Big Halloween

So, how was your Halloween?

Notice that I did not ask how your last six months has been, thus drawing attention to the fact that it’s been that long since I posted here. Let’s just move on, shall we? It’s November, after all!

This November I am finally taking up the NaNoWriMo challenge but, being all about the hack, instead of meeting the 50,000 word count required to win, I will endeavor to write exactly *one* blog post every day for thirty days. Any length. Any topic. Lots of typos. Boom!

You should be relieved that I do not plan on publishing all thirty posts. After all, if you are reading this then you are already aces in my book and deserve better than what I am sure to come up with, especially by day nineteen or so. I will, however, let you in on a few, just to prove I’m not fibbing 🙂

So on the first day of my own personal NaBloWriMo, and I woke up this morning the same way I have every morning for the past many many weeks, with nothing to write.

Zip.

Then I remembered the advice I once received from an experienced blogger and it goes like this: If you’re out of ideas but it’s your day to post, just think of something that bugs the shit out of you and let fly.

The point is that, while you may not change the world with a post like that, chances are you’ll connect with at least a few readers who feel the same way you do, and probably others who think you’re a complete dope who needs to just Stop It Right Now.

Either way, you used your voice, and eyeballs are eyeballs in the world of online writing.

Being the easy going live and let live type (yeah right), I wasn’t sure I could think of anything that’s been on my nerves that much, but after wracking my brain for, oh, half a sec, inspiration struck:

Last night we had some friends over. The kids wanted to watch some bloody horror flicks and answer the door for the trick-or-treaters in our neighborhood. Fun!

Well, in the span of several hours, a small handful of kids, grownups following behind with flashlights, made their way to our door. A total of roughly 25 pieces of candy were given out, which sucks because now I will be forced- forced I tell you— to eat the entire bowl of the good stuff all by myself.

Damn them!

But here’s the thing- our neighborhood is filled with kids. I see their basketball hoops in the driveways, the little finger-wagging signs stuck in the grass by their parents, telling drivers to slow down, “children at play.”

Oh really?

Where??? I want to ask.

Last night, despite all the hard evidence pointing to actual trick-or-treating aged kids living in our neighborhood, our doorbell was not ringing.

My best guess is that these children are in the back yards, behind locked gates and away from the creepy gaze of… creepy gazers.

Or maybe they are tucked safe and snug at Mathnasium, or and at one of those robotics places, or and participating in organized sports somewhere.

All I know is that the kids are here, but not “here” here, because apparently here just isn’t where it’s at anymore.

Cut to this morning: I went on Facebook I saw that some of my friends elsewhere in LA had hundreds of costumed cuties parade through last night. Some areas are just better, it turns out, and word has gotten around. It’s not just the sidewalks, or streetlights, or low crime rate, no. These trick-or-treat destinations have it all– the best decorations, the best candy, the best sure-fire Halloween experience, bar none, people!

Hey, I have been known to take my kids to these super-awesome neighborhoods. I have parked six blocks away and shuffled along with hundreds of other Halloween pilgrims, looking for the “best” night of old school fun, photo ops, and happy childhood memories, damnit.

I’m starting to wonder if, by doing so, I might have unknowingly contributed to my own sweet neighborhood becoming what I can only describe as a kid desert.

My son shoots hoops with his dad in our driveway, and even though he’d love to play a pick up game with a neighbor kid, just like me, he looks around and finds none.

Maybe I’m just jealous.

I want to live in one of those fun neighborhoods where the adults answer the door in Freddy Kruger masks and food trucks park on every corner.

But I also want to see kids dragging the trashcans to the street on Wednesday nights, and bugging me to bankroll their shitty class trips with magazine subscriptions. I don’t just want to slow down for them when I drive, I want to see their faces and know their names.

As I stand on my porch, surrounded by fake spiderwebs and rubber bats, I think about the price we pay for always sending our kids to greener pastures.

If I had it to do all over again, I’d try not to be so quick to curate my kids’ childhoods. I’d shop locally for community, instead of always searching somewhere else for the perfect fit. On Halloween I would send my boys around their regular old neighborhood, to knock on doors- the old lady who planted a tree and waters it every Sunday, the young couple who just moved in and don’t speak much English, and the people with the basketball hoop in the driveway and the scooter on the porch.

It’s not too late.

Next year, I’ll fill another bowl with candy, and try again. I’m not sure, but I think that’s one way you start to grow a neighborhood in a desert.

Legal

As you probably know, not so long ago, Californians used the power of democracy to make recreational pot legal. If you’re an Angelino, then you were already used to having dispensaries on every corner, but now you don’t need a legit (wink wink) medical condition to purchase weed, you just need to be over 21 and ready to party.

First, let me admit that I am prejudice in favor of drinking. I’ve mastered it, at this point. I know not to drive, shop on eBay, or try any new hair removal products while under the influence.

Also, I still have some judgements about pot, probably stemming from it’s shady reputation on the legal front, and a lame boyfriend from the early 90s who still owes me money.

But I like to stay up on things.

I’ve got two teenage sons, and while we’ve talked at length about drinking and drugs, the dangers of getting into that while their young brains are developing, and the gigantic screw ups that can happen when you’re intoxicated, I’m not sure they take me seriously. Credibility is everything with kids, and I don’t want to come off sounding clueless.

Which is why I went to pot school.

My friend Wendy and I signed up for the respectable sounding “Plant Medicine: A Thoughtful Guide to Cannabis Use” workshop and showed up with sharpened number 2 pencils, ready to learn.

After signing in at the yoga studio where the event was hosted, we were greeted by our instructors, Jenna and Jenna. (I kid you not.) They couldn’t have been more lovely and, by the looks of it, not stoned.

We took our seats in front of a long table where the Jennas had set up small bowls of “flower”, along with bottles, tablets, joints, bongs, and vape pens. Basically, all the stuff you dread finding in your kid’s backpack.

Wendy elbowed me. “Look at all that pot just sitting there.”

It did seem strange. I looked around, feeling like any minute someone’s mom was going to storm in, with her hair up in curlers, and shut this whole thing down.

Then I realized, (some might say a tad late) oh yeah— we are the moms.

In fact, the room was full of our exact demographic, which actually made me feel pretty good. Forget the white Zinfandel and Andrew Bocelli CDs, sisters, we are on it!

The workshop started off with a brief history of Cannabis and the legal battles surrounding it, which have their roots in racism (big surprise), and continued with a little scientific info ,THC vs. CBD, terpenoids, and something called “the entourage effect.”

We took notes.

We passed a few buds around in little bowls and peered at them with magnifying glasses, sniffing them like a fine wine. It was pretty fancy and so LA.

The Jennas wrapped up class with a lively question and answer period, during which I asked about edibles, sharing that it was these that made me the most nervous when it came to my kids. When I said that being a more informed parent was one of my main reasons for attending the workshop, Jenna smiled and said, “Bless you.” I think she may have bowed a little. #potteacher’spet

We learned that, thanks in part to mistakes made in Colorado, California now regulates edibles (the candies, mints, baked goods containing THC) more strictly than it had when they were only sold as medicine. For this reason, it is now much more difficult to buy the amounts that would likely cause a severe reaction. Even still, the Jenna’s put on their serious faces, pointing to a graphic on the screen that they said was the most important of the day:

“You can always take more, but you can never take less.”

