Barf Boy

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Even God enjoys a good sitcom every now and then. I know this because, while I haven’t yet managed to syndicate my own “Debra Rich” tv show, I am a walking breathing sitcom that delights god every time he/she/they tune in. (And I’m making the conscious choice to end that sentence with a preposition.So deal.)

For as long as I can remember, people have compared the odd characters and situations of my life to a well crafted sitcom. As a student of fine television comedy, I’ve often thought of my life in the genre of classic situational comedies like The Dick Van Dyke show and I Love Lucy. But I have to admit that much of my current chaos feels a lot like “My Crazy Ex Girlfriend,” minus the musical interludes. My soundtrack to my life isn’t a bunch of clever riffs on Broadway showtunes. It is instead an annoying, ever-looping, instrumental version of “Abba Dabba Dabba Said the Monkey to the Chimp.” (Longer explanation to follow…someday. Suffice to say, this song mysteriously plays everywhere I go every day of my life.)

Season 227 episode 11

I board a plane from Seattle to Phoenix where I am producing a big fundraiser gala and Cabaret for “Kid in the Corner,” the foundation to which my life has become dedicated.

I am traveling alone over New Years because I cannot take care of 25 performers, a full tech staff, and oversee this important event with children in tow. While my kids (14 and 18) are older and very responsible. I chose to leave them home in the hopes of avoiding awkward family drama and distracting everyday disfunction.

All seems well as I settle into my roomie Premium class window seat on, my now least favorite airline on the planet, Alaska Air. I watch as others board and clumsily hoist their carry ons in the newly constructed overhead compartments which continue to shrink with each economical redesign. Suddenly I notice two parents, about my age, overly happy and perhaps even a bit intoxicated. They are leading two young boys, nearly the ages of mine, behind them. I notice that the younger boy, maybe 11 years old, seems a bit anxious and out of sorts. The father, a boisterous, designer clad fellow who emits the air of a realtor or other sales related executive points the younger boy to the middle seat next to me. “But dad,” the kid stammers. “I don’t feel so…”

“You’re fine,” says Pops who then pushes the older boy down in the aisle seat of my row. “You and your brother can play on your Switch. It’s only a 2 and a half hour flight.” Then he and wifey, whom I assume is the mom, grab a couple of exit row premium seats a few rows back.

Full disclosure, this feels a bit off to me. I leave my kids at home in order to focus and perhaps even relax a bit. But I immediately find myself burdened with someone else’s even younger duo. I talk myself down though because I am not responsible for these two kids and this serendipitous situation provides me with a great chance to test out my new “not my problem” approach to life.

The flight attendant approaches shortly after take off and offers me a glass of ice water. As I reach for the refreshing liquid, young boy #1 projectile vomits all over himself, the seat, and me. Suddenly this has become my problem. We all seem immobilized as if we’ve been shot by some villainous time freezing weapon. After a few seconds, I snap out of my paralyzed state and call to the parents, three rows behind me, “Your kid is sick. He just threw up all over.”

When dad insists “No, he didn’t.” I sense that this is going to be a stressful trip. Flight attendant is still under the frozen time warp spell. I snap my fingers and yell, “He needs something to clean this up.”

She looks at me as if she has never encountered a nauseated traveler before. Then she reaches into the seat pocket in front of the boy and hands him a plastic, waterproof barf bag. He is perplexed but attempts to wipe up some of the copious vomit puddle in his lap and covering the seats and armrests.

I call again to the oblivious parents, “He needs help.” Then I suggest to the less than competent attendant that she get some rags or paper towels. Dad arrives in time to lambast the child for barfing on purpose as the rest of us glare at him in disbelief. Next mom appears in giggly apology, “It’s nothing,” she assures all of us, “he does this every time he flies.”

“NO HE DOESN’T,” snaps dad. “He’s never done this before.”

“What are you talking about, hon.” inquires mom, “He does this on every flight.”

At this point, I feel entitled to the rage, frustration and disbelief that are flooding my psyche. Kid gets cleaned up and mom replaces his soaked tee shirt. Other flight attendants have brought over more useless barf bags and a few cocktail napkins to clean up the remainder of the liquid. I excuse myself to go throw up in the lavatory because this is BEYOND GROSS!

