ipad: isad, imad, ibad, iglad

This is a story about wanting someone to do the right thing, and not giving a crap if they do it for the right reason.

My 7 year-old daughter is obsessed with my ipad. It is how I get her to wake up cheerfully in the morning. I am not proud of this. But I am not ashamed either. (I have a 15 year-old who reluctantly attends seminary. I cannot have too many battles before breakfast.) I bring it into her room and she hears the click as I woosh it on and sees the red glow of Netflix and she perks up and starts her day with a smile and Horseland.

8:20 It is time to go wait for the bus, she knows she must leave her ipad buddy behind. But two weeks ago, while I was putting her lunch in her backpack and told her to wait on the front porch, she snuck the ipad under her coat. Once at the end of the drive where we wait, she insisted she needed an extra snack. I think she thought she’d get to finish her show if I were inside. As I come back out I see her getting on the bus. I wave to the back of her head and go back inside.

3:15 My peanut gets home and runs upstairs. “Mom,” she says very seriously, “where is the ipad?” “Wherever you left it this morning I guess.” She fidgets. “Um, I left it outside. In the bushes. Sticking out of the snow.” I feel sick as we head to the driveway and I KNOW what I will not find. We live on a busy street where anyone seeing an ipad sticking out of the snow at the end of our drive could snatch it. And did I mention that it was trash day, and the empty cans and blue bins stood a foot away from us. She points to an ipad size indentation in the snow by the mailbox. “Right there,” she said. When I asked why on earth she put it in the snow she says, “Well I knew you’d be so mad if I took it to school.”  I shook my head at her first grade logic. “Mom, I am so so sorry. All day I had a bad feeling in my stomach and I wanted to go to the office and call you so you could go get it, but I don’t think they let you go to the office unless your sick or in trouble.” Deep sigh. I gave her a big hug and reassured her that I wasn’t mad at her. One of the sucky things about getting older is you get to experience more sadness, more loss, more pain. But a benefit is that this level of suckiness can give you perspective and compassion. I love my technology and was delighted when my husband’s company upgraded him to a fancy ipad and I got his old one. So I was sad but not prepared to go nuts. Lets be clear that in the pantheon of loss, this was not worthy of deep anguish.

3:30 As I am on hold with the town getting the name of the waste management company, it occurs to me to use the “find my iphone” app which links all our devices and can track them via GPS. I proceed to a) locate it, b) lock it, and c) send a “please call” message.  I tell Nikki at WM headquarters what has happened. She says no one has said they found an ipad. I tell her the intersection where the GPS places it in Somerville.  She tells me to file a police report, takes my number, wishes me luck.

4:00 I am sitting at the police station giving a report. I show the officer where the ipad is. He says he’ll call the Somerville police but that all they will do is drive to the location and see if the ipad is sitting there on the ground. Honestly. Where are Cagney and Lacey when I need them?! Maybe, he offers, his captain will let him drive around the area and knock on doors, but probably not.  Frustration sets in. What my daughter did was stupid, but that the police were not going to do anything seemed more stupid. I am officially mad.

4:20 I call my girlfriend Jen to update her on the ipad saga. She insists I pick her up and we drive to Somerville to “try to get a visual on the suspect’s home.” She watched NCIS. And Castle. So we leave our uptight little Boston suburb, a place so persnickety it refuses to let the subway or most chain stores into our hallowed grounds. We start referring to ourselves as Cagney and Lacey and wonder if we sent the loud pinging noise via “find my iphone” if we could hear it if we knocked on doors. I’m feeling baddass as we drive through Cambridge and head into the hip part of Somerville, all funky ethnic restaurants and hippy chic shops. But where the GPS leads us is neither funky nor chic.  The houses and apartments are run down and my minivan feels conspicuously out of place. When we stop in front of where the blue dot is, a dark house sits that seems to be giving me the finger. Jen informs me that we are not to leave the car; she reminds me we are Cagney and Lacey, not Thelma and Louise. We will not die for an ipad, and for sure not a first generation.   

4:50 Officer O’Leary calls and says that he spoke to the WM company and they think it might still be on a truck, to call in the morning There are no trash trucks around. So I do a search and discover that one of their offices is just a half mile away.  I doubt that the GPS might be off by the much but we head there anyway. The guy at the booth informs us that it’s a giant trash warehouse. All trash has been dumped and consolidated. No trucks are there. My ipad, if in a truck, is gone. He smiles at this. I see through his scraggly beard that there are teeth missing. We have lost our bravado, realize how stupid we were to think we could have, what, knocked on a door and demanded of a stranger, “Hand me my ipad!” Cagney and Lacey no more, we return to our sleepy town.

9:00pm Bea enters my room and says she cannot sleep. My husband asks what is keeping her awake. “Guilt,” she says, clutching her stomach. I put her in our bed and cuddle her. I can’t sleep either. I am embarrassed at how sad I feel about the whole thing. I refuse to pray for the ipad’s return because I know my prayers are powerful and it feels wrong to waste faith on an apple product. I want to be better than that. Instead I pray to understand why I am so upset.   I decide it’s because my life feels out of my control.  Just as I knew the spot where my lost item was, but could do nothing to retrieve it, so too I often know what the problems are in my life, what it would take to fix them, but don’t have the tools necessary. I toss and turn.

2:00am I check the GPS app one more time. It is still at the dark house. I fall asleep feeling helpless.

7:30am My husband wakes me up and says that Nikki from WM has called. The ipad has been found. Call them. I talk to Nikki and this is what she says: the trash guys didn’t take the ipad, the recycling guy did. He saw it in the snow and thought it was newspaper (the cover looks like an old map). He put it in the truck, which began having mechanical trouble. So instead of dumping his truck he takes it to the main location to await a mechanic. He hears an ipad is missing, looks for it and finds it. Voila. A miracle. It will be waiting for me at Nikki’s desk.  I check the GPS and the blue dot is now several miles from the dark house, now over by the Target I go to sometimes. I know I’ve just been fed a story but I don’t care. I need the ipad back so that I can maintain the illusion that my life is in order. And so that Bea can stop having that sad look on her face like she knows she’s let me down.

1:00pm I arrive at the office, located under a giant overpass. There are several men in the parking lot, but no broken recycling trucks.  I bring with me a dozen donuts and two gift cards to Duncan Donuts. I hand one to Nikki, thanking her for her help. She hands me my ipad and shows me that it is not broken or damaged in any way. It’s screen is amazingly clean and fingerprint free. I hand her the other gift card and ask that she give it to the worker who found and returned the ipad.  I am so relieved that I start to buy into the fiction that we are acting out. Yes it could be mistaken for newspaper. Maybe they moved the truck. GPSs can be off. In a final gesture of gratitude to Nikki, I offer to write a letter to the manager or whomever to let them know how helpful she has been.  We Mormon women write a mean thank you note and know how nice it is to have thankless jobs recognized.  Nikki stops smiling. “No,” she almost shouts. “No letter. You have your ipad.  We’re all set.”

1:10pm As I get in my car, the men in the lot are now obviously staring. “You get your ipad?” one asks.  I smile and say yes, and ask if they were the ones who found it. They are quick to deny any association with the item. I tell them to go get a donut before they are all gone.