While strains like Strawberry Cough, Pineapple Skunk, and Champagne Kush are hybridized to produce certain effects, the bottom line is that every body is different and only through trial and error can you really know what works, and what makes you want to wrap yourself like a newborn and hide under the bed for six hours.

I also learned that, unlike alcohol, there has never been a documented case of death or permanent physical harm from an overdose of pot. While it is possible to have too much (see above), and impaired judgement is a side-effect of marijuana use that can definitely lead to disaster, a binge drinker is at risk of dying of an overdose, while a binge smoker is probably only at risk for eating too much Kraft macaroni and cheese while couch-locked. Good to know.

The workshop left us feeling informed and curious.

Time for a field trip!

We decided to visit a dispensary called Urban Treez and strolled in all casual like. After showing our ID to a guy in the front who recorded our info (probably putting us on a watch list of badass hippie types, yo) we went up to the counter and met our young “budtender”, Angel. (You can’t make this stuff up.)

Perhaps embarrassingly, I told Angel that I’m not that interested in getting stoned, but do have arthritis pain in my toes, and sleep issues brought on by peri-menopause, which I am hoping might be alleviated by a little ganja, so could he hook a ~~sister~~ mother up.

Angel suggested a THC tincture called “Deep Sleep”, a CBD cream for pain, and a neat little disposable pen simply labeled CALM, which he said I could just “rip on.”

For medicinal purposes (ahem).

“How much?” I asked, holding out my credit card.

“That will be $120.00.”

Wt actual f???

It could be the 30% tax on cannabis products, but let me tell you—that shit is expensive. I imagined what my husband would think, perusing the statement at the end of the month. Let’s just say he might not understand.

“Hold up, Angel. I’m not sure I should put this on my card.”

Wendy and I huddled to discuss which product I should keep, and which I might put on next year’s Christmas list.

“If you don’t want it showing up on your card,” Angel said, “don’t worry. We run it through as Manhattan Clothing.”

Done.

After our products were all zipped up in the nifty child-proof bag they make you purchase ($1.50, but reusable), we said our good-byes and headed home, promising to report back after we’d tried out our products.

It was reminiscent of a Mary Kay party, only with armed security and more guys.

I ended up telling my husband all about it, of course, and he surprised me by being more open than I’d expected. As far as the products I purchased, here’s a quick review:

The “Calm” pen gave me a barely noticeable chilled-out feeling lasting about 45 minutes, which I chose to spend in a hot bath listening to the Oprah podcast (it’s still me, after all.) Not bad!
The sleep drops tasted like I imagine the Jennas’ bong water tasting, and acted like a shot of Nyquil. OK to have on hand, but not the sleep-aid of my dreams.
The CBD cream did nothing for my achey toes but made my feet soft and shiny.

The verdict? Even though I don’t think I’ll be adding another vice to the rotation at this point in my life, I did gain some knowledge and walked away with a more open mind, which is enough for me to call it a win.

Like, totally, dude 🙂

Family Game Night Fail

It’s the holidays.

I love everything about this time of year, from the cheesy carols and the smell of cedar, to the movies we’ve all seen a hundred times and the uptick in my cocktail consumption.

But I’ll be honest, even if I’m feeling pretty good and life in my house is humming along just fine, there is sometimes a nagging voice in the back of my head telling me that it ~~could~~ should be better.

And by it, I guess I really mean we.

The fam.

This might have started with the Christmas specials we all grew up watching. No one I knew had a family like The Waltons, but that didn’t stop me from feeling that there was something wrong with not at least trying. Clearly, they knew something we didn’t.

Now, thanks to social media, there’s a forever feed of families holding hands in the snow, laughing while decorating the tree, or enjoying that special cozy feeling you might have heard about called hygge. (Ps- If you don’t know what that is, then you have some serious catching up to do on Pinterest.)

I know, I know, “Never compare your insides to other people’s outsides.” But ask any thirteen year old girl (or fifty year old mom) on Instagram and they will tell you, that is a tall order.

Which is how I found myself sitting down to the worst family game night ever.

Our family of four had been kind of slacking on the togetherness thing. It’s easy to do, especially if your kids are at the age when they would rather be online, with their friends, or in their rooms than hanging out with the grownups.

And I can’t just blame my boys. I’m also guilty of putting family time on the back burner, mostly because we have so much of it. Since we homeschool and my husband works from home, we are in each other’s faces a lot. I’d thought the togetherness box was checked, but something still felt like it was missing.

What about… fun?

Five minutes on Facebook and I see at least a dozen friends having what looks like level 10 fun.

They are at Disneyland.

They are decorating hella Christmas cookies.

They are hiking, and snow-angel-ing, and adopting puppies, and just slaying it in the fun department.

So recently, after dinner and before the boys could disappear into their lairs, I proposed that we all play a good old fashioned board game.

Fun, right?

“Someone choose a game!” I hollered good-naturedly, as I went to put my phone away. (Note: Game night, according to the experts requires a complete focus on fun and comradery, so no screens allowed).

When I returned, C. and the boys had set up Parcheesi.

Now, I am sure that when Parcheesi was invented, back in the fucking stone age, it was a great game, but the fun bar was pretty low back then. Now we have a lot of games to choose from and, in my opinion, almost any game is better than Parcheesi.

Not that I’m blaming what happened on their choice of games, but it didn’t help is all I’m saying.

It started out ok, with each of us rolling the dice trying to get a five. Or a two. Or whatever it is you have to roll before you’re allowed to even begin your epic trudge around the dismal game board.

After about fifteen minutes (but who’s counting), I may have made a comment about not liking Parcheesi, thus breaking The Golden Rule of family game night which is this: stay positive. The success of family game night depends on full compliance and maybe faking. My bad.

Truman, sensing an opportunity, chimed in. “Yeah, who picked this game?”

“You said you liked it,” Chester countered, while rolling the dice.

“I did not.” I felt a kick under the table.

“That was me, Truman,” I said, giving him The Look.

My husband hands me the dice. “Your turn.” Whatever I roll, it is not the right thing.

“Ugh. This game,” I say.

I know, my attitude wasn’t great. But before you judge too harshly, I challenge you to pull out your own Parcheesi board and see how long you can play before wanting to throw the whole thing against the wall and run screaming into the arms of Netflix.

My husband actually hung in there pretty well, but when the kids started bickering, he could maintain the charade no longer. Next thing I knew, he had jumped ship and was chilling with a crossword puzzle in the den.

“What happened to you?” I asked, annoyed that he had broken the fourth wall in our cozy family scene.

“No one seems into it,” he said.

“So?” I answered, a little pissed. Being “into it” seemed completely beside the point of family game night. You plow through, I thought, heading back to have my turn. You plow the fuck through and, eventually, it turns fun.

Or something like that.

I got back to the table, to find only Chester. “Where’s your brother?”

“He left.”

“Why?”

“He said he didn’t want to play.”

What followed was probably exactly what you’d imagine: mild bickering, followed by maternal guilt, teen angst, marital tension, and dashed hopes.

Also, no one had done the dishes.

Normally, the job of dishwashing would go to my husband and boys, but no family game night fail is complete without Mom getting her martyrdom on, so I decided to do them myself.

Loudly.

As I worked with soap and sponge, I allowed myself the luxury of brooding. What was wrong with us? Why can’t we have fun playing a shitty game like other families do? We love each other, it goes without saying. We’ve had lots of great times together and, not to sound braggy, but our family functions pretty well, in general.