There are of course no open seats anywhere on the plane. So I get to stay in the stench for two more hours. Evil dad forces older son to sit in disgusting vomit seat so he can occupy the aisle seat and barf boy ends up back with mom in a clean seat.

Again, I try to convince myself that suffering is a state of mind and that I am free to choose happiness and acceptance or struggle against the reality of my present circumstance. Noxious odor makes it more challenging to remain blissful in a tightly confined airbus with vomit dampened clothes, shoes and lap top case.

I find solace in fantasizing about stripping out of every disgusting item on my person, dumping them into a soapy sanitizing washing machine cycle, and showering off this hideous film of stranger scum. My form of relevant meditation. I breath in as I imagine the hot droplets of water careening over my scalp and body. Breath out as I envision myself covered in sudsy Pureology shampoo and body scrub.

As we begin our descent, I look back at the boy and feel true compassion for this horrifying experience. I smile at the mom and begin to say something as the kid’s face shifts from pink and rosy to pale and viridescent. And as he violently vomits across his mother and nearby seat mates, I acknowledge my success in creating another hilarious episode of God’s favorite sitcom which I’ve begun to recognize as my true purpose in life.

Here’s to being picked up next season!

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Pops

The note sat on the ledge of my bathtub. It was written on a folded scrap of purple lined paper. The words were few. “Daddy would’ve been proud of you this weekend.” It sat next to one of our popped Billecart-Salmon champagne corks, a memory of a time long past. When I was 13, we hid Korbel champagne corks in all of the nooks and crannies of our grandparent’s medicine cabinets, kitchen cupboards and shoe boxes. We were a family that celebrated everything with champagne; birthdays, anniversaries, Jewish holidays. We used to giggle with glee as we stuffed corks into envelopes in my grandfather’s office or snuck them into my Aunt’s pocketbook. It was a game my father invented that just sort of stuck. After we started hiding the corks, we just couldn’t stop — ever.

I think I first introduced the game to my kids several years ago. We’ve been hiding corks ever since. My son’s Bar Mitzvah weekend had been literally 72 hours of unbridled celebration so champagne corks were plentiful. I expected my boys to stash some away in some of their favorite hiding places for me to discover one by one over the next few weeks. But somehow I didn’t expect the one on the bathtub ledge, left by the one person whose shared memories will always be the closest to my own.

My sister and I have always had a rocky relationship. I sometimes joke that she never quite forgave me for being born. We are as different as two people can be. But it was her very presence this weekend that filled my family, my home and my heart with joy, tradition and soulful memories. Seeing her smile and appreciate the world I had created away from the one in which we’d grown up, seemed to infuse my weekend with a sense of momentous value and significance.

I so wanted her to like my home, my friends, my synagogue. To approve of what I’d become and the family of which I stood at the helm. At nearly 50 years old, I still longed for the recognition, acceptance and approval of my big sister. It seems silly, but finding that note filled a space in my heart that had been there for as long as I could remember. “Daddy would’ve been proud of you this weekend.”

The truth is, my father would’ve loved this weekend. It would have filled him with a deep sense of joy and fulfillment. It feels remarkably unfair that he isn’t here to harvest the fruits that grew from his hard work, love and attention. He had lived to create this family, these traditions, and all that we had become. And yet, he had died before ever seeing his masterpiece in full view. Sometimes the injustice of life seems overwhelming to me.

“Daddy would’ve been proud of you this weekend.” And of you, my dear sister. Because somehow we managed to shelve the past this weekend, to burry away our bittersweet rivalries, to suspend our long-standing disappointments and disagreements. For all of that, I am grateful.

May we continue to live our lives in honor of the man whose love and hard work taught us the value of family, tradition, compassion and celebration. Times change. People pass away. But the memory of all that was good will never fade. I pray that we are creating those memories for our children and that they will always drink up the joys that life offers and forever remember to hide the corks when they do.