1:30pm Driving home my inner Cagney & Lacey return and piece together what must have happened. It couldn’t have been hard, once I gave Nikki the cross streets shown on the Find iphone GPS, for her to look at the roster, see which dump truck had my route, and figure out who lived where the blue dot was.  I’m sure a call was made where she informed him that a report had been filed with the police, but if the ipad was on her desk in the morning, all might be forgiven.  The ipad was easy pickings, sticking out of the snow. Of course someone snatched it. But once I’d locked it, reported it missing, and gotten his work involved, keeping it wasn’t worth the trouble. A story was cooked up and I would be expected to swallow it.  

And I don’t care. I don’t care that my trash guy only gave back the ipad because he got caught. Of course it’s ideal for all of us to do the right thing for the right reason. Kids should apologize to siblings because they feel sorrow and not just because they’ll get a time out if they don’t. Spouses should remember birthdays without needing post it notes left by the birthdayee. Visiting teaching should be done because we care and not because it’s the 31^st and we feel guilty.  But sometimes even the imperfect victories still feel good, and honestly, being mad is exhausting. Life is messy--I’ll take what I can get.

Me-Yow!

(Georgia with Coconut; Flurry, Ferbie & Fergie, front to back) (Fergie & Furbie)

Because my life is just not hectic enough, I decided to copy my friend Lisa S. and become a foster home for kitties. Dave & I both grew up with cats but have never had one because there are just so many friends allergic to the little critters. Mentally I go round and round, with my inner Cat Lady battling my Hostess with the Mostest about whether or not to bring cats into the house.



Last year Lisa told me she found this organization called "The Cat Connection" that let's you temporarily house moms & their kittens. This seemed the perfect compromise: the kids get all the fun of the kittens but then they go away just when they start to get tired of feeding them and changing the litterbox; and if I keep them in the basement, then the rest of the house (where the parties happen and the guests stay) would be free of dander & fur.



Meanwhile, critters of another sort are assaulting our house. From time to time mice get in the walls and I have to put poison around to keep them at bay. Lately they've gotten bold and actually stormed our castle. Two weeks ago I open the closet to the laundry chute and there is a mouse hanging out by my bottles of stain remover. He sees me, and no joke, turns around, wedges his nose between Spray & Wash and Oxyclean and buries his head under his paws as if that would conceal him. Of course I get short-bus mice. A few days later they appeared in our basement and I offered the kids $2 if they caugt a mouse; I didn't really think they'd catch any but I needed them out of my hair for a while. Here are Georgia & Millie with their catches.

They'd clearly gotten into my poison and were super docile. Dying things are like that.


Finally the call came that 4 kittens (3 sisters & a brother) needed a temporary home for a few weeks. That night I dreamed I was in the basement and a fat grey mouse ran across my feet and under the futon. As I drove to the house to get the kitties I was a little sad I was only getting kittens this round as an experienced mama cat would have a better chance of killing my vermin. I brought the kittens home and as I was getting things set up in the basement, out shoots a fat grey mouse that runs across my foot and under the futon. It's their cockiness that really gets me, like they're daring me to actually do something. I looked at the little furry kittens and said, "Sic kitties, sic!" Of course they just stare at me with their "We are Siamese if you please" attitude that all cats have.


I ran to Petco to get supplies and 20 minutes later when I went into the basement I saw the most beautiful thing: Fergie is shaking a furry grey lump her mouth which she drops to the ground and then bats to Ferbie. Ferbie whacks it to Coconut and my heart skips a beat: My kittens are playing soccer with a dead mouse. I love them and their little killer instincts.


The kids are loving them. Jonah takes his homework into the basement and lets the kittens sleep on him while he reads. The girls get up early to feed them and Bea tortures them with doll clothes and baby strollers ("Mom, what does it mean when a cat says "Hissssssss!!!?"). It's going to be hard next week when I have to take them to their adoptive homes. But the Cat Lady has promised me 5 month old kittens as replacements. I'm sure we'll find a way to love them too.

Surviving Mother's Day

Happy belated Mother's Day to all you moms out there and to all of you who mother people you may or may not have given birth to.

Mother’s Day is one of those holidays that all moms are supposed to love but some secretly hate. I have mom friends who stay home from church on this day, fearing they’ll hear another talk about Superwomen who never get mad and bake 50 loaves of bread and go running before waking the family for scriptures and prayer every morning. And some of my friends without children just can’t take the pain and perceived judgment and/or pity.

When I was a kid I loved Mother’s Day. My dad gave us money to buy something for my mom and would let us keep the change. I remember my kindergarten class making all our moms ashtrays and handing mine over with such pride. And the best of all were the “Mother Awards” handed out at sacrament meeting: “Who out there has more than 5 children; more than 6, 7, 8? Sister Jones has 9! Come on up and get a carnation!” I dreamed of one day winning such an award, wondering what it would feel like to be a superlative mom.

Now that I’m a mom, I’m ambivalent about the Sunday service. I love hearing the kids sing and secretly hope one of the Sunbeams will cause a scene. One year my 5 year old daughter shoved her 3 year old sister down during the chorus of “I Often Go Walking”, and the next thing I see is a tiny fist rise up and sock the shover in the gut. It made me proud that my girls were no shrinking violets.

What I do dread is that scripture about "her price being far above rubies." Every year someone has to quote that one. I roll my eyes because I know my price is more in the neighborhood of the semi-precious stones. Take your amethyst, aquamarine, or garnets, for instance. Now those are jewels one can more easily live up to. And honestly, what’s wrong with being a turquoise mom? Rubies are overrated in my book.

And because I’m at peace with my semi-precious status, I don’t care that I’d never win any of the superlatives I so longed for as a kid. I was never the youngest mom or had the most kids or whatever else they honored. But I do like to imagine what awards I’d give out if I were in charge on Mother’s Day. How about an award for the mom who lets her 9-year old French braid her hair and wears it out in public; or an award for the mom who can nurse a baby while pushing a shopping cart and talking on the phone. And I’d like to recognize some tough mommies too: an award for the mom whose son did NOT get his Eagle because she refused to do the paperwork for him or an award for the mom who took away her daughter’s cell phone because she was texting friends at 2a.m. Now those are some mamas who deserve a pat on the back.


So whether you’re a diamond or Cubic Zirconia, a long sufferer or a screamer, a maker of fine baked goods or a purchaser of Hostess products, I salute all the women out there who love and nurture and make mistakes and keep on going. And especially I thank all the women in my life, my friends, my sister, my daughters, and my mom, who treat me like a ruby, even when I’m not.

Love is...Finding the "Fun" in Dysfunctional

This week it was my turn to write for the Exponent blog. Here's my post.


Growing up I used to think that most of my friends’ families were so normal and healthy, and that mine was the only one with quirks and cracks. Now I know the truth: every family is nuts. And if you think you know a perfectly healthy family, you don’t know them well enough.

Granted, some people’s brand of crazy is more socially acceptable than others. For example, in my home we appeared on the outside to be well behaved high achievers, which was a mask for a control freak mom and an emotionally remote, success obsessed dad. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I realize that on the crazy scale my family was dented but functional. Not bad at all. (btw I am the needy thumsucker pictured above)

I have a family of my own now and see many of our idiosyncrasies. And at least today we have a better vocabulary for labeling our neurosis. Terms like OCD, ADD, MPD, BPD, SAD, etc. etc. allow us to name what ails us, and naming things is delightful because it gives us control, or at least the illusion of it.