This train of thought did nothing to salvage the night, but it passed the time. Like most family stumbles, at least the uncomplicated ones, the only remedy was a good night’s sleep and a new day.

The next night, we sat around the dinner table, same as the night before. I’d made a really lame risotto. It was kind of gluey and had no flavor, probably because I had come down with a head cold and couldn’t taste anything. I’d lost my voice, as well. Not exactly picture perfect.

However…

It’s probably no coincidence that, on the one night that I was forced to listen more than talk, our boys had a lot to say. The food might have been mediocre, but the company was great.

Everyone ate, no one rushed off, and at some point, someone said something, and we cracked up. It was the kind of laughter that feeds on itself, the kind you can’t stop, the kind that’s a choking hazard but totally worth it.

It was the kind of laughter that makes you close. “Carbonated holiness,” as Anne Lamott would say.

At some point, Truman broke the dinnertime rule and pulled out his phone, but instead of checking Instagram, he snapped a pic of me, in full hysterics.

I love this very unflattering photo of me. If, in the end, my sons remember me just like this, I’ll be a proud mom. Our family may never play Parcheesi together again (#goals), and we are not likely to come caroling in your neighborhood this Christmas, but we definitely know how to laugh.

Enjoy your holidays, in your own weird wonderful way. I wish you peace, love, and a fountain of carbonated holiness 🙂

In Which Mom Gets To Choose the Movie

I love in a house full of guys, which is awesome, except for every once in a while when it’s not.

A while back I was complaining about something (shocking, I know) that had to do with being the only female under our roof, when my friend, who is also married to a guy and the mother of two boys, said in all seriousness and without judgement, “Don’t you know, Maggie? You’re their queen.”

Oh really?

I’m just going to leave you to muse on that little nugget for a while. Tell me, oh mothers of America, are you their queen? Why or why not? Discuss.

Mkay, I’ll go first:

Here’s just one small way I am not the queen of my house: We hardly ever watch the movies I want to watch.

This is due not only to the fact that my kids have the unfair advantage of knowing how the remotes work, but also because they like to watch stuff explode and I don’t. They are nice guys, but even when I do choose, my film choices can clear the room quicker than our gassy terrier. (I’m sorry to mention farts twice in one post. Occupational hazard of my job.)

The boys still reminisce about how I made them watch Little Lord Fauntleroy, bribing them with cookie dough and, I think, a dollar each.

You might call this a fail on my part, but I disagree. While they may not have absorbed the film’s timeless message of perseverance and kindness in the face of adversity, they have one more thing to tease me about, and I say that sharing a laugh at your ~~queen’s~~ mom’s expense is one of the great joys of having a sibling.

So, see? It was on purpose, you guys.

But I love movies and believe they are some of the best conversation starters and kindling for empathy, so I’m not about to give up. Films can teach us so much, but not if we only ever watch the loudest, fastest and biggest.

And so,

I put the question out there to my enlightened Facebook friends:

What are some suggestions for films with a social justice theme, appropriate for roughly 11-13 year olds?

I got a lot of great responses, and some kind of creepy ones. Like, I just can’t see snuggling up with my 11 year old for a family viewing of Beasts of No Nation, but maybe that’s just me.

Despite the occasional head-scratcher, I now have a long list of movies that I will draw from when it’s my turn to choose.

And this summer, since I’m queen, I will be choosing often.

So if you’re looking for some touchy-feely films with a good message, to balance out this:

Look no further!

Here’s my list of family movies about how to do life:

