybe I'll even be sending her photos of my grandchildren.

But whether I keep in touch with her for years or not, I will be proud to know that I have become another link in the endless chain of mothers teaching other mothers.

Lumpy Oatmeal

This morning, the daycare program at my husband’s office posted a question on their Facebook page directed at over-40 parents: “What are the pros and cons of having children older vs. younger?” I’m sure there are dozens of factors that affect all parents differently, but for me, the answer to that question really comes down to one major con and one major pro.

The most obvious difference is that I have a lot less energy in my 40s than I did in my 20s. Especially now that I have a 14-month-old who STILL doesn’t sleep through the night consistently and a VERY active 3-year-old, my fatigue really affects me in a way that is more of a problem than I suspect it would have been twenty years ago. Back in college, I could easily go for weeks or even months at a time on 5 or 6 hours of sleep. No more. These days, if I don’t get 7 or 8 hours a night on a regular basis, I’m crabby (my husband will attest to this) and impatient (my kids will attest to this).

But the biggest advantage of having children older is also somewhat obvious, at least to me. There is a certain degree of calmness, acceptance, and patience (at least, there is when I’m getting some sleep) that I doubt I would have had in my 20s. Having twenty more years of experiencing life’s unexpected ups and downs has given me an ability to roll with the punches in a way I never could in my 20s. Very few people in their 20s fully understand the saying, “A lump in your oatmeal, a lump in your throat, and a lump in your breast are not the same lump. Get to know the difference.” I’ve experienced enough throat lumps and breast lumps, both personally and in those near and dear to me, to understand that most of my lumps in life – and particularly, in parenting - are just oatmeal.

In the past week – actually, now that I think about it, in the past three days – I’ve had to deal with crayon on the TV screen; stuffing pulled out of the couch; unexpected vomiting; unintentional shoplifting; refusal to eat; 2am crying jags (not mine – at least, not in the past three days); being kicked, punched, and bitten by my kids; full-scale public tantrums; and several pounds of birdseed ground into the carpet. I won’t go so far as to say that these things don’t drive me crazy, because they do. But age 43, I have the wisdom to step back, take a few deep breaths, and give the situation a little perspective before I deal with it. If I’d had to deal with these things at 23, I think there would have been a lot more personal 2am crying jags and possibly a public temper tantrum or two of my own. But not now. Because now I know that those are only lumps in my oatmeal. I’ll save the real stress-outs for those other lumps when they come along.

Home: The Land of the Familiar Stranger

Last week, my sister and I finalized the sale of the house that we grew up in. My parents bought that house before I was born. I lived there until I graduated from high school, I lived there most summers during college, and I visited and hung out there many weekends in my young adulthood. Even after my own home was established, that house was where the family always gathered to celebrate birthdays and holidays. Both my parents lived in that house until they died. I haven’t lived there full time in over 25 years, but it still felt like home, and it was a bit of a pang to hand over my keys to the stranger who would now be calling it home. It made me think a lot about my own home.

It’s never been easy for me to settle into a new home. I have to get to know new routines, new places, new neighbors, new routes. I have to get used to the layout of a new grocery store. I have to find a new hairdresser. I have to learn what days the trash and recycling are picked up. I have to figure out how to get to the nearest Walmart and Target and Kohl’s and JoAnn Fabrics and post office. I have to discover back roads to get everywhere I need to go to avoid the traffic. And I have to get to know a whole new batch of familiar strangers.

Many years ago, I read an article that talked about “familiar strangers.” What the author was referring to was people that you recognize but don’t really know. The young mom you see walking her baby in the stroller every morning as you leave for work. The guy in the green shorts who’s leaving the gym just as you get there. The teenage grocery clerk who always works register 4. The senior citizen who signs you in at the polls every election. Occasionally you might exchange a wave or even have a short conversation with a familiar stranger, but mainly they’re just people you recognize without knowing them.

Ever since reading that article, I have been aware of familiar strangers. And I have realized that familiar strangers are part of what make me feel at home. After living in my current home for over four years, I have gathered quite a list of familiar strangers:

The older gentleman who walks his golden retriever through our yard in the late afternoon.