A few years ago I came across an acronym for a condition that I knew intimately but had never quite put my finger on: ODD, Oppositional Defiant Disorder. These are the people that cannot resist challenging authority and playing the devil’s advocate. Oh how I love to tease my contrarian friend about how she suffers acutely from this. And her response just confirms the diagnosis: “No I don’t!” I love these people. Just when everything is getting so boring in Relief Society, everyone sitting there nodding their heads “yes, we ALL agree” and along comes someone with ODD and makes a comment that turns everything upside down.

She in turn diagnosed one of my less than desirable traits. I suffer from SVS, shock value syndrome. As the youngest member of a hyper proper family, it was my duty to make my mother blush at the dinner table. And even now at 42, whenever I get around people that seem a bit too uptight, I get the irresistible urge to say/do something borderline inappropriate. So I skinny dip at Girls Camp and give sacrament talks on the virtues of Harry Potter. Recently when my 12 year old son told me that he hated it when I called him “friend,” I replied, “Well then how about ‘douche bag,’ because that’s what you’re acting like.” Show me an envelope, and I’ll push it.

Here are a few other conditions the American Psychiatric Association might want to add to their books:

CBR-Chronic Buyer’s Remorse: Perpetually malcontent, these poor souls are convinced that whatever choice they make is the wrong one. Filled with self doubt and a touch of bitterness (related syndrome: GIGD--Grass is Greener Disorder).

RSS-Refusal to be Served Syndrome: You know who you are. You are forever volunteering to bring meals, babysit, work at the Bishop’s Storehouse as if every act of service added another brick to your mansion on high; but hell would have to freeze over before you would let someone bring you a casserole. In their heart of pious hearts, these folks believe that the strong give and the weak receive.

CV-Compulsive Volunteerism: A sister syndrome to RSS (with more guilt, less pride), CV manifest itself in an inability to pass a sign-up sheet without committing to doing whatever is requested. One friend had such a severe case of this that I created an organization just for her—Volunteers Anonymous. I became her sponsor and she was not allowed to agree to do anything without first consulting me. A typical conversation went like this, “Heather, I’ve been asked to be PTA President. Tell me again why I should say no?” “Because you just gave birth to twins, your husband is YM President and travels, and you Visit Teach a black hole of needs.” “Oh. Okay. So should I say maybe?”

Tanorexia: When sufferers of this disorder look in the mirror all they see is pasty whiteness, even if their true color is closer to a Slim Jim.

Appsberger's: The compulsion to download apps for completely useless things. And then talk endlessly about them with other sufferers. "Look, I can use my phone as a harmonica!!!" "Well mine can show me the time...in Braille!" "Mine makes a cowbell noise. Get it? 'More cowbell?'!"
Topperism-No matter what you’ve been through, these one-uppers can top your experience and raise it a notch. So while you’re delighted that you are training for a 5k, the Topper is quick to inform you that she ran the Boston Marathon. And won. While pregnant. With triplets.

So my question is not "are you crazy" but "what kind of crazy are you?" And can you find a way to live with it and laugh about it? If you can't, your crazies will make you nuts.

"Give Me the Hard Stuff!"

Um, not to brag or anything, but I throw killer parties. Georgia turns 10 this week and since she's almost as big of a Harry Potter nerd as I am, we went all Hogwarts and threw a "Potions Party." Georgia's favorite Harry Potter activity is to pretend she's in Professor Snape's Dungeon doing potions. Every time I turn around another bottle of my lotion has been emptied and for every ounce of shampoo that goes on their hair, at least 5 ounces end up in bubbly concoctions that they entitle "Sleeping Draught," "Liquid Luck," or "Kissing Potion." Dave keeps asking where all his travel size containers have gone and I tell him to check Georgia windowsill where it looks like a display case for a mad scientist. I'm happy to leave them there. Until mold sets in. I draw the line at black and green fur.

For the party we ordered green (Slytherin color) 2 oz spray bottles and .25 oz cosmetic bottles to make perfume and lip gloss, or rather, "Petal Potion" and "Lip Magic." I ran around gathering ingredients: jojoba oil and alcohol for perfume base; canning wax (thanks Jen & Sherrine!), vitamin E oil & petroleum jelly for the gloss base, plus lots of tiny essential oils for smell and/or flavor. By Friday afternoon I was putting together goody bags and frosting brownie cupcakes. I realized I needed to write out the potion proportions so I got back onto the website to figure it out. Under "ingredients' it listed alcohol and I assumed rubbing would do. But when I scrolled down it said it had to be a single grain alcohol like Everclear or vodka. As I read this I realized that rubbing alcohol has a strong odor and would make the perfumes stink.

Shortly thereafter Lindy called me to see what time I needed her to show up to help (she is my kid party slave and does it sooo well). Then I uttered a phrase I never thought I'd say, "Hey Lindy, I need a bottle of Vodka for Georgia's birthday party. Do you have some?" "Sure," she replied, "how much do you need?" We both started laughing at the ridiculousness of my needing booze for a 10 year old party and her having some sitting around (although I should not be surprised as her kitchen is as well stocked with every possible ingredient as Julia Child's was).

At 7 the girls arrived and Becca (my other slave, acting as Molly Weasley) poured Sprite into their Poprock filled goblets and they oohed and ahhhed at the blue fizz. Then we made our potions and ate cake. Right after we sang to Georgia, there was a LOUD banging at the door and in marched our surprise guest, Severus Snape (aka Big Daddy G).

The kids went berserk and were all begging to be cursed by the Half Blood Prince.
Molly Weasley posed with him for a picture and then threw him out in her awesome British accent. Next we went into the "great hall" to be sorted into houses. My friend Amy made my week when she asked me if I wanted to use her sorting hat for the party. She got it at a white elephant/Yankee swap and I still can't believe what a perfect addition it was. Jonah hid behind the couch and used a stealth microphone to announce what house each girl would belong to.

Millie end up in Ravenclaw and was delighted. It was a magical night (except when the Slytherins locked the first years out of the common room and Millie & Gigi bawled) and Georgia seemed so happy about it all. I am exhausted and still cleaning up sticky Sprite spots off the floor. But as I always tell my kids, a party isn't a party until someone spills and someone cries. By all standards the party was a success!

Bea Opens Up a Can of Old Testament

Last night the family was trying to watch Idol and Bea dumped her popcorn, refused to clean it up and just, kept, screaming. I've been battling a headache for days and in frustration told her to "Shut up." She was NOT happy with me. She kept telling me, "Mama, you said a bad word! Do not say bad words!" I apologized, we cleaned up the mess together, and I told her I was sorry for giving her "owie feelings." End of story. Or so I thought.

Today over lunch she said, "Mom, God told me that if you say bad words to me again, He's gonna send a storm. For you." Then she smiled and ate her clementine, giving me a look like an Old Testament prophet.

Should I be afraid?