Harvey– Swoon– it’s Jimmy Stewart! It’s about compassion and the fact that one man’s crazy is another man’s not crazy.
Roots– I think I was in 5th or 6th grade when this came on t.v. and we were all required to watch it for school. Man, have times changed. I didn’t see the new version, but the 1977 mini-series has stayed with me.
Being There– I love this movie and it’s message about politics, human nature and the media. Not sure if the kids will really get it, but I didn’t get Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones, so I guess we’re even.
Shorts– This sounds like something for the younger ones. Reviews say it’s pretty funny, even if the special affects are a little cheesy. Film explores bullying and how being tech-obsessed can impact relationships.
Nim’s Island– Another movie that might skew younger. Message about perseverance, courage, and independence. Bonus: the main character is homeschooled, which may be just because she lives on a deserted island, but still– rad!
The Visitor– Given the proposed Muslim ban, this is pretty darn timely. Themes include cultural diversity, immigration, politics in post 9/11 US, friendship. Great acting, too.
Unstrung Heroes– This 1995 film, directed by Diane Keaton, deals with loss, family, and how even if your family’s weird they can still be cool. Sounds like it might be kind of sad, so I will serve with ice-cream.
Inherit the Wind– 1960 courtroom drama about creationism vs. evolution. (My money’s on evolution, y’all.)
A Room With A View– Glorious film adaptation of E.M. Forster’s novel has messages about love, intimacy (you know, the stuff all middle school boys dig), and being true to yourself. My boys will not watch this willingly, I’m sure. Best chosen for Mother’s Day viewing.
Forrest Gump– Here’s what you get: war, civil rights, history, drugs, sex, personal choice, loyalty, friendship and questionable southern accents.
March of the Penguins– A good choice for any age unless you don’t like penguins, in which case I don’t want to know you. It’s all about nature, the cycle of life, and birds that are actually fish, or maybe it’s the other way around.
The Boy In the Striped Pajamas- A holocaust story told through the eyes of a young boy. I haven’t seen it yet, mainly because someone told me the ending and I just haven’t geared myself up for that. It’s on my short list for this summer.
Dances With Wolves– This may be better for the older middle schoolers and teens, depending on your kid and your tolerance for violence and scenes of people getting busy under animal skins. But there are also battles for survival and battles for power, Native American history, friendship, betrayal, on and on.
Rudy– A great movie, especially for football or sports types, but really anyone who loves an underdog story, which I totally do. Aim high and work hard, citizens!
Hidden Figures– You’ve probably seen this already, right? So good. Racial and gender equality, a bit of history of our space program.
Chocolat– Let me translate for you: Chocolate! Oo-la-la— a sweet flick about love, acceptance, joie de vivre, with a side helping of domestic violence, but still.
The Secret of Roan Inish– A lovely slow film that will either bore your kids to pieces or get them talking about faith and miracles in a charming Irish accent.
Heidi– My pals say it has to be the Shirley Temple version. I say, if you can get buy in for a Shirley Temple movie from your 12 and 14 year old boys, I fucking bow to you. Try it, and report back.
Searching For Bobby Fisher– Who needs another viewing of Mission Impossible 3 when you can watch a whole movie about a kid playing chess? JK, it’s all good: hard work, mastery, good sportsmanship.
Whale Rider– I can’t wait to see this! Themes of equality, cultural diversity and staying true to yourself, sexual and age discrimination, perseverance.
Babies– No plot, no story, just babies from all over everywhere doing baby things. A great window to the world. “Yes, Punkin’, I may have left you in your high chair to watch reruns of Blues Clues while I ate an entire bowl of chocolate pudding in my closet, but at least I didn’t tie you to the leg of the bed with a leash while I went out to milk the llamas.” Oh I kid. I’ve seen this and it’s lovely. My boys actually dig babies, and once they get over the fact that none of them are going to transform into venom spewing super villains, they might actually get into this movie.
The Power of One– Rated PG-13 (I haven’t seen it, so can’t say why), this is Morgan Freeman’s first movie and is based on a critically acclaimed book. Gives a lesson on the system of Apartheid and humanitarian values. I had never heard of this one, but it looks interesting.
Never Cry Wolf– So, this guy goes off by himself to study wolves and he goes kind of crazy but in a good way and, you guys, he has to eat a ton of mice to survive! (That’s my way of saying your kids will like this movie.)
Rabbit-Proof Fence– This story centers around three Aboriginal children who’ve been living in an internment camp and leave in an attempt to reunite with their parents. it’s a safe bet that one of the major themes is race and cultural oppression, along with resilience and courage. I’m in.
Kes– Apparently, this film is long and grim, but some people are into that. I should add that reviews say this is a stunning coming of age story, a classic even, so proceed as you wish.
October Sky– Who doesn’t love a true story about following your dreams? Also, one of the many awesome messages in this film is that how people are evaluated in school says very little about their value and potential. Word.
Explorers– I hear this movie is pretty dated, but I like how the aliens base their ideas aboot humans on what they’ve seen on television. Anything that reminds us that perspective matters is a-ok by me.
Off the Map– This film, set in northern New Mexico in 1974, is about a family living off the grid, old school hippie style. It has some great actors in it (Joan Allen, Sam Elliot) I haven’t seen it, but judging from reviews, it’s a good one all about unconditional love, acceptance of people, despite their imperfections. Some describe the film as “gentle and easygoing” which is not exactly a selling point with my boys, but hope springs eternal in my world.
Pay It Forward– Probably better for older teens because this film has it all: drugs, violence, racial slurs, sex, alcoholism and suicide. Good times! I may watch this one on my own while my kids are out crushing innocent strangers at laser tag.
Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill– Somehow, some way, I will get my boys to watch this with me. It just sounds so good. It’s a doc about a guy who takes care of and studies a flock of– you guessed it– wild parrots. Good for all ages, may need tissues. Be prepared with reasons why you can not adopt a parrot.
Freedom Writers– Fair warning, reviews say this one’s a little hokey. But if you can’t get enough of the clueless-white-teacher-comes-to-save-the-at-risk-youth-and-they-don’t-like-her-but-then-they-do kind of story, then this movie may be for you. There are a few of those on this list though, and this might not be the best of the bunch. Fair warning.
Quiz Show– Love this movie based on a true story about a big ol’ cheater. Message: Don’t be a big ol’ cheater!
The Soloist– Another film based on a true story (love those) that takes place in my adopted home of LA. It looks at mental illness and homelessness which, sadly, we have plenty of in the City of Angels.
McFarland USA– This is one my boys and I have seen and we all loved it. Yes, the white guy (Kevin Costner) comes and saves the day, but not until he gets schooled but good. Great for your kids to see if they ever complain about their measly chores because the teens in this story work harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. Issues explored include privilege, prejudice, immigration and more.
Selma– Looks at Martin Luther King’s role in the events leading up to the civil rights march from Selma to Montgomery, a pivotal point in the ongoing battle for racial equality in our country. There is a lot of violence because, well, that’s what happened, kiddos.
Bridge Over the River Kwai– If my kids are jonsing for cinematic violence and high-tension, I might suggest this classic. Message: War is hell.
Bingo Long and the Traveling All-Stars– A 70’s baseball film about the Negro national League. I hear tell women are objectified in this movie so if that’s a deal breaker, you’ve been warned. But hey, that was the 70’s and we all know that never happens anymore, right?? (Cue crickets.)
Glory– Another one for the older teens. This is beautiful film is not for the squeamish: civil war, racism, bigotry, valor, courage, US history, plus buckets of blood.
Norma Rae– You want an ass-kicking superhero movie? Here you go, boys. Power to the worker!
Hoop Dreams– Critically acclaimed high school basketball doc. How hard to these kids have to work just to get to school in the morning? Hard. How hard do they have to work to get what many other (rich white) kids have handed to them? Super f-ing hard. This film sends a strong message about strength, hard work, perseverance, systematic racism, class, and basketball.
Wadja– The first Saudi movie to be directed by a woman. (Yeah, I know.) It’s about a girl who seriously wants to bust out– ride her bike, wear sneakers– the nerve! Seems like an interesting window into what it’s like to be female in Saudi Arabia. Critics love it. Heads up: It’s subtitled.
Stand and Deliver– 1988 film based on the true story of a math teacher who comes to work in an inner-city school. Reviews say it’s pretty free of saccharin Hollywood schmaltz, but I can’t vouch for that. Themes include hard work, courage, perseverance, and hope.
12 Angry Men– This 1957 classic explores the jury’s role in our US justice system and prejudice.
Mr. Smith Goes To Washington- Jimmy Stewart brings it in this classic Capra movie in which we learn how our government works. (“Hear that kids? It used to actually work!”) It has the famous filibuster scene, and if that doesn’t move you then, well, I just don’t know what to say. If your kids are like mine, they are not always fans of the black and white films. Ask me if I care.
Lord of the Flies– There are at least two film versions of this classic novel. From what I’ve read, neither of them does the book justice, but you can try the 1963 or the 1990 version and let me know what you think. Creepy story explores the best and worst of human nature. Sensitive kids and lovers of pigs, proceed with caution.
To Kill a Mockingbird– You’ve seen this classic film version of the glorious coming of age novel by Harper Lee, right? It is a masterpiece. If you haven’t seen it, go watch it right now. Please, thank you, you’re welcome.
Billy Elliot– Fuck gender stereotypes! Fuck homophobia! Fuck people who don’t think boys should be into dance! If you have a major problem with the word fuck, or cursing in general, you will probably want to pass on this beautiful movie. Also, you probably don’t like my blog 🙂
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner– A classic, by any definition. Themes include Racism, age, loyalty, family, love, etc. Anyone who watches this movie in my house gets a cookie because that is probably the only way it’s going to happen. One day they will thank us.
The Gods Must Be Crazy– It doesn’t all have to be so serious. This 1980’s classic comedy has a message about modern society and what it means to be civilized. I remember this being a funny movie which, we all know, doesn’t always translate into our kids feeling the same way. Still, I’ll give it a whirl.

There you go, for your summer viewing pleasure. This list is obviously a work in progress, so please feel free to add your own social-justice-ish family movie suggestions in the comments below. Maybe we need a whole separate list for family documentaries. Plenty of amazing films have been left off this list, mostly because my refrigerator broke today and is leaking all over my kitchen floor.

Duty calls, my friends 🙂

It’s a Dirty Job and Somebody’s Got To Do It

Summer’s coming and I am glad.

HowEVER…

While I love the change in routine that summer brings, there are some very key ways that I would like this coming summer to NOT resemble last summer. I’m a big fan of free time for kids. You know, time to decompress, daydream, be a little bored. That sounds good in theory but in reality, last summer, this was me:

And this was them:

As much as I hate to admit it, I do way too many things for my kids, and not because I’m all that nice. I just forgot to notice that while I’ve been busy wiping counters and making haircut appointments, they have been growing up.

And so it has come to pass that I am, in many ways, exactly the kind of mom I always swore I would never be.

Let me paint a picture: Recently, I handed my 14 year old a can opener to use, and he looked at it like this:

That was my ah-hah moment.