The grocery store cashier who always offers my kids stickers.

The CVS clerk who comments on how much the kids have grown.

The Friendly’s waitresses who always bring the kids’ food right away.

The guy who collects the grocery carts from the parking lot who used to run to get my cart for me when the kids were babies.

Ed who owns the gas station.

The guy down the street who drives a shiny red pickup truck.

The woman around the corner whose cat, Fuzz, tries to let himself into our house.

The moms whose kids are in the gymnastics class right after my son’s class.

Our mailman with the gray ponytail.

The recycling truck driver who turns on the compactor right in front of our house when my son is watching.

The clerk at the seafood counter who takes a lobster out of the tank for my son to look at.

The bakery clerk who gives my kids broken cookies for free.

The security guard at the front desk at my husband’s office.

 And the list goes on and on. I don’t know any of their names (well, except Ed), but they are familiar and comforting and I would miss them if they were gone. They are part of what makes my home my home. I guess that means they’re not really strangers after all, are they?

What a Character!

One of the special parts of going on a Disney vacation is getting to meet all your favorite characters: Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Daisy, Goofy, Pluto, Chip and Dale, Captain Hook, Peter Pan, Cinderella, Belle, Sleeping Beauty…the list goes on and on. And for most children, that is indeed a highlight. Little girls, especially, like to dress up like their favorite princesses and carry around autograph books so everyone they meet can sign them. But there are always a few children who are, let’s call it, “hesitant” to meet the characters.

My kids fell neatly into each of those categories. My one-year-old daughter, who refuses to go to the arms of even a familiar babysitter without several minutes of coaxing, would reach out excitedly for every character in a 100-foot radius. But my three-year-old son, who is basically fearless, would not go near a single character until the very last night of our vacation. The photograph pretty much sums it up:

 

If you look closely, you’ll notice that Donald’s left hand has my daughter’s hand in a death grip, to prevent her from continuing to molest his beak. And my son, although smiling for the camera, has a death grip of his own on Daddy, his exposed belly button and rucked-up shorts evidence of the prior struggle to get him even that close to the creepy giant duck. This was pretty typical of every character encounter we had.

One of our favorite evening activities aboard the Disney Fantasy was the family dance parties in D Lounge. Various DJs or live musical acts provided the music, and one of the many bubbly, energetic staffers was on the floor with a microphone coaxing everyone to join in the dancing, or occasionally teaching a simple line dance. Most evenings, one character or another would make an appearance and join in the dancing. On formal night, Chip and Dale came, dressed to the nines in their tuxedos. Katie chased them around until they literally had to peel her off so another child could have a turn. Ryan hid in a chair at the back of the lounge until they left.

What really surprised me was that my son not only hated the non-talking, “giant head” type characters, but also the human characters such as the princesses and even Peter Pan. My daughter ran over to Princess Belle the first chance she got and admired her beautiful gown and gloves, but as you can see, my son was desperately koala-ing onto Mama. Really? How can anyone not want to go right up to this lovely princess and say hello?

Even as I was writing this blog, my daughter spied this photo and began cooing and attempting to climb on my lap to get closer. My son checked it out as well, with the commentary, “Hey, that’s me. I was very sad and scared.”

In another five years or so, when we’re ready to take another trip like this, I’m sure both kids will have completely changed their thinking about these characters. At ages 5 and 7, it’s likely that my daughter will be dressed like a princess herself, although awestruck and shy about approaching the real princesses, and my son will probably be chasing around all the villains with a plastic sword (Captain Hook, I’m looking at you). I’ll apologize for both of their behaviors in advance.

 

But I, at least, will be delighted to meet each and every one of you!

 

I Walk the Line

Yesterday I blogged about how amazing Disney’s marketing program is. Today, I’ll write about how amazing their line management skills are.