Hillbilly Hot Tub

(Jeff, Dave, & Jim & a staggering work of engineering genius)

My brother-in-law Jeff is a dream. He's smart. He's funny. He drinks the "potions" my kids make for him (Tabasco, mustard, & eggnog). And he knows how to have fun. For example, this year he decided that when they came up for Christmas break, he'd put together a "Hillbilly Hot Tub." He told us this at Millie's baptism and I sort of thought he was kidding. (No offense, but sometimes these brainy guys get all sorts of ideas in their heads that will never come to fruition.) But the week before Christmas a big box showed up with a good sized inflatable kiddie pool. Jeff wasn't blowing smoke. He arrived the 25th with some copper tubing, the pump from his mini koi pond, and a dream of hot water on a snowy day. And a week went by, and though their was lots of talk, nothing much happened. But over breakfast this morning Jeff announced that today would be the day.



Since our neighbors the Kellys have an Armenian bread pit in their backyard (What? You've never heard of one? They're ALL the rage in Yerevan and Watertown...) Jeff decided that would be a good heat source. While some people had their doubts (you know who you are), it turned out to be the highlight of our vacation. The kids & dads went nuts. Here are some pix:



The Armenian bread pit is extremely deep and constructed to get and stay hot. They wrapped the tubing around the logs before bow drilling the fire (matches are a dirty word to Dave and Jim).

Notice the turkey thermometer used to keep track of the heat. It got to 126 degrees at one point.

They filled the tub with water and then turned the pump on to circulate the water thru the tubes, to the copper tubes in the fire, which then returned toasty water to the "hot tub." Given the size, we jacuzzied in shifts. The little girls went first and LOVED it. They grabbed snow balls to see how long it took them to melt in the hot steam.

Next Dallin & Spencer had a girl-free turn. Notice how roomy it is and the awesome space blankets that Jeff brought for insulation.

Denise orchestrated games for the bigger kids like, who can stand outside in the snow for the longest and who can jump on the trampoline, swing for 2 minutes, and go down an icey slide before collapsing from hypothermia. Jonah won at 11 minutes. I don't think there was any lasting braindamage...

Finally the daddies got in. And I'm pretty sure they had trunks on...

It was the perfect way to ring in the New Year. May 2010 bring you unexpected warmth!

Caution: Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear

Sucky fact: Georgia gets migraines. If she's too hungry, too hot, too tired, too anything, she gets sick and ends up hurling. On Monday after school she went to her book group (the Chipmunk Hotel)and I get a call an hour into it telling me Georgia wants me to come get her. I race down there, scoop her up, and try to race home before the inevitable. "Let me know if you are going to puke," I say as I drive. Two minutes later, about a block from our house, she says, "Mom, I think I'm going to BAAAAAAAAA...!" There is no where to pull over, no window to roll down, and as I glance in my rear view mirror I literally see the hurl coming towards me. She is directly behind me and has awesome projection. It hits my head, my shoulder, my arm. And once she starts, she can't stop. And did I mention that she screams as she vomits? Very loud, gurgley cries. I get her home, stripped, and in the tub and then head back out to the scene of the grime. The worst part? You know that pocket on the back of the front seats for storing maps and such? I don't think I'll ever be able to use mine again, now that it's been a spew receptacle. I scrub and wipe and clean until my hands are numb from the cold (it's 20 degrees)and then proceed to do laundry for the rest of the night. So how was your evening?

That [Manic] Time of Year...

(imagine what I'd do to a dog...)

This time of year is insane for me. Of course the holidays are crazy for every mom, but wedge in 2 birthdays and a huge church party and you too may find yourself mentally rocking in a corner in the fetal position.

Yet hosting 20 people for Thanksgiving turned out to be the eye of the storm. The fact that I had time to make festive gerbil headgear on Thursday morning speaks volumes. The key is inviting the right people. And making your friend Lindy set and decorate your tables. We had 3 turkeys (smoked, deep fried, and brined), mounds of sides, piles of rolls, and enough pies to induce diabetes in an elephant. We played games, read gossipy magazines, slept, laughed--in short, it turned out to be an amazing day. And Anne did all the dishes (she insisted, seriously she did).

On Friday my real work began for our church's annual wreathmaking party, which Dave calls Belmont Ward Prom (see my last year's post). I am in charge of food (pause for laughter). I think they called me because they are (once again) trying to scale things back and figured that putting a Hobo in charge of refreshments is one way to keep things from being too high-falutin. I really had to resist the urge to use a recipe that involved Velveta and Dave wanted me to serve squirrel. I don't speak Foodie, but I am well versed in Comfort Food so I planned on meatballs and bacon laden mini quiche and 450 mini cupcakes and every bar you can imagine (blondies, brownies, gingerbread, oatmeal bars, apricot bars, lemon bars, peppermint chocolate bars, coconut bars, caramel bars...). Tons of people helped so it was doable. But very exhausting.

I conned Dave into making the little cupcake trees for me and tossed the whole decorate the table stuff to Lisa and Christine who know how to work a pomegranate. So although we started out swearing we'd simplify things, it was just as fancy and over the top as it should be. But in my defense, I did do away with all utensils. No forks or spoons needed. Just toothpicks which again, are kinda Hobo.

Seriously there is a whole other post in my head about the "Anti-Wreathites" (tm Becca) who hate this annual party and almost succeeded in derailing it this year. And as my hand was cramping while decorating mini cupcake #411, I started to go to the dark side myself and had very Grinchy thoughts but I drowned them with a Big Gulp of Diet Coke. And then when the second giant batch of marshmallow whip cream frosting wouldn't set up and we added 2lbs of powdered sugar to stiffen it and it still fell and now tasted like a sugar cube dipped in Fluff, I was very discouraged and cursed my Boston Foremothers for instituting such a time consuming tradition. But then Brittany drizzled chocolate on the top and lo and behold, a Wreathmaking Miracle occurred. They were not only passable but by far the favorite cupcake. "How did you make this frosting?" "These white ones are delicious--I can't get enough!" Oh the bad frosting that was turned into manna. I can't believe I ever doubted.

Now that the huge Mormon Ladies Winter Extravaganza is over, I should be turning my attention to that little holiday coming up, what's it called? Oh yeah, CHRISTMAS. This weekend we got a tree and decked the halls watched Miracle on 34th Street, Mr. Kruger's Christmas, Frosty, and The Grinch (cartoon, not Jim Carey).

But before I can really wrap my head around Santa, our Millie has a huge milestone. On Friday she turns 8. For us that means she is old enough to be baptized an official member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My mom is already here and Grandma Dava and Grandpa Russ arrive this weekend along with Steph et al from Jersey and Lee et al from Albany to participate. Mills is really excited and so are we. If you're in the Belmont area on the 12th, show up at the chapel for a nice little programs and some yummy treats after. Probably some bars. Nothing too fancy, I promise.

Little Women/Little Men

My house has been filled with magic. Much to my delight, we've had house guests for the past few days and the ensuing chaos has been so enjoyable. Don't you just love it when some of your favorite people get their bathroom remodeled and turn life into a big sleepover? The magic is how well these kids get along. Ellie, Gigi & Bells blend seamlessly with my girls.

They pass their days playing Harry Potter, casting spells and working on their British accents. I'm not going to pretend it's been perfect. On Saturday I kept finding white powdery stuff all over the carpets. It turns out they used confectioners sugar as "floo powder" for magical transportation. And today they emptied 4 bottles of shampoo in their "potions" lessons. But it's all worth it when the 3 oldest have string practice. That Gigi is amazing on the cello, and I got all teary listening to Georgia and Ellie play "Away in a Manger." Of course attention hogs Bells & Bea had to then sing for us...endlessly. I felt like Marmie March watching Jo et al with pride & joy.