This kid is capable of so many things. He is a fine upstanding gentlemen in the making and yet my perfectly smart enough teenager is mystified by how to get to the refried beans.

(Note to my son, on the very off chance that he may one day read this: Dude, this is on me. Why, if you have someone removing from under your bed the cereal bowls that have grown fur, would you ever need to do it yourself? And, in fairness, our can opener sucks. But still.)

I decided to do a little online research, with the goal being to find someone better at all this than me, and just, you know, do what they do.

Here’s a chart I got from a blog called Modest Mom. Her world view and politics are pretty polar opposite to my own, but you know what? She’s got six– count ’em six kids and they all do shit!

According to her chart, my boys have been skating by like eight year olds when it comes to their domestic duties. So while I may not want to party with this gal, I say don’t be modest, sister, because– except for the part where you give a pass to those freeloading one year olds— you are killing it in the child labor department!

Sheesh- my kids don’t have to do daily Bible study and they don’t do half this stuff.

For. Shame.

But today is the first day of the rest of my life, and as Modest Mom is my witness, here’s what my two little stinkers will be doing come September, or else. (Do not ask me or else what. I don’t know what. Something tells me MM would have a few ideas.)

Make their own lunches. I can’t believe I’m outing myself here, but I’ll admit this has been a control thing for me. What can I say, I’m a little weird about the balanced meal thing. (Humble brag– learned it on Facebook.)

But here’s the thing– they don’t eat what I pack anyway, so I am finally doing what I should have done years ago: giving up.

I have a feeling Giving Up is the secret sauce to sane parenting, at least as it applies to cleanliness and feeding. So, I will clear my house of all the crap “food” and they can have whatever is left, with no comment from me.

Late to the party, I know.

Wash their own dishes, like, ALL THE TIME. Gone are the days when I will put lipstick on the pig of housework and try to make chores fun. My dear husband is a great one for turning on loud classic rock during dinner clean up, and that’s fine because he likes it, but I actually do not see this translating into my sons wiping down the stove with any more gusto than if AC/DC wasn’t blasting from the radio.

My plan includes a rotating schedule for dinner dishes, and then a clean-as-you-go kind of thing for the rest of the day. Loud music, timers, games and cheeriness optional.

Cook something that isn’t a quesadilla. My boys have inherited their dad’s complete and total aversion to all things culinary. When they were little, we baked bread. I know because I have the pictures to prove it. We made cookies and pancakes, and they took to it so naturally, it seemed, but it turned out that what I thought was an aptitude for cooking was really really just an aptitude for licking the bowl.

To all the young moms out there who’s kids love gardening and grocery shopping and your favorite bands, I say enjoy it now because one day all those things you thought you knew about your little darlings will come crashing down around you and you will be face to face with someone who is probably totally awesome but who is maybe not awesome in the exact way you *planned* for them to be awesome, and this can be quite a blow.

Just saying.

To get my kids up to speed with the pits and pans, I (with the help of Blue Apron 2x a week), plan to change that. I’m hoping that all that practice assembling Lego sets will come in handy when I hand them the box. What could possibly go wrong??

Do hard work that is not pretend hard work. Guilty. I have given my kids faux chores for years to make myself feel better. I could sleep at night knowing that my kids were not some special snowflakes– no! They fed the dog, for god’s sake. They unloaded the dishwasher and made sure the toilet was flushed before company came over (keeping’ it classy, y’all). I was raising young men who would know the value of hard work; why just look at them sweep the front porch, would you???

You guys, those are the same jobs they’ve had since they were in booster seats, and while I give them props for never giving me grief about doing them, I think that might be because they just don’t want to call attention to the sweet gig that they’ve had for the past several years. The last time I sent my son out to weed the front yard, he lasted twenty minutes and then needed to convaless for the better part of the afternoon.

No more, my darling.

Time to get real. Our fridge needs cleaning, the garbage bins need scrubbing and the patio furniture needs scouring.

From here on out, I will perform the duties of my new job as my sons’ Uber, with a smile. This will, however, require that I resign, effective immediately, from any job that includes me sweating under my boobs while scraping melted fruit rollups off the backseat of our Honda.

Seems like a fair trade.

In closing, this summer will not be last summer. This summer we will disperse the load. This summer I will give up a little control and my boys will give up a little free time, and all of us will struggle with that, I’m sure. But I’m optimistic.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Faking It

“Change is the only constant in life.” — Heraclitus

I have two sons, a teenager, and one soon to be. When they were younger, sometimes the only way I knew to how to show up was to just stone cold fake it.

Whether it was pretending that I wasn’t terrified of flying in order to get my then five year old to board a plane, or acting like the toddler classes at My Gym were fun, and not actually the tenth fucking ring of hell, faking it has always been a useful strategy in my mommy tool box.

People say little kids can tell when your lying, but I’m happy to call bullshit on this myth because my boys fell for all of it.

Thank god.

Pretending I was relaxed and in control allowed me to be what I thought was a better version of myself, and I wanted that for my kids.

But lately faking it has started to feel, well, fake.

Last weekend, for example, I drop my oldest off at his sex-ed class, you know, like you do.

(I’ll for sure be writing more about the whole sex-ed thing. It’s a great program you can learn about here.)

Anyhoo…

Afterwards, I’m in the car with my eleven year old, who’s using my phone to find an age appropriate educational podcast we can listen to on the way to the park (not really – he was playing Doodle Jump), when a text comes in. It’s the teacher of the class, a friend of mine. From the back seat, 11 reads it to me. “We need fifty condoms, asap”. Apparently there was some kind of game planned for class that day and they were short a few supplies.

“Tell her I’m on it!” I chirp. I am the go-to mom, I think to myself, with satisfaction. Yep- cool and capable, that’s me.

On a roll, I decide to take advantage of the teachable moment and make sure 11 is up on all things condom. I keep it real matter-if-fact, like they tell you to, explaining to him in simple but accurate language, how they are used and why.

I’m doing great, I think to myself.

But as we get out of our car and enter Rite Aid, I start to feel the tingle of something like embarrassment creeping up on me. I try to shake it off. Buying condoms is a life skill, I tell myself. “Come on, let’s make it quick, kiddo!”

(Time out— Just so you know, I am not usually hung up about sex stuff. Seriously. It’s probably one of the few hang-ups I don’t have, but I haven’t bought condoms since grunge bands were a thing, and apparently I am a little out of practice.)

So after going up and down every aisle, passing right by all the normal mothers who are there for sunscreen, or Claritin, we finally find aisle seven, now more aptly known (by me) as The Sex Aisle.

“What are those?” My son asks.

“Condoms,” I answer brightly, “like we were talking about in the car.” No biggie, I think, perusing the vast array of choices.

“Why are there so many kinds?”

Clearly, I am a what they call an “askable” parent. Awesome! But I ignore his query for the moment, and dig around in my purse for a pair of readers.

“Back up honey,” I say, “Mom needs to see.”

Someone passes behind us. Did I imagine it, or was that a snicker? I feel my face flush. I just need the cheapest, biggest box, and I need to get it before anyone comes and judges me for being all sexed up and desperate for rubbers at two in the afternoon.

Peering over my shoulder to get a better view of the merch, 11 asks, “Do they mean the skin of an actual lamb?”