Anyone who has ever been to a Disney theme park knows there are lots of lines everywhere you go. But Disney has a way of making the lines seem shorter, both by making them invisible and by making them entertaining. As a parent, I appreciate both aspects of their approach. Keeping two toddlers happy in a long, hot line is never an easy task, but Disney makes it manageable. They hide the lines so even though you see a sign that says you’ll be waiting 10 or 15 (or 30 or 40) minutes, you don’t have that inner groan of seeing all 200 people who have to funnel through ahead of you. You shuffle through the line in one area with a clear goal in front of you – got to make it to that next corner! And then when you get around the corner – BOOM! More waiting in line. But around that corner there are lots of fascinating things to look at and details to check out. And just when you finish looking at everything there is to see in that section, you turn the next corner and there’s another whole room of delights.

Their attention to detail alone provides lots of interesting things to look at while you’re waiting in line. For example, outside the Enchanted Tiki Room, you can see birds and carved figurines that occasionally come to life and chat. In the line to the Haunted Mansion, you can read funny epitaphs and maybe see one of the carved effigies open her eyes, and you can push buttons to make music play or shuffle the books in the library. In the line for the Winnie the Pooh ride, some kids never make it to the ride because they’re too busy playing with the “whack-a-gopher” games, or playing on the vegetable drums, or jumping on the rabbit footprints to make the gophers pop out of their holes, or running in and out of Mr. Sanders’ house.

The Dumbo ride even has an air-conditioned playroom halfway through the line where you can stop for a long cool break!

Before you get on the Buzz Lightyear ride, you get to see Buzz himself give you a pep talk and instructions on how to help him defeat the evil Emperor Zurg.

Disney never gives you a chance to be bored unless you want to be. They make the waiting part of the adventure. And THAT, my friends, is the true magic of Disney.

If the Ears Fit...

My family just got back from a wonderful Disney vacation: three full days at Walt Disney World in Orlando, then a 7-day cruise on the Disney Fantasy to the eastern Caribbean. I am amazed at the Disney entity in so many ways. They invented line management, their people and service skills are incredible, and their marketing machine is unbelievable. Oh, their marketing. It’s all about the ears.

Mickey Mouse ears must be one of the most recognizable corporate symbols in the entire world, possibly eclipsing even McDonald’s golden arches. On our trip, I saw every possible variation of mouse ears, and plastered onto every possible item. I suspect their marketing motto is, “If it stands still, slap a pair of mouse ears on it. And if it moves, sell it one of the things you just slapped ears onto.”

In the Disney gift stores, naturally you expect to see mouse ears. Standard black Mickey Mouse ears, Minnie Mouse ears with a red-and-white polka-dot bow, with names in script or the official “Walt Disney font,” with a picture of Mickey in a red circle on the front. But the variations were beyond number. There were bride and groom ears with a white veil and a tuxedo, respectively. There were princess ears with a pointed cap and a trailing veil, or a sparkling tiara. There were pirate-themed ears emblazoned with a Jolly Roger and a jaunty bandana knotted at the back, or with Jack Sparrow's beaded dreadlocks. Ears topped with the Mad Hatter’s hat. Wizard ears with a pointed cap like Mickey wore in Fantasia. Ones with Jack Skellington’s face on top and spider webs over the ears. Santa hats with ears. Top hats with ears. Bike helmets with ears. Jack-o-lantern ears. Lightning McQueen wearing mouse ears. (Appropriately enough, Mater seemed to only wear Goofy ears.) Caps that look like R2D2 wearing mouse ears. Darth Vader with mouse ears. Darth MAUL with mouse ears. Ears with rainbows and paint splatters and glitter and American/Canadian/Brazilian/Italian/French/Morroccan flags and pictures of other Disney characters.

And above and beyond the mouse ear hats themselves, you will see mouse ears on every imaginable item. The complimentary shampoo and conditioner in our hotel even wore them:

There were ears on purses, jewelry, T-shirts, dog collars, headbands, trash cans, aprons, wine bottle stoppers, princess tiaras, snow globes, Christmas ornaments, and gift bows. There were things shaped like mouse ears – earrings, pretzels, crackers, waffles, cupcakes, confetti. Everywhere you looked there were mouse ears.