Jonah has loved having Peter here, sharing his room and his nerf guns skills with joy. But the spell was broken when Danny returned Monday nite with their new puppy, Thatcher. Jonah is so jealous he wouldn't even speak to me that nite. He puppy sat today for a while, and thinks he is wearing me down by repeatedly pointing out how cute Thatch is.

Which leads me to my next story. Monday morning Bea said to me: "Now that the Snows have a dog, they should get a cat. And the dog will get bigger than the cat, and then the dog will attack the cat and hurt its leg. Then Danny will have to shoot the cat, and it won't die, so Pop will need to go kill it. Then he'll pop it in a bag, bring it home, skin it and cook it so we can have cat for dinner. Won't that be yummy mom? Won't it?!"

I sat there wondering what evil carnivore had taken over my precious baby who was salivating over a house pet. I know where this came from. It's the damn squirrel thing. Danny shot that squirrel which didn't die, so Dave finished it off before serving it to the kids. Now she thinks everything is fair game. Dave is delighted. Having lived in Hong Kong he adopted the notion that anything lower than homo sapiens is fare food game. When we lived in China a kid we knew showed up one day with two fuzzy ducklings in a shoebox. I tentatively asked what she planned to do with them when they got big. She looked at me like I was an idiot and said, "I will cut off their heads and eat them of course." The implied "duh" was almost audible.

"Sweetie," I said, "we don't eat cats. Ever." Bea's face fell and she replied, "When I'm big, can I kill a squirrel and eat it all by myself?" I sighed, resigned that my Grizzly Adams husband had a tiny convert. "Yes. You can eat squirrel." She ran off happily, probably going to practice choking a stuffed animal.

But we are all a little warped in our house. It comes with being Hobos. This evening Georgia came into my room and said, "Mom, I found this in my hair." I literally lept off the bed and my scalp began itching uncontrollably. I saw something black between her fingers. When I got it under the light I sighed with relief, "It's just a tick--not lice!" What is wrong with me that the threat of Lyme disease is somehow preferable to having cooties?

All I know is that this Hobo Mama has loved the magical chaos of our temporary commune. Anyone else have a bathroom in need of remodelling? Come on over!!!

Hits & Misses

Hit: Exotic meat. Tonite Dave killed, skinned, gutted & cooked a squirrel. The girls went crazy for it.

Miss: Vermin. I tried really hard not to vomit just thinking about it. I barely do dark poultry meat.

Hit: Lilyrose Florals (http://www.lilyroseflorals.com/) is the flower business my friend Linda is starting. Not only should you check out her gorgeous arrangements, but those lovely models as well... If you live in Boston, hire this woman for your next event.

Miss: Sting-a-ling-a-ling. While at Target the other day, I saw that Sting had a new funky Christmas album out, "If on a winter's night." I was so excited (my first concert was The Police's Ghost in the Machine tour of 81/82--thanks Hon!). Until I listened to it. Has Sting started smoking 15 packs a day? There are one or two that don't suck. Made me want to cry. Not in a good way.

Hit: The new shows that we are lovin are Community (I could not stop giggling about "Mexican Halloween") and The Middle. Great acting. Great dialogue. The jury is out on Flashforward (it makes me miss Lost already). Too many Brits with fake American accents (I am NOT talking about you Simon Baker--I love how your Aussieness occasionally sneaks thru)

Miss: Nasty old ladies who ram into your car in the library parking lot, even though you honk like mad before she makes contact, and then accuses you of hitting her rust bucket.

Hit: When people in uber liberal Cambridge use Republican as a swear word. For example, "You are a nasty piece of work and I bet you're a Republican to boot!!!" It's the "R" word.

Miss: Having kids get the swine flu. I know why it's called that. You spend so much time attending to whiny, needy kids that your house turns into a pigsty.

Hit: Getting everyone well enough to trick or treat and eating so many homemade donuts you feel like Homer Simpson.

Ghosts of Halloween Past

Here's a little piece I wrote back in 1999 about Halloween.

As you can see, October is a busy month. Those of you planning on making Halloween costumes for your kids better get started. I know that many Mormon mothers have an aversion for store-bought generic costumes (let's not even get into the "mask" debate here). There is something that goes against one's pioneer heritage in schlepping to Bradlees or Toys R Us and simply buying a Cinderella or pirate or whatever costume. So many of us feel it is more--dare I say "industrious?"--to buy fabric and have needle and thread or hot glue gun at the ready to hand make our little pumpkin suits or ladybugs.

When we were kids, my mom would NEVER buy a costume (nor would my mom buy Skippy peanut butter, not matter how much we begged, instead she bought the bishop storehouse tin can kind that had 3 cups of oil on the top and ripped the bread when you tried to spread it--as if my very salvation depended on my not having that extra spoonful of sugar in the Peter Pan that made it so delicious). But she didn't make our costumes either. So we always had to find stuff that we could turn into a costume, like a black leotard would make you a cat, or a swinging skirt and cashmere sweater a 50s girl (this was when Happy Days was all the rage). But I secretly LONGED for a store bought costume. I lusted over Jill Yamin in her ready made Tooth Fairy get up complete w/sparkly wand. I envied Janie Nordblad her Saloon Girl outfit so much that I borrowed it the following year and loved every second in those smart and sassy duds.

Now some will claim it is cheaper, and hence, more thrifty to make a costume. A friend of mine recoiled at the Disney store price for a Sleeping Beauty costume so she set out to make one of her own. In the end, not counting her time or sanity, she spend $10 MORE on the homemade version than if she'd bought the store one. But there is something special in a one of a kind, homemade costume that (even if the kid could care less) makes you feel proud. And many women LOVE to sew and find great satisfaction in these creative endeavors. I can't sew at all. Now I know many of you say the same thing but secretly you DID have a home ec class in 7th grade and have made aprons or "tres facile" dresses. I've heard many a woman swear she can't sew and then I find out she not only has a machine but knows how to do zippers and linings and buttons--oh my! But when I say I can't sew, I mean I have to get the instructions out every time I need to thread the darn thing and still have to wind bobbins by hand (this is the one time a year when I drag out my sister's old Singer to make a costume for Jonah). But even so, I still feel compelled to MAKE a costume for him.

Last year he was a lion and I spent 20 hours and 3 yards of felt trying to get his hat/mane right. Then on Halloween I go to put it on him, he cries and rips it off his head and I say, in all seriousness, "You will wear this or I will BITE you." He cried even harder and I finally had the sense to bribe him with Smarties to get it on. Am I evil or what? This year when I asked him what he wanted to be, I hoped he'd say something that I could get off the rack. Homemade schmomade, I'm pregnant and working and I can't sew. Please say Winnie the Pooh I was thinking. But no, he tells me he wants to be a bird. Maybe he wants to be Big Bird, I think, maybe there's a Sesame Street store... But no. Jonah announces in the next breath he wants to be a Blue Jay. A Blue Jay for heaven's sake. My husband Dave is an avid birder and has been training Jonah since birth to be the same. By 2 Joe could identify morning doves while I still thought I'd heard an owl.