Reader, I’m totally down with this conversation. I read Meg Hickling’s book, and at the right time I am capable of answering all these questions and more, but at this moment, I am feeling fifteen years old and I just want to get the goods and get the hell out of there.

I lift the plastic door of the case to grab some Trojans (brand loyalty is alive and well) when–DIIIIINNNGGG! An alarm sounds, making us both jump.

“What’s that?” 11 asks, but I’m busy reading the box I’ve snagged. Twenty-six, not nearly enough. Shit. I go in again.

DIIIIIINNGGG!!

“Are you stealing?” My son asks, as I frantically search for a bigger box, knocking something called a Pleasure Pack to the floor. I’m intrigued, but need to stay on task.

I reach in and quickly try to put it back—

DIIINNNGGGG!!

For the love of all that is holy, can a person not just buy fifty condoms without the world knowing??? With sweaty palms, I fling open the cabinet, and try for a different box.

DIIIINNGGG!!!

“Security check on aisle seven!” blasts over the store intercom.

“Let’s get out of here,” I hiss.

As we make our way to the registers, I grab a few other things— index cards, pencils, Us Magazine, just to round out my haul.

“You dropped these,” 11 says, handing me a supersize box of Stimulations Ultra-Ribbed. My eyes dart around as I shove them in my basket.

At the front of the store, the cashier on register #1 looks a little judgey to me. Reguster #2 is some poor high school kid, so I opt for the zoned out woman on the end, and casually place my items on the counter for her to scan.

11 is watching me with a smile that says, “who are you trying to fool?

I have to laugh.

Once again, I’m trying to fake being cool, but he sees right through the act.

And you know what? It’s a relief.

The last thing my kids need is yet another person in their lives who is pretending they have everything figured out. Life is awkward, and strange, and sometimes you get embarrassed even when you know you shouldn’t be. Being myself is the only parenting trick I have left, and it’s no trick at all, which doesn’t mean it’s always easy.

The automatic doors slide open and we leave behind the frigid air of the pharmacy, plunging into the warm afternoon sun.

Just for a moment, the change takes my breath away.

Do It For Yourself

There is an article I read recently about how this generation that has grown up on the internet has a real problem creating art for art’s sake. You can read the entire thing here but for now let’s just look at this:

“Hobbies are now necessarily productive. If you’re learning piano, you must try to record the jingle for that commercial your friend directed. If you develop a curiosity about a niche topic, you must start an online newsletter dedicated to it, work to build your audience, and then try to monetize the newsletter. If you have a nice speaking voice, you must start a podcast. We’re encouraged to be “goal-oriented” and rewarded with outsize praise for everything we’ve accomplished, and so we feel that we need to turn every creative pursuit into a professional one.”

When I read that, I not only recognized a creativity trap I’d fallen into, but one I’d set for my kids as well. Not a proud moment, but a true one.

When my son was about nine, he got into making things out of duct tape. He sat forever watching YouTube videos on how to make wallets, belts, book covers, etc. At the time, lots of kids were doing this.

I thought he was brilliant.

And I wanted him to know I thought he was brilliant. I thought that was part of my job.

I bought a bag full of duct tape and shared pictures I’d found online of cool duct tape stuff. I swooned over every new object that rolled off his assembly line and commissioned a cell-phone case in colors that matched my purse.

Now he was an entrepreneur and it was totally his idea! (Kind of.)

He was proud when he made his first sale and, of course, he was having fun. He loved ~~my praise~~ I mean, ~~my attention~~ I mean, making stuff out of duct tape.

A few years later, he attended a week long day camp where a little rock band was formed. The kids, middle schoolers at the time, had a blast playing Joan Jet covers and writing their own songs. When they shared their music with us, the other parents and I could hardly contain ourselves. They were The Beatles and The Stones rolled into one. We clapped and cheered like groupies for our little musicians.

Then their teacher set them up with a free gig at a pre-school fundraiser. The band loved it— who wouldn’t? Lots of applause and free snow-cones, after all.

Next, their fan base (read: parents) made t-shirts and they played at a local Mexican joint, opening for their band teacher, a talented guy who’s devotion to music was total and who, by the way, had worked his ass off for decades as a musician.

The kids were so proud of themselves. We could see it in their faces. Well, we would have seen it, if we weren’t so busy schlepping their shit, selling their merch and buying them burritos.

One night after playing a few sets at a bowling alley, the band broke up in a blaze of hormonally driven pre-teen glory.

WTF?

I stood over a box of now worthless t-shirts and stickers feeling, I’ll admit, just a little bit pissed.

My son said he just wasn’t into it anymore, but I couldn’t help but think he was making a mistake. Maybe after years of having me as his personal concierge, he took it all for granted.

Didn’t he get how lucky he was?

Later, driving home, I got to thinking about the summer of 1980. I was fourteen and wanted, with a red hot passion that fueled all kinds of shenanigans, to be an actor.

After reading about an open call for the sitcom The Facts of Life in the Sunday paper, I called Alex, a friend from school and the only guy I knew who had his own camera. In exchange for a pack of clove cigarettes, he set up a makeshift studio in his basement and took a picture of me wearing my best peasant skirt and tube top. I heard somewhere that you needed a resume, so I pounded one out on my typewriter that consisted of summer camp drama classes, baton twirling and, knowing me, a bunch of made up shit. I stapled that sucker to my picture and caught the bus to meet my destiny.

The producers were in Nashville looking for a southern teenager to add to the regular cast, and the waiting room at Talent and Model Land was packed with girls like me. Not knowing the drill, I did what they did: signed in, looked at my script, and checked out the competition. Most of the girls were dressed a little better, some had professional photos and hair done up with hot rollers. When my name was called I teetered into the room on my sister’s hand-me-down Candie’s, said my lines to the camera while blushing scarlet, and caught the bus home.

I waited by the phone for days, but they never called. I was crushed.

And I couldn’t wait to do it again.

A snapshot of that day might have shown a girl who needed a grownup’s help (maybe rethink the three inch heels, Mag), but pan out and it’s a different story.

I’m as proud of that Facts of Life audition as I am of anything I accomplished in my twenty years as a working actor and it happened without an enterage. It marked the beginning of a long rocky road and even though I’m no longer interested in acting, I still call on that sovereign girl with her yellow highlighter and harebrained schemes whenever I want to try something new. (She’s the one who started this blog.)

I’m not saying I’m done supporting my kids when they’re going for something. I’m just done doing it without being asked. And I’m definitely done being the one who does the most work.

I shared my (better late than never) epiphany with a good friend who has raised a couple of kids of her own. She told me that when her daughters were growing up and in that “look at me” phase, she would watch and smile and say, “I’ll watch once, then you need to do it for yourself.” Wow.

Do it for yourself.

That actually used to be a thing.

The other night I was walking by my son’s bedroom and from behind the door that is so often closed these days came the sound of him playing a song on his guitar that I’d never heard.

It was so beautiful. Did he make it up himself? Were there lyrics? Wait, let me get your Dad…

And that was my cue

to keep on walking.

Street Ball For The Win! (Ten Reasons I’m Glad My Son Quit the Team)

My son, 11, has been playing in a basketball league for the past four years.

The poor kid comes from a family of theatre folk and bookish nerds, so when he begged to learn the game and play on the regular, what else were we to do?

Organized Sports are important, right? I read it ~~somewhere~~ everywhere. As I’ve mentioned before, we’re a homeschooling family, and while this educational path has many advantages, team sport opportunities are not on the list.