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It’s all about perspective

So this morning I walk into the kitchen at 5:20a.m. Don’t even ask me how long the rest of my nocturnal crew has been awake. I see my husband, Mark, standing in front of the island sink. He is absent-mindedly spraying the sink basin with Pam cooking spray. He does this for approximately 10 seconds as I silently watch with perplexity. Next he returns the Pam to the pantry and pulls out his carton of Egg Beaters. After a few violent shakes, he opens the carton and proceeds to pour several servings of Egg Beaters down the drain to follow the Pam cooking spray. At this point, I am finding it hard to keep quiet.

So I say, in a less than kind tone, “What the hell are you doing? Why would you waste food like that?” I am irritated, and yes a bit concerned, that during the night he has lost or hopefully only misplaced some of his mental faculties. He looks up and simply says, “I’m making my breakfast.”

Now Mark enjoys a good joke and has never missed an opportunity to tease, toy with, or good-naturedly yank my rather easily accessible chain. But at this point, I am not amused. We are working hard to make ends meet. We are living sparsely, avoiding waste and trying to maintain a cash only spending regiment. Why would someone in that position carelessly spill an entire meal down the drain?

“What is seriously wrong with you?” I ask more with bewilderment than ire. “Nothing,” he retorts, still standing over his eggless creation in the sink. At this point, I’m taking into consideration the possibility that he has had some type of brain aneurism and can no longer be held responsible for his behavior. I quickly move towards him to catch him in case he topples over from the force of the bursting vessel within his brain. But as I get to him, I see that sitting on the bottom of the sink is his microwave egg-cooker, filled with plenty of Pam and two servings of Egg Beaters. He, of course, is snickering madly. He picks up his cooker, places it in the microwave and turns it on for 1:30 seconds.

“Why did you do that?” I continued my interrogation despite his giggles and snorts. “It’s more efficient,” he explained. “I don’t get Pam all over the counter and if I spill any of the Egg Beaters, I just turn on the faucet and clean the sink.”

I had to admit that did actually make a lot of sense. But from my perspective across the room, watching his actions was like watching an inane rerun of The Three Stooges. But then it hit me; that is truly what life is about. (Not watching inane reruns of The Three Stooges.) Life is about how we each view the world from our unique vantage points. Thus our challenges in life, our relationship difficulties, our negative attitudes are only as accurate as we allow them to be. If we change our perspective, by say walking across a room, or bending down, or climbing a few rungs of a metaphorical ladder, we may actually see the entire world differently. That’s an enormous realization.

When we argue with people or when someone close to us hurts us, it’s so easy to accuse, condemn and vilify whomever has done us wrong. But maybe we’re not really seeing the full picture. Maybe what appears to be careless or random idiocy is really thoughtful and considerate conduct. Maybe if we shift our mental or emotional viewpoint we will see that the situation is vastly different from our original interpretation. And maybe, just maybe, we too will find ourselves laughing at misconceptions that never actually even existed.

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Why did the boys cross the road?

Long pause filled with uncertainty.

To get smoothies from A.J.s and scare the bejeezus out of their mother.

It may not be the funniest joke ever, but my two tiny, helpless, toddlers… okay, they’re not really tiny anymore, and technically they’re not helpless. I guess you could also argue that nearly 13 and 9 no longer designates them as toddlers. But they’re crossing a busy street and I’m not with them and this is freaking me out!

It’s summer vacation, camp is over, I have no help and I’m feeling like a dried up piece of sand paper. So I made an appointment for a manicure and pedicure. I thought my husband would be off work this morning when I originally made the appointment. But he had to work at the last minute. I didn’t want to cancel. Does that make me a monster? My heels are coarse and leathery, and my feet look like they’ve been through a Crayola blizzard with so many splotches of colors on my toenails because I’ve been layering over my last pedicure for a month. The salon I go to is across the street from AJs. So the boys convinced me that they could come along with me and venture off alone to get smoothies while I soaked peacefully in the pedicure tub. I gave them money and instructions, several times. “Be careful crossing the street!” I said. “It’s a busy street. And call me if you need me. Maybe text me once you get there. No, that’s silly. You don’t have to text me. Yes, text me.” Okay, seriously, they’re only going across the street. Motorists are cautious around here. I mean it’s a residential neighborhood. But there are a lot of elderly folks in this area. Maybe they wont notice two innocent little tykes, one toting a beloved stuffed polar bear, darting across a four lane freeway. Okay okay, it’s not exactly a freeway. But it gets really busy sometimes and it can be as treacherous as the 51 on a Friday afternoon.