The Disney marketing team deserves kudos for how ubiquitous the ears are. Florida, California, Paris, Tokyo – every Disney park the world over sells the same mouse ears to the same enthusiastic crowd. I have no doubt that you could drop into some remote jungle in South America or the tangled bush in somewhere in the heart of Africa wearing mouse ears and the natives would nod and say, “Ahhh, Mickey!”

I have no doubt that Walt Disney knew the ears would make a great marketing symbol, but I suspect he never dreamed quite how widespread and well-known they would become. If he rose from the grave today and visited any of the theme parks bearing his name, I’m sure he would be proud of how well-loved those ears have become over the years. And I’m sure he’d be sporting a pair of ears himself.

 

Verbing Makes Me [sic]

I was listening to a radio commercial this morning for an HVAC company that was touting how its product can heat and cool rooms individually. Except they didn’t use the words “heat” and “cool.” Instead, they claimed that their system will “comfort” each room in your house independently. “Comfort”? Since when is the word “comfort” a verb?? Well, okay, it CAN be a verb, as in “When my baby cries, I comfort her.” But this ad was taking the NOUN “comfort,” which means “a state of ease or satisfaction of bodily wants,” and making it into a verb. It was verbing it, if you will.

The concept of verbing is something of a distressing trend to me. And it is becoming amazingly common. Thanks to Facebook, the noun “friend” is now a verb, as in “An old classmate friended me the other day.” How about “dialogue”? That’s a lovely little noun that has been verbed in recent years. We don’t converse any more, we “dialogue.” I read about a flight attendant who apologized to her passengers that there would be a short delay in “beveraging” them. Really? “Beverage” is now a verb? Will we all be drinking from a trough full of Coke, like when you water a horse? And if you want to give someone a present, you now “gift” it to them. Why can’t you just give it to them? It’s not any longer or harder to pronounce or spell. Its only improvement over the original is that it makes the heads of grammar Nazis like me explode.

Sometimes it works in reverse, making a noun out of a verb. (Thank goodness, I’ve yet to hear the word “nouning” to describe the phenomenon.) The word “invite,” for example, which used to be a verb meaning “to request politely or formally,” is now a noun meaning “invitation.” Was there something wrong with the word “invitation”? Were four syllables just too overwhelming? Is that really such a problem that we needed to cut the length of the word in half?

I think what bothers me most about verbing is that there are so many delicious words already existing, and adding new ones merely serves to further limit the use of those words. When new words are used to introduce shades of meaning and describe things that did not previously exist, then I’m all in favor of adding them to the lexicon. But making the word “gift” into a verb doesn’t add anything. There is absolutely zero difference between “give” and “gift” other than the fact that no-one would ever have used the word “gift” as a verb 20 years ago. Ditto for the words “invitation” and “invite.” The language did not become richer or more descriptive by adding that new use.

So let’s all work on combatting this trend by bringing back the wonderful, descriptive verbs of years gone by. From Merriam Webster’s Word of the Day archives, how about these beauties: gambol, undulate, gainsay, bloviate, belaud, pervade, kowtow, inspissate, oppugn. (Yeah, I said “oppugn.” Go look it up.) Or a few glorious rarely-used nouns, like incunabulum (INCUNABULUM!!!!), scaramouch (Freddy Mercury knew what it meant, do you?), marplot, tucket, luciferin. And I must throw in a few other parts of speech just to be fair: lugubrious, gibbous, anthophilous, florid. THOSE are words, my friends. They look beautiful in writing, they feel lovely rolling off your tongue, they make you feel smart just using them correctly in a sentence.

But at the absolute least, let’s all get back to our grammatical roots by taking a little trip back to Saturday morning circa 1978.

Those are verbs that won’t make anyone [sic]!