So we put him in a league. He loved it. Life went on, (minus our free Saturdays, of course).

Late last Spring, when 11 announced that he didn’t feel like playing in a league anymore, I’ll admit I was sort of bummed. After all, basketball was his thing and, even with the hoop in our driveway, I was worried that without scheduled practices and games, he’d never have an opportunity to play.

As parents, my husband and I had a choice: make him play, because team sports have been so good for him and he’ll be glad he pushed through, or let him quit, and find something else that he loves. At times like these, I have this guy in my head, telling me what “the right thing to do” is:

But part of my problem is that I also have this guy knocking around up there, telling me to take a chill pill and stop with the fascist parenting:

Together my husband and I decided that it’s basketball, not dental hygiene. If he wants to skip it, fine. Finish out the last few games of the season, we told him, and that’ll be it.

Not long after he played his last league game, 11 asked me to take him to a park, a few miles from our house.

Not much was happening there, unless you count a soccer class for some pre-schoolers, suited up in safety gear like a liliputian S.W.A.T team, a few personal trainers barking orders and flinging kettle bells around, and a D-list celebrity, puffing his way around the track with an iPhone strapped to his arm.

(Oh, LA, how I love thee).

But for a boy with a basketball and an afternoon to kill, not exactly a happening place.

I asked if he wanted to stay, and he did.

I asked if he was ok if I walked a few laps, and he was.

As I made my way around the dirt path, he practiced layups on the blacktop, then free throws, and eventually sat down on his ball and kind of stared into space.

This sucks, I thought.

On my next lap around, I noticed that a couple of guys had shown up. They weren’t 11’s age, in fact, they looked to be in their early twenties. I caught 11’s eye, making sure he was cool and got a thumbs up, my signal from him to keep walking.

By the time I completed one more lap, a fierce game of three on two was on.

Two hours later, 11 and I were both exhausted and happy, and I was convinced. After four years of being a basketball mom, schlepping my son to league practices, Saturday morning games, “shoot outs” (I know what those are now), and trophy ceremonies where “everyone is a winner!”, I became a street ball zealot.

12140661_10208179303864998_5747168120602844827_n — 11 in a typical game of pick-up ball at our park, photo taken on the sly 🙂

The following is a list of reasons why I love that my son has chosen to forgo league play for the unorganized, untamed, unprocessed pastime of street ball, which can be played at our local city park for exactly zero dollars:

No fair? No problem. One-on-one is fair, unless one player is a seven year old with an eyepatch, and the other is a high school senior with a basketball scholarship and an hour to kill. Que sera sera!
He plays with people of all ages, races, economic backgrounds, and skill levels. You want to play? You’re in.
He risks failure, and by failure, I don’t mean losing. Occasionally, my son shows up with his big goofy grin and his sneakers double knotted and no one is there. When this happens, my son calls it “a fail.” I call it a bonus! Whether asking someone out on a date, starting a business or writing a blog, the good stuff in life isn’t orchestrated for us, and all of it requires a certain amount of risk.
No refs means he works it out, old school. Unlike what I’ve seen with league play, this almost never involve screaming or the throwing of tantrums (and that’s just the coach I’m talking about).
He has a second home. No matter where he goes in the world, if he can find a hoop, a ball, he’ll be in familiar territory. If he’s lucky, he can make a friend. The world can be kinda shitty sometimes and, I say, the more places you can feel at home, the better.
He has to talk to strangers. Again with the risk taking. Here’s how he does it, near as I can tell: he shows up, lurks around, shoots a few layups all casual-like, then asks if he can get in on whatever game is in play. Can you imagine??? Me neither. So cool.
He’s unplugged. I’m always on the lookout for fun that doesn’t include a glowing rectangle in front of my boy’s face. Luckily, we need look no further than our local park. Street ball is analog fun at it’s finest.
No buzzer kills the mood. When things are hopping on the blacktop, games can last way longer than the hour that a usual league game is allowed to go. More play time means more fun, more exercise, more practice, and one more lap around the track for me.
He does it for his own bad self. Not only am I not expected to watch his every move in a pick-up game, but he prefers that I ignore him completely. He probably waves me off because having your mom hang around and beam at you is a little dorky, but I prefer to think it’s because, at the park, he’s playing for his own enjoyment, not for cheers, gold stars, or the requisite post-game snack of Go-gurt and Hi-C that some very together mom always shoves at him. Also, no one has ever received a basketball scholarship for street ball. What a relief.
No trophies! Those of you who have had your kids in organized sports will understand why this is a grand thing. You understand because you too have a box of crappy plastic trophies that your child has been given for just existing, and you are as sick of them as I am. Even my son knows they’re bullshit. Anyway, no trophies will be coming at you for shooting hoops at the park, no sir. For his time, commitment and skinned knees 11 will only receive a slight sunburn (bad mom), and some pretty useful life skills.

Of course it’s possible that 11 will turn around tomorrow and ask to join a league again (kids are weasels, after all). That’s ok. But never again will I buy into the idea that team sports need to be organized. We’ll continue to take back a corner of our park for play, with our own, tiny, everyday act of rebellion: showing up.

Come On Get Happy! Road Trip 2016

Our family is about to embark on an epic road trip where we will explore as much of the western half of this country as can be done in two weeks.

“Now’s the time,” friends have told me. “Once they’re teenagers, it will be a much harder sell.”

Old Faithful!

The Grand Canyon!

Quality Time and free continental breakfasts for all!

It’s going to be great.

Except, you know how some horror movies will begin with, oh, say, a nice family packing for a summer vacation, and it all looks so fun but you KNOW it’s all about to get very scary?

I’m kind of flashing on that, y’all.

First of all, I’ve got two boys, each of whom get carsick on the elevator to their 5th floor orthodontist’s office. Because of this, a road trip feels just a tiny bit risky.

And of course, there’s the fact that they are eleven and thirteen, the age when kiddos really turn on the charm.

(You feel me, moms?)

Then there’s my husband and I.

We have been married fifteen years which he always points out, in Los Angeles, is “a pretty good run.”

Such a romantic.

And while Chris and I are all good with the daily routine, exploring the road less traveled (especially if it’s crammed with tourists in socks and sandals) with all it’s novelty, can sometimes bring out the worst in us.

You know, just a little.

One thing about C. is that he truly wants to make his family happy. (Side note: I am proud to say that, while very tempting, I have never used this to my advantage, as evidenced by the fact that we have neither a chicken coop, nor a manny.)

I also have a thing about making my family happy, albeit with slightly more of an edge than my husband. Oh yes, I want to make them happy and keep them happy, by god, or die trying!!

In that way (and a few others), we are all batshit crazy.

So a family road trip with us could look something like this:

Four hours into a seven hour drive, one child might whimper, “I don’t feel so good.”

I hand him a plastic Subway bag, to which he responds, “Don’t Mom, you’re making it worse!”

They ask how many more miles, and does the motel have a pool.

Four hundred ninety-seven and no, it does not.

T. asks for more room in the backseat, prompting C. to poke his older brother with a fruit roll-up, which inspires T. to fart, then blame the fart on C., forcing C. to retaliate with, what else?

More farting. (Did I mention he is eleven?)

I unroll the windows.