Okay, I think, I can do this (he is my first and only so I am still too acquiescent to his wishes). So I drag out the many bird encyclopedias we have and look up blue jay and draw a simple sketch. Enter Dave, master birder. "Um, Heather, that's nice and all, but the head is shaped more at an angle, and the beak needs to be pointier and shorter. And be sure to remember that Blue Jay's feathers are iridescent so the fabric will need to shimmer." Next thing you know I am in JoAnn fabric in the BRIDAL section looking at chiffons and taffetas for a 2 1/2 year old's Halloween costume that he will wear once (that is unless he refuses to wear it...).

Once the fabric is cut it is too late to turn back and so now I am trying to figure out how on earth to do this thing. So far I have some blue felt pinned together for the head with a toilet paper roll cut to resemble a beak but it just looks like a toilet paper roll with black felt on it. I am too scared to attempt the wings at this point. I will most likely wait until the 29th and do it in a rush when there is no time too worry if it looks good enough and no time to do it again if it doesn't. So if any of you out there were thinking of making a costume, think long and hard and then run to Party Needs while they still have your kid's size. A sewing free Halloween sounds like quite a treat to me.

Ten years and 3 kids later I still work very hard to acquire ready made costumes. This year was mostly a success. Jonah wanted to be a scary clown. All that he needed from me was creepy make up. Bea wanted to be a black cat, BLESS HER!! Georgia gave me trouble by deciding she needed to be Moaning Myrtle from Harry Potter, the whining chick who was killed by the Basilisk while in the loo. I did end up in JoAnn, but it turned out to be almost pain free to make a Hogwarts robe for a ghost. "Frayed edges look spooky," I assured George as I refused to hem any of it. Me too Millie opted to be Hermione which was not tough at all, given how easily her hair can be frizzed. Here are the results:

(Jonah was helping run the spook alley and I couldn't get a good shot with the strobe light.)

(She insisted on crawling for full cat effect.)


(Moaning Myrtle & Minerva McGonagall)



(Hermione, with a fever of 102, who we didn't let attend the ward Halloween party,

but did let show up for the outdoor Trunk-or-Treat)

(So here's a glimpse of a Mormon spook alley. I love the juxtaposition of imagery.

Papa Boka Rocks!)

How Embarrassing!!!

My friend Anne directed me to a great blog, http://www.sistasinzion.com/. The first post I read was about an embarrassing moment in sacrament meeting. While we Mormons go to church for 3 hours on Sunday, the most important part of it all is the 15 minutes when the bread and water are blessed and passed around to the congregation. It's sort of like communion except for that whole transubstantiation thing (for years Jonah thought Catholics were cannibals). Visitors and babies are welcome to partake--it's not forbidden for the uninitiated. Only when you're doing some serious repenting do you take a pass. Basically we reflect on our baptismal commitments and think nice thoughts about Jesus.

Of course the more serious an event is the greater potential there is for irreverence. Which means most of us have embarrassing sacrament stories. When my friend Jen's son Walker was two he was convinced the whole thing was like a mid-meeting treat and shouted out once, "I LOVE the Snackrament!" I wish I could say my most embarrassing church story was because of something wacky the kids did (I need to shout out to my sis-in-law Sarah who mooned the entire Primary when she was 3). But it wasn't the kids. It was me.

A little background. Sometime in 2000, we discovered that Dave had developed a sesame allergy. So if he bit into a burger that had seeds on the bun, or any Chinese food that had come in contact with any seeds or oil (basically all of it), he'd get itchy then red then his throat would start closing. You get the picture. Well one Sunday we're sitting in church wrestling 3 kids and I mindlessly grab a piece of bread from the sacrament tray and chew it. Mmmm. Savory. Crunchy. And then it clicks that I'm tasting sesame seeds. I look over at oblivious Dave who has the bread half way to his mouth and I dive across two kids to smack his hand away and shout in a stage whisper, "Don't take the sacrament!!!!"

Everyone in a 6 foot radius goes stiff and silent. In the pew ahead of us are the Temple President and Matron. She steals a glance at us and shakes her head. Dave was the president of the young men's organization and the boy holding the tray for our row looked like he was going to cry as he imagined what sordid thing Dave must have done for me to literally knock the bread out of his sinning hand. I turned beet red and felt like I was going into anaphylactic shock. Being the center of attention is just fine by me, but being the center of a scene--I was mortified. Dave loved it. Thought it was hilarious.

And there's no way to gracefully dig oneself out of embarrassing moments. I am still cursing my sis-in-law Sue for getting me into trouble with our delivery man. Sue refers to the UPS men as "brown Santas" because they bring presents and wear brown. So this summer I hear a loud knock and I open the door to find a package there that I'd been dying to get. I scoop it up and shout across the road, "Thanks Brown Santa!!!" And when I look up I see an African American UPS guy shaking his head at me in disgust. What am I then supposed to say? "The brown refers not to your skin, but your uniform." There's no extraction at that point so I slink back in the house and order things via FedEx for a while.

Sometimes I think a little humiliation is good for the soul. Especially as a parent. Kids routinely delve into humiliation--wetting the bed, crying in public, falling off monkey bars with the whole playground watching. Then when they come cryin' to me, which they always do, I can nod my head and say I understand. And mean it.

Scenes From a Playgroup

Bea, almost 4, has a playgroup once a week with her BFFs Lauren & Emmy and her "boys," twins Henry & Owen. Jen, whose turn it was last week, emailed us the following exchange of their version of "house:"

Lauren: "I am married to Owen"
Owen: "I am not ready to get married yet. We can get married in a few weeks."

Henry: "I am married to to Emily." (Unlike his brother, not afraid of commitment.)
Emily: "I like that."
Bea: "But there are not enough boys!!!" (said with serious emphasis)
Henry: "Don't worry, when I am done with Emily I will do marriage with you."

Henry (to Bea): "That other dad wants to hold your baby, is that ok?"
Bea: "No, I don't let other dads hold my babies, they are not careful...never mind, I don't think I want a baby, I am just going to have a dog."

Later that same day Jen reported that some "drama" and spouse swapping had gone on:

At some point Lauren told Bea to laugh at Owen, and they both did. Owen was devastated. He went into the other room and cried inconsolably. Emmy (who I am pretty sure had been biding her time all along-if you can't have the one you love, love the one you are with!) wandered over and hovered quietly until he stopped sobbing and looked up. She said: "I will go with you upstairs to watch a movie." (He had been sobbing 'I just want to be alone and watch a show'). They walked upstairs, but as they passed the living room Emily stuck her head in and triumphantly said to Lauren: "Now he is married to me!" Well played Emily!


Also, in a moment of piqué some girl was overheard saying that she wouldn't invite Owen to her birthday party. Henry said: "Then I won't come either, and you can't come to ours". Owen added: "We already had our party--but you have to give back the hat and the squirt gun if you don't invite me"

Heaven help us when they're teenagers!

Five Fall Really Bad Ideas

1. Do not buy Halloween candy in September. Just because Target already has 4 aisles of Halloween candy, doesn't mean you have to fill your cart. It will be gone before October even starts no matter where you hide it. Pre-mature candy purchases leads to fat butts and tooth decay faster than you can say "fun size."

