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It’s Sunday morning and T has come in to snuggle with me. Every morning, school day or not, he comes in for a snuggle—even if only for a few minutes. Weekends—especially Sundays—are sumptuous because there is no rush to get ready for school. We luxuriate under the covers and watch food shows, critiquing dishes and taking note of recipes we might like to try. He is an aspiring chef and often engages in cooking competitions with his friends in our kitchen (i.e. The Scrambled Egg Challenge and Chopped: The Top Ramen Edition). Watching The Cooking Channel under the covers—this is our “thing.” So, we are doing our thing, watching Bobby Flay make French toast and I take the opportunity to give T a big hug and smooch his baby-face. He tolerates my affection, eyes still on Bobby Flay, while I shower his face with kisses. “What’s it like to be adored?” I ask him. “What’s a dord?” he replies. “You know, adored. ” “A dord?” “Yes!—adored!” “I don’t know what a dord...
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E.B.M.I.A. (Easter Bunny Missing in Action)

This year was the first that I did not create Easter baskets for the Big Boys. I was distraught that I did not have time to make the usual “arrangements” for the “Easter Bunny” to bring them baskets loaded with Pringles, Cadbury Eggs, Fiddle Faddle and the other favorite treats he has always delivered. I felt like a rotten mother. The Husband poo-poo'd the notion claiming that it was highly unlikely that the Big Boys would hold it against me for not delivering them Easter baskets. They were, after all, grown men and probably stopped expecting Easter baskets from the Easter Bunny eons ago. Still, I felt like they might have been disappointed (they weren't). It was just lucky that I had a stash of Pop Rocks and Starbursts handy, and I was able to make sure that the Little Boys received their baskets from the Easter Bunny. Unfortunately, I didn’t wake up early enough to put them on the doorstep and the boys were already awake by the time I got out of bed, so I had to perform a ch...
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Extreme D.I.Y.

A few weeks ago, I decided that J needed a new dresser for his bedroom—something chic and European…something from Ikea! I had heard things about Ikea, like how you can buy an entire roomful of furniture for what you’d for pay a TV tray at Ethan Allen, AND…that they have a cafeteria where they serve Swedish meatballs with mashed potatoes for like six bucks! Cheap furniture and meatballs? Ding-Ding-Ding! Jackpot! Like most Americans, I was immediately dazzled by the stylishly appointed little “rooms” at Ikea. I was overcome with a sudden urge to throw out all of my fussy custom-upholstered chairs and sofas and replace them with sleek vinyl chaises and Swedish beanbag chairs. But I was there to buy a dresser and it was time to get down to business. This is when the dazzle begins to wear off. To get to the dresser, I am forced to wander through a maze like a lab rat searching for cheese. At last, the dresser is found. Now to find pencil and paper to write down the mysterious location of ...
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While I Was Sleeping...

We just returned from the most amazing trip to Yosemite. The boys all had a fabulous time, so of course, I did too. I love having all of my boys together all at once. Since The Husband and I had some work obligations a couple of the nights during our stay, the big brothers (the Big Boys) took the little brothers (the Little Boys) for the evening. On one of those nights, the Big Boys (Bert and Topher) decided to take the Little Boys (J and T) out for a night hike. I am guessing the Little Boys were probably too amped up to go to bed and the Big Boys were hoping to wear them out. So off they went into the night (of which I would NEVER have approved). Of course, they wandered around lost for a while. Not far from help since they were wise enough to remain on the trail, but lost in the sense that they could not immediately find their way back to their camp site. After wandering around aimlessly in the bitter cold for a while, T made one of his grave announcements: “If we are lost, I am g...
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DON’T PANIC

A few weeks ago, we were all out celebrating the end of summer vacation, presumably doing something fun. Unfortunately, I can’t remember what the fun thing was that we were doing. All I remember is that at the end of a long day of having fun, the car keys went missing. (Why is it that it’s always easier to remember the one bad thing that happens rather than an entire day of good things?) All of us were hot and sweaty and fraying at the edges, and now, here we were stranded in the middle of a parking garage, searching desperately for the car keys. I rifled through my purse for the third or fourth time while The Husband stood behind me asking questions beginning with phrases like: “Did you leave it in the….?” or “How about checking your…?” which was driving me crazy because I’d looked in all of the places he’d suggested about a million times. In the meantime, the kids, exhausted and feeling our frustration, were beginning to unravel. “Are we going to be stuck here all day?” J whined. Sin...
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Because That Would Hurt

T always says the most interesting things. The other day we were in the car, driving to or from one of the boys' extracurricular activities, FM radio blasting, all of us bopping along to the music. When we reached our destination, I cut the engine and the music and we all made moves to get out of the car. Except for T. He sat in his booster, his eyes glazed over, staring straight ahead unblinking, brows furrowed-obviously deep in thought. "Yoo hoo," I said, waving my hand in front of his face. "Let's go, buddy." He blinked, looked at me, and came back to reality. As we were walking from the car, he looked up at me and said: "Mom? Whose face is she poking? And why is she?" I was puzzled. "What do you mean?" Then T said, "You know, the lady in the song. She keeps saying,"puh-puh-puh-poke her face! puh-puh-poke her face!" I stifled a giggle. He was talking about Lady Gaga's song " Poker Face " which we...
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Where've You Been All My Life?

I love the way my husband comes in after I’ve completely come un-glued and told the kids off at the top of my lungs. He walks in like he’s the sheriff or something and he is going to come in with a big plan to make all the pilgrims happy. He seems flummoxed when his nosing in like this pisses me off even more. He’s like “Here I am to fix the mess you’ve made.” And I’m like “Oh so NOW you want in on this? Where the hell have you been the entire time I have been on my own coping with YOUR children’s problematic homework issues? Huh…where were you then???” I always come off looking like Denzel Washington while he gets to be Ethan Hawke in Training Day. It’s so unfair. Because every single day, I get to play bad cop, nagging about unfinished homework, pointing out that neatness counts, and making sure that exactly twenty minutes of reading has been completed—not fifteen minutes, not eighteen minutes—exactly twenty minutes. Meanwhile, he gets to do “important” things like checking his e-ma...
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