“Look over there!” My husband says then, pointing to an awesome rock formation which looks, you gotta kind of admit, a lot like the last awesome rock formation. “See that??”

Busy licking orange dust out of an empty Doritos bag from three states ago, the little darlings don’t respond to their father, which leads to a very slight tensing of his lower jaw, invisible to to the naked eye unless, of course, the naked eye is my super-human-bionic -mother-eye.

It is then that some very ancient neuron in my brain, buzzing from too many pecan logs and Snapples, fires, and I, for reasons I am not wholly conscious of, set about “lightening the mood” with a friendly game of License Plate Bingo. I crank the audio version One Hundred and One Native American Folk Tales (educational and fun!) and take another family selfie.

#Blessed!

When both my boys were preschool age, I went to an amazing therapist. (If you read this blog then you know I’m no stranger to the couch.)

I went to her because I was feeling anxious during the long hours I spent alone with my son and newborn baby, and I couldn’t figure out why. Like many new moms, I thought that all I wanted was for my kids to be happy. (This was before Facebook and articles like this that, like a good freinemy, are both helpful and shaming. Now we know better—then, we were totally fucked up.)

No matter what I tried, C. would still have long crying jags in the middle of the night and T. flipped out when riding in his carseat. Everyone else always seemed to be enjoying themselves. What was wrong with us??

“It just feels like someone is always upset,” I said. “I don’t know what to do.”

“So,” she began, all casual-like, “What would a good day look like, for you and the boys?”

I tried to figure out what the right answer was. I knew I needed therapy, but I desperately wanted her to think I didn’t. “Well, I guess if everyone’s happy, then it’s been a good day.”

Nailed it, I thought.

A single mother with two grown kids of her own, she smiled and said, “You might need to rethink your definition of a good day.”

She told me that when you’ve got two kids under five, a day that ends with everyone in one piece might just be as good as it gets.

One kid crying in my arms with a fever while the other watches yet another episode of What Not To Wear in his bouncy seat? Good day.

Honey Bunches of Oats for dinner while wearing our pajamas. (From yesterday?) Good day.

Staying at the fancy Children’s Museum in Beverly Hills for thirty minutes before having to leave with two sobbing kids because C. pooped in his rain boots? Good Day.

My feeling ok had been dependent on their smiling faces and let me tell you, that shit can drive you nuts. Realizing that I do not operate the on/off switch for anyone’s happiness, and changing my whacked idea of what a good day looks like was, ironically, the key to happiness.

My own, anyway.

And it’s probably also the key to

~~a totally awesome road trip~~

~~a super fun road trip~~

our road trip 🙂

Mother’s Helper

The boys and I have been involved in a film making project with several other families that has pretty much eaten up our lives for the past few weeks. The kids are learning a ton and having a great time, which makes it all worth it (I think), but the adults are not faring quite so well under the weight of twelve to fourteen hour days and some pretty rough working conditions. I’ll tell you more later, after time has worked it’s magic and I have regained my will to live.

But anyway…

It was my youngest son’s birthday a few days ago, during all this madness, and a twelve hour day was on the books. I got up early to heat up a store-bought coffee cake for breakfast, reminded him, with a big hug, that we’d be having a few friends over for a celebration next week, I love him very much, and could he feed the cat.

Somewhere during the long hot day, I mentioned that it was C’s birthday, and another one of the moms suggested I run out and get some cupcakes so we could celebrate together and he could blow out the candles, you know, the way you like to do when you are newly eleven.

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” I said. “No, it’s ok.”

“But it’s his birthday,” she told me, managing to make it sound kind, not accusing. She was in charge of the project and wanted me to know that it was alright to take a few minutes out, for C.

“Yeah, I know, but he’s fine, really,” I answered, sort of missing her point, now that I think of it. “He’s having a little party next week.” That was true, but the real reason I was brushing her off was that, with all the food allergies and aversions in this group, serving cupcakes, or anything other than an epi-pen, was simply a bigger hassle than I was up for. Plus, I knew we were on a tight schedule and that, by the end of the day, everyone would be more than ready to pack up and go home.

“You’re sure?” She asked.

My youngest son is pretty low maintenance, probably due to having me as a mother. I maintain that this will serve him well, even if it’s sort of a drag in the early years. Some may call that rationalization on my part (BINGO!), but I consider it a public service to raise a kid who does not think the world is his oyster. (Sorry, Louise Hay.)

“Yeah, thanks, I’m sure,” I answered, sucking down some more coffee.

And that was that.

At the very end of the day, we were all sweaty and bleary eyed, when a big tray of cupcakes appeared, complete with shimmering candles for my boy to make one special sure-to-be-granted birthday wish. Kids and grown-ups gathered around, belting out the appropriate song to his shy smiling face.

He was so happy.

And so was everyone else. Forget the the loaves and fishes, coming up with vegan, gluten free, sugar-free, nut-free cupcakes at the last minute , now that’s a miracle. For a moment, I had forgotten that it feels really good to sing loud and cheer at the end, it just does, and it feels good to wish someone well.

Turns out, it was just the lift we all needed.

I found the mom, my friend Keren, who had made the moment happen, and hugged her. It was a little thing she had done, sure, but it was also big. Her kindness didn’t reflect poorly on me, far from it. Gestures like that make us all look good.

While men wage wars, we wage community.

We read a lot about mommy wars and alpha moms. The media paints a picture of women who are hell bent on raising the bar so high, the rest of us can only stare up at it, slack-jawed, downing a Redbull with one hand and giving her the finger with the other.

Oh yeah, apparently, we have it out for each other.

By the way, I get that I’m part of the problem. I write about these very people on this blog. I do it because it can be fun to laugh at the lengths to which we all go, or won’t go, to be good at momming. I write about it because the stakes are so high and because I am wildly insecure.

Plus, I can be an asshole, so there’s that.

But I just want to make a little space here for the truth. The truth is that, while there was absolutely that time the lady at the DMV gave me the stink-eye for breastfeeding in line, there was also that time when a friend took my son into the waves to play so I could sit my tired ass in the sand with my newborn, feeling that postpartum mix of wonderful and horrible.

Did this threaten me and make me resent her joie de vivre? Hell no! I wanted to give her a foot massage and a Margarita for doing the one thing I just couldn’t, at that moment, do.

Or like when I had the flu, and that mom I thought was sort of bitchy (ugh– how she always finds ways to remind me that “she has a very demanding career”), offered to pick up my fourth grader and keep him all Saturday so I could sleep, a favor my son repaid by barfing all over the back of her Escalade.

Get this– when she told me about it, she was actually laughing. God bless her.

Or how about when I turned away, just for a second, and that mom with the PhD and yoga butt flipped my gasping toddler upside down, and out fell the windpipe-sized Lego guy, and I wanted to mouth kiss her there on the spot? Did I feel like an idiot? Yes. Did I wish she didn’t always have to be all show-offy and super-mommish? Lord no.

I think you catch my drift.

I am so grateful to the mothers who step in when my ass needs saving, and it happens all the time, with problems big and small.

We are so lucky to have each other.

bouquet of ballpoints

Tag: Parenting

Big Halloween

Legal

Family Game Night Fail

It’s a Dirty Job and Somebody’s Got To Do It

Faking It

Do It For Yourself

Street Ball For The Win! (Ten Reasons I’m Glad My Son Quit the Team)

Come On Get Happy! Road Trip 2016

Mother’s Helper

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