There's No Accounting for Taste

I was the world’s pickiest eater when I was a child. Until I was about 10, my family couldn’t go out to eat at McDonald’s because I wouldn’t eat hamburgers, only hotdogs. And even after I did start eating hamburgers, we had to wait for them to make me a special plain burger. Merely removing the tomato and pickle and scraping off the condiments was not good enough. If there was so much as a whiff of ketchup or mayo on the bun, I wouldn’t touch it. Pasta could be served with no sauce other than butter. And the only vegetable I would eat was frozen peas. My mother was convinced that I would die of scurvy by the age of 6. I spent many long, lonely hours sitting at the kitchen table staring at a plate of cold broccoli/corn/carrots/green beans until my mom finally gave up and let me leave it. And don’t even get me started on the tricks I used to use to avoid eating certain things, like tucking a bite of something unwanted into my cheek like a hamster then excusing myself to use the bathroom and flushing the offending morsel, or hiding a few forkfuls in my napkin and throwing them away unobtrusively after my plate was clean.

Once I was an adult, I knew this pickiness would come back to bite me in the form of picky children of my own. And I was not wrong.

Although I wouldn’t call my son a truly picky eater. His pickiness, unlike mine, is fairly limited to vegetables. He will eat most kinds of fruit, at least when he’s in the mood. Some days he’ll turn his nose up at a banana, other days he’ll wolf it down before I can blink. But at some point in time or another, he will eat nearly every kind of fruit I’ve ever offered him. He’ll eat hotdogs, meatballs, deli meat, starch in any form (noodles, bread, cereal, rice, crackers), eggs, pizza, cheese and yogurt. But try to slip a few peas in his pasta or some peppers on his pizza, and he’ll refuse to touch a single bite.

And yet, he will eat some of the grossest food combinations imaginable. He is, after all, a boy. This morning, for example, he was eating cornflakes while I fed his sister some yogurt, and he asked for his own yogurt. I gave it to him, and he immediately began putting handfuls of cornflakes into the yogurt, waiting until it got good and soggy, and then scooping it up and eating it with his hands.

He’ll also eat nearly anything as long as it’s dipped in ketchup. This is actually a trick I learned from my cousin. She discovered her son’s enthusiasm for dipping at an early age and contrived some kind of dip for every meal. I’ve tried offering various dips to my son, things that seem to me to be a pleasant taste combination, such as ranch dressing for chicken nuggets, barbeque sauce for corn on the cob, or honey for carrots. Nope. He will only dip things in ketchup. Olives, lettuce, green beans. Dipped in ketchup. Yuck.

But what does it matter if I think what he’s eating is gross, as long as he doesn’t? He might be eating green beans covered in ketchup, but they’re still green beans. He may only eat carrots if they’re mashed into oblivion and dunked in cranberry juice, but he’s still eating them.

Besides, judging by his growth thus far, he certainly doesn’t seem to be lacking in nutrition.

Marry Me a Little

As I mentioned in yesterday’s blog, this weekend my husband and I attended a wedding. We have attended a number of weddings together, two of them within six months of our own. And of course, going to a wedding within a matter of months of your own is very romantic, because you are constantly reminded of your own special day. But, as I discovered this weekend, it is equally romantic going to a wedding four and a half years later.

This particular wedding was especially lovely. The bride had three grown children and the groom had two, and the toasts given by the children had the entire audience in tears. The daughters of the bride and the groom were the bridesmaids, the groom’s son was his best man, and the bride’s two sons escorted her down the aisle. Readings were by the bride’s brother and the groom’s sister. And the JP who officiated had obviously spent time getting to know the couple, as her remarks were both appropriate and personal.

But what made it most meaningful to me was how her remarks applied to all the married couples listening. At one point, she invited the bride and groom to join hands as she talked about the reasons they gave that they loved each other, and without hesitation, my husband took my hand in his, and we each thought about everything we love about each other. Without speaking a single word, we knew we were both thinking back to our own wedding day and the vows we made to each other. While we were driving up to the wedding the night before, my husband had remarked that he hoped their wedding ceremony would include an invitation to the married couples attending to renew their vows to each other, and although that invite was not explicitly given, we both saw that moment as a chance to privately renew our vows.