2. Don't put all your summer stuff away when school starts. If you do, the weather will surely get warm again and your kids will come home sweaty and grumpy and curse you for making them wear "too hot of stuff." I know it's a pain to keep 2 seasons out and accessible, but just do it.

3. Don't over volunteer. When you head to back to school night, only volunteer for one thing. I don't care if the sign up sheet looks all sad and empty and the teacher starts to cry. You will regret it. If you can't resist the urge to say "yes" when asked to do something, call me and I'll be your sponsor at "Volunteer's Anonymous" (something Jen & I made up last year--I swear I had to do an intervention with that chica at least once a week. Some of you are too good for your own good.). Don't think of it as saying no, think of it as you allowing other people to grow and gain blessings. Now that's unselfish.
4. Don't buy new school clothes just for the kids. Buy yourself a new "uniform." You know what I mean, that outfit that you throw on when you are too tired--too rushed--to bloated to put together an "ensemble." You're probably wearing it in your Costco photo. It's cute, it's comfortable, but your friends are sick of seeing you in it. Go to TJMax and splurge.

5. Don't forget to have some fun. Fall brings homework and lessons and sports and all sorts of other good things that can take over our lives and make us grumpy taskmasters. Screw soccer one Saturday and go pick apples (which really means go eat cider donuts & Cortlands dipped in caramel & peanuts); yank kids out early from school and go to the park with friends; ride bikes along the Charles before it's too cold; turn a blind eye and let the kids dig up part of the grass to make awesome mud and acorn pies.

It's Baaaaaack

Sometime in mid August my blog disappeared. Vanished. Gone. Warning people of danger and toxic malware. For days I tried to figure out how to bring it back, and even got my people involved. Dave B. contacted friends who work for Google. My Dave spent hours posting on tech trouble message boards and trying to remedy things. And still nothing. My email girlfriends started to contact me: "What's up Hobo Mama? Where is your blog?" Jen sent out emails trying see if anyone had copies of my ramblings and started to piece things together. One friend brought me dinner because she knew how devastated I felt. I'm pretty sure one of my more spiritual friends actually fasted and prayed on my behalf. I imagine her supplication was something like this: "Dear Lord, please restore Heather's blog because writing helps her process things and she's getting screwed up and cranky. She's a bitch if she can't blog it out. Amen."

Then last night at a women's retreat on Cape Cod, Parry whisper-shouts at me at 1am, "Hey, hey, I just got your blog on my iPhone. It's an Exponent Miracle!!!" And when Becca told me the same thing, I could hardly believe it. I did a whoot whoot when I got online tonite and found my little pink page. Kinda scared to trust Blogger, but for now, it's just good to be back.

"Lice-capades"

To say my mom has a lice issues is like saying Oedipus had mommy issues. When you spend a better portion of your life Cloroxing wooden spoons, brushing your teeth so often the gums recede, and buying ammonia in bulk, the idea of filthy flesh colored cooties crawling on your head makes you kookoo bananas. Fact: my mom has NEVER rested her head back on a movie theater seat; refuses to wear helmets while renting bikes unless SHE Lysols it; has never used an airplane pillow or tried on a hat/scarf/muffler in a store. It was torture for her when we all got it as kids. But what put her over the edge was when she got lice in return for taking in two LDS sister missionaries who had been living in a filthy apartment whose windows were shot out by gangs (no good deed goes unpunished...).

Dave & I lived in China for a year and I was so homesick for normal food. A typical meal there was soggy bread, sea slug, and cow tendons. I was so desperate that we even took the train 14 hours to Beijing just to go to McDonald's. I wrote my mom and begged her to send me some Swedish Fish. Two weeks later a slip in our mailbox that there is a package for us downtown. "Treats!" I think and we take two buses down to Zhongshan Lu, wait in one line for 20 minutes to pay 5 yuan for another slip of paper that let's us wait another 20 minutes to turn that one in for my precious padded envelope. When I saw my mom's handwriting my heart skipped a beat and I tore it open to find...a bottle of RID shampoo. "Dear Heather, You may need this in case of lice. Love, Mom." I cried a little as I cursed her and her OCD ways. Dave took me to the market to search for something familiar and comforting to buy. The closest thing we could find was Tang--but lychee flavored. Yuck.

Fast forward to Christmas Eve 2006. I am sitting in church, soaking up the music and Nativity scriptures and admiring my Georgia's beautiful thick hair. She snuggles closer and I run my fingers through it...and see something dart across her part. Upon closer inspection I discover several more critters and start to channel my mom. I can't hear the music anymore, just the thump thump thump of my heart as I realized that my kids, my house, are vermin infested and it will take herculean efforts to rid us of these beasts. And we will be branded as the "Lice Family." We do indeed have cooties. Georgia might as well have leprosy.

The rest of the vacation was a blur of shampooing, combing, washing bedding, combing, olive oil treatments, combing, soaking brushes in bleach. (For a hilarious essay on the stages of dealing with lice, read Marion Winik's at http://www.myonlinewellness.com/topic/nitsessay) I even resorted to microwaving pillowcases and hoodies. The "Christmas Miracle" as we call it was that Millie, who shares a bed, brushes, and basically everything with Georgia, never got lice. Bea, Jonah & I were also part of the Passover. But Dave, who poo pooed my cleaning frenzy and rolled his eyes when I manically scratched and doused my head with the shampoo made from Agent Orange, got lice.

We survived and went on to watch it pass thru and ravage our friends houses. In fact, it became the Mormon plague. We got good at louse archeology. By examining the nits & nymphs, we could determine roughly when a kid had first become host and it turned out that Sunday was NOT a day of rest for lice but the high holy holiday and our church pews the vector. So while we thought that taking our kids to Sunday School was filling their souls with Christianity it was really filling their heads with parasites. So we bought lint rollers and religiously attempting to masking tape to death any bugs left by the previous congregation. We refused to use the communal coat racks and adopted the fake hug that keeps you free of hair contact. We became my mother.

It's been almost 3 years without another incident but I keep RID on hand and heaven help the kid who scratches their head. Every time I see the school's number on caller ID I pray, "Dear Lord, please let this be ANYTHING but a lice call." I've had kids break limbs and get hospitalized with RSV. And lice is worse because it makes you paranoid and ashamed and nobody conspiratorially says, "Ooooh, that's the family with the broken legs. Don't play with them."

So this year when I starting working on my song for the Exponent Retreat talent show (I'll admit it, I am the Mormon Weird Al), I decided to dedicate it to all the mamas out there in the trenches who battle this scourge. It's set to the tune of "Ere you left your room this morning." We used combs, magnifying glasses, and electric clippers as props. And the stuffed lice that Denise and I loathe but also had to buy. I have to say that we, Coco, Neese, Parry, Sande, Libby & I rocked. And with Parry & harmozing Libby, we actually sounded good for once.

1. Ere you groomed your kids this morning,
Did you check for lice?
Were there any creepy critters?
Even dandruff gives me jitters
Check, not once, but twice.

Chorus:
Oh--nitpicking makes me weary!
Washing sheets from all the beds,
Malathion makes me teary,
Perhaps I’ll shave our heads.

2. Before you put them on the school bus,
Did you check for lice?
When you see your daughter scratching
Does it mean the eggs are hatching
Nymphs the size of rice.