Just this morning, I stumbled across an online discussion of vow renewal ceremonies. Opinions were very much mixed, although I was surprised at how many posters thought they were ridiculous because “vows don’t expire.” And that is a perfectly reasonable opinion. But my personal experience is that, after several years and several children, vows tend to fade into the background. The business of daily life, like earning a living and raising children, takes most of our time and energy and we sometimes forget to turn the focus onto our own relationship as husband and wife. So a little reminder every now and then of the promises we made on that day when we were completely focused on each other serves to bring a little perspective.

And it never hurts to remind yourself of everything you love about your spouse. For example, I love that my husband does things around the house without thinking twice. I love that he doesn’t make fun of my total lack of directional ability. I love that he knows my exact level of frustration when his stepping in to lend me a hand is helpful and not annoying. I love how much he loves spending time with his children. I love how smart and knowledgeable he is in so many widely varied areas. I love how hard he works, and yet how he is able to balance work and family. I love how dedicated he is to his college fraternity. I love that he always looks neat and well put together, whether he’s wearing his jogging gear or a tuxedo. I love his beautiful singing voice. I love how beautifully he plays the piano. I love how comfortable he is at a party or in a group of strangers. I love his laugh. I love his mad bartending skills. I love how protective he is of me. I love the way he loves his family. I love the way he loves me.

And I’d marry him all over again. After all, I imagine I’m marrying him again at every wedding we go to.

 

Home Again, Home Again

If you have a dog and you go on a trip, you can be pretty sure of an effusive greeting when you get home. Whether you’ve been away for 5 minutes or 5 weeks, a dog will happily greet you at the door and welcome you home with excited barking, licking, tail wagging, and running around in circles.

If you have a cat and you go on a trip, you never know what you’ll get when you come home, but you can be certain it will not be described as “effusive.” At best, the cat will give you a disinterested glance on its way to the food dish, as if to say, “Oh, were you gone?” At worst, you will be finding little “presents” in places like your shoes, your purse, and your bed for several weeks. And in between those two extremes there are myriad variations of everything from the proverbial cold shoulder to outright hostility.

When you have children, their reactions could be anything from dog level right down to cat level. A non-verbal child has no idea when you would be coming back, so the element of surprise when you walk in the door could go either way: excited screams and lots of hugs and kisses, or resentful screams and anger. A verbal child is at least likely to have given you some advance warning of how they will react, so you know whether to expect resentment or excitement.

When my husband and I went to an out-of-town wedding this weekend, we left our kids with several familiar babysitters. When I left, the baby was quite content to climb into the sitter’s arms and didn’t try to cling to me, which I thought boded well. And the toddler, although he requested, “Mama, stay here for a big while,” gave me a kiss and a not-too-clingy hug. But this was the longest that we’d left either of them with a sitter in recent months, so I honestly had no idea how much they would miss us, or if they would even be aware that we were gone. And I dearly hoped that our poor niece and her friends, who were sitting for the bulk of our trip, would not have to deal with whiny repetitions of, “When are Mommy and Daddy coming home???” or “Mama? Mama? Mama?”

So when we returned after two blissful, child-free days, it was a lovely sort-of surprise that the kids were happy and excited to see us. My nearly three-year-old son grinned and ran right over to give me a big hug, then went back to watching his movie. That was pretty much the sum total of his reaction. My one-year-old daughter, on the other hand, beamed and toddled over, nearly strangling me with her hug. She let go only so she could repeat the process with Daddy, then ran right back over to me to do the same again. Throughout the course of the evening, she would periodically catch a glimpse of one of us as she was playing, and would immediately drop her toy, run over and give us a hug and a kiss, then go back to what she was doing. If I was sitting on the couch, she would scramble up to sit on my lap and then happily throw her arms around my neck, occasionally even giving me a wet, sloppy kiss complete with a verbal, “MWAH!”, content to snuggle for a few seconds before wriggling out of my arms and going back to playing.

That’s not such a bad welcome home. Not so effusive that I need to worry that they were pining for us all weekend long, but not so cool that I feel like our presence wasn’t even missed. Just a good, well-balanced, healthy dose of missing us, but not missing us too much. Kind of the same way that I felt about them.

This beautiful rainbow that appeared in the middle of the wedding reception was a perfect symbol of many aspects of the weekend.