Chorus

3. After having a sleep over
Did you check for lice?
Don’t you know that at their friends’ house
They might pick up a stray louse
And now you pay the price.

Chorus

4. Ere you go to church to worship,
You should check your pew
Cooties on the benches flourish
Then on your kids scalps they nourish
Try some RID shampoo.

Chorus

Here's wishing a louse-free year to you and yours!

Displaced Family Home Evening

One Monday in April we drove past the LDS Temple here in Boston on our way home from taking Dave to the airport. It was almost 8pm and there were virtually no lights on. The girls commented on this and I explained that Mormon temples are closed on Sunday and Monday. "Why Mondays?" Millie asked. "Because of Family Home Evening," I guessed. [For the uninitiated out there, Mormons are advised to set aside one night a week, usually Monday, to get together as a family. There is often singing, a religious lesson, and most importantly, a treat.]


Georgia said we forgot to have FHE last week and needed to do it tonite (she is our rule follower). When we got home I put Bea in bed, lured Jonah upstairs with the promise of "Chuck" after, and we all piled onto Georgia's double bed with the latest issue of the Friend magazine. Millie picked a story about an 8 year old boy whose parents divorce. When the mom remarries and has twins, the kid feels neglected and displaced. The metaphor for it all is the family walking to church, mom and dad side by side, each holding a twin, and the son trailing behind trying to keep pace. It was actually very depressing but led to a great discussion as Millie wanted to understand why the boy was so sad.

In the spirit of that whole new "let's connect this to me" literary movement, I explained displacement to the kids. I told about how Jonah, age 2.9, reacted to Georgia's birth. While he never took his angst out on the baby, anything new made him really mad. When I switched the dresser in his room, he flipped. When we got a bigger car, he threatened to "dump oil on it and smash rocks on it and bite its tires!" They all giggled, imagining our now 12 year old being to enraged. Next I told about little Georgia, just 22 months when she was kicked off the Baby Throne, leaning over and pretending to kiss Millie and then biting her with all her might, leaving dental records on poor Millie's forehead. At that they all laughed really hard.


Now came the hard part: addressing the arrival of Bea and the impact on Millie over 3 years ago. Millie was 4 and lived the role of "Baby" the same way that method actors like Daniel Day-Lewis embody a character almost to the point of madness. Every time I nursed Bea, Millie looked like she too was desperate to latch on. Gingerly I commented that unlike Jonah and Georgia who never remembered life without a younger sibling, Millie did. And she was Jonah's pet (see Exhibit A below). Until the new one arrived. I then turned to Millie and did what I should have done a while ago: I publicly acknowledged her pain. "It was hard for you when Bea came. You feel like Jonah doesn't love you as much and it hurts." Millie collapsed into sobs and out of her mouth rushed 4 years worth of displacement pain.

Exhibit A: Joe habitually snuck into Millie's crib.



And then the sweetest thing happened. Jonah took her in his arms and told her how much he still loved her, would always love her, and that now that Bea was getting older and into his stuff, she was the irritating one and he actually preferred Millie. She stopped crying, "Really? You're not just saying that?" He patted her head like he would a dog's. Jonah replied, "Nope. I kinda can't stand her right now." Millie beamed and threw herself back into his arms. At which point Georgia joined the hug, laying her head on Millie's shoulder. I wanted to dog pile them all, but felt like this was their love fest. When they stopped hugging, Millie commented that it wasn't fair that Jonah's birth didn't bump anybody. That's when I told them that though their Pop would thoroughly deny it, Jonah's arrival wasn't always easy on him, and sometimes he felt edged out. The girls' jaws dropped. Jonah grinned.


I also got personal about some of the drawbacks of being the baby: feeling left out, hand-me-downs, being the last one in a booster seat... I asked Millie why Bea was in the other room asleep while we were all hanging out chatting. The light bulb started to go on. "Oh..." she said. "Big kids get to do stuff babies don't."


We skipped the song, said a prayer, and then they asked if they could all sleep together that night. I tucked them in and they giggled themselves to sleep, treats and "Chuck" forgotten.


I'd love to report that our sweet FHE miraculously transformed my family. It didn't. Just tonite Millie socked Georgia in the stomach because her big sister had "tooted on me on purpose!!" But I do sense less jealousy towards Bea, and more solidarity between the big 3. Jonah has taken to including Millie more and she just glows under his attentions. I have always known that my kids really love each other. Now I know they know it too.

"Mama-say Mama-sah Mama-kusan!"

Pretty Young THING

Okay, I have to echo every person I hear in the media and say that Michael Jackson's music has been a soundtrack of my life. My sister Angela and I were hooked on his music from the first time we watched that oh so cheesy Jackson Five cartoon that came out in the early 70s, courtesy of Bass-Rankin, the folks who brought you Rudolph & the Snow Miser (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYI8M3aJzR8). Michael was so cute and so talented. I felt very disloyal, liking him more than I liked Donny Osmond. But there you have it. I even saw "The Wiz." Ouch.


Even the songs we didn't like somehow loom large for us. For example, Angela still tortures me by singing that creepy song "Ben," which was all about an evil rat. I'm serious. Look it up if you don't believe me. (http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=1408) I liked "Off the Wall" but it was the "Thriller" album that really got me. Ange was working at Miller Outpost at the time and used some of her money to get us MTV. This was 1982 and the video world was exploding. Sure bands like Journey just filmed themselves playing in an abandoned wherehouse, but cutting edge groups knew this medium could change everything. And Michael Jackson was the king.



I remember going to my girlfriend Amy's house in December 1983 when MTV was premiering the "Thriller" video/mini movie. We watched it over and over and had the dance memorized by the next day. [see guide below] I still do a great zombie and thoroughly embarrassed my kids whenever I hear that song. Or "Beat It." Or "The Way You Make Me Feel." Michael makes me dance. And dancing makes me happy.

And growing up in LA, Michael Jackson was more than just a pop legend, he was a local boy, a Jehovah's Witness who just might show up at your door with a "Watchtower" pamphlet, dressed in a yellow suit with a matching yellow umbrella even though it was June. [I am still so jealous that he came to Amy's house. She even got a picture of the back of his Jheri curled head.] I once fought over a pair of cowboy boots with his baby sister Janet, Miss Jackson if you're nasty (I won). Here is a photo from 1984 that captures the times so well. I'm flanked by Stephanie & Amy and we are on our way to go dancing at some skanky club in Santa Monica or Hollywood.

Of course his whole freakiness took over, surgery after surgery, monkeys and Elephant Man bones and then feeling so embarrassed for Lisa Marie Presley (She had no idea?!) and then the baby dangling incident. Seriously? Top it off with the whole Peter Pan lusting after the Lost Boys and he lost us. We distanced ourselves. We called him Wacko Jacko equated him with the National Enquirer. But alone in our cars, we still sang along, still wanted to HEAR his music if not SEE his unrecognizable face wearing masks long before the swine flu made them vogue.

Now that he's gone, it'll be easier to remember the good times.

One last link that kills me every time I see it. It's from the show Psych about a fake detective. This one they go undercover on an American Idolesque show and perform "Shout" from Tears for Fears but bring a Jacko quality to it. It reminds me why I stayed up all night watching MTV, waiting for "Beat It" to come on. Sham-on! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eS-MMBupQPw