Why is it so hard to let kids grow up? I know this is good for them. It teaches them responsibility. It allows them to learn independence. When I was 12, I used to peddle my bicycle 10 miles across town to the local Bunny Hutch to meet friends and enjoy the best french fries in town. What were my parents thinking? Did it scare my mom that I rode in the street? Did she just not think about it? Why does it freak me out so much?

Levi, my nearly 13 year old, went away to sleep-away camp for a full month this summer. He managed to brush his teeth without my constant reminders. He got dressed by himself and handled a litany of daily responsibilities without a single word from me or his dad. (Although I do confess to putting a few brief instructions into the loving letters I wrote on a daily basis.) But he probably ignored those.

I really don’t remember my parents being this over-protective. I don’t think it was that much of a safer world back then. I’ve even read numerous books and articles that insist there are not more child abductions or mass killings today than there were back in the day. It’s just the way the media covers them that makes them all seem so looming and prevalent. But parents’ levels of angst have sky-rocketed since the time of my childhood. It’s like we’re so scared of something happening that we don’t want to ever let our kids out of our sight.

I think it ultimately cripples both them and us. It keeps kids in a perpetual state of childishness. We protect them from anything that even hints at grown-up responsibility which keeps them completely void of the experiences they need to grow up and become responsible adults. In turn, their neediness and inexperience prevents us from letting go and keeps us stuck in perpetual parenting mode without any hope of escape or eventual freedom.

The funniest part of all this is that we’re only doing it because we love them so much. We just don’t want to see them hurt or watch them struggle or worse, possibly fail. But that’s really the only way to learn anything, isn’t it? To fall down. To make a mistake. To err. Without error, life poses no challenges, no opportunities for growth.

So take a deep breath. Love your kids. But let them cross the street by themselves once in a while. It’s really the only way to get from here to there anyway.

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His first dance

“Whose problem is it?” My husband, the pediatrician, patronizingly posits.

“Look, I know it’s his problem,” I say, already on edge from his tone of voice, “I read all the ‘Love and Logic’ books too. But sometimes a parent needs to step in and avert an impending disaster.”

“You need to let him fail, Debra,” He councils.

“But this is such a bad idea!” I assert. “He’ll be totally humiliated and then…well, he’ll be scarred for like ever!”

“If you take this on as your issue,” he warns, “You are robbing him of an opportunity to learn a valuable lesson.”

At that point I wanted to slug him. Instead I furiously stormed out of the kitchen and rushed into his office where I began to systematically rip the pages out of each and every “Love and Logic” book I could find. All the while yelling at him, “I hate this ‘Love and Logic’ crap! This whole notion of natural consequences sucks. If it’s all about letting your kids fail, then what do they need parents for in the first place? Let’s just step back a bit further and really let him make his own choices…”

After I vented, I took a deep breath and looked seriously at my spouse. “How can you set our son up for this kind of devastation? Don’t you care about his feelings at all?”

“Debra,” he voiced in a genuinely warm tone, “I don’t want him to suffer any more than you do. But you told him it might be better to ask the girl to the dance in private instead of doing it in front of the entire sixth grade class. Didn’t you?”

I nodded sheepishly.

He continued, “And he decided he wanted it to be big and bold and dramatic. We have to let him do it his way.”

That’s when I realized I hate being a parent. I never should’ve gone down this path. It’s painful and frustrating and there’s virtually no positive reinforcement. My kind, sensitive, thoughtful 12-year-old boy is about to ask a girl to his first dance ever in front of his entire class and I can’t convince him to change course. And spousal support? Ha! My husband behaves as if he’s Switzerland during World War II.

The following day was grueling. I didn’t mention the dance invitation that morning en route to school. It was none of my business. Not my problem. If my adoring little boy got his heart stomped on by some brazen hussy, it was simply going to be a natural consequence that would teach him to be more cautious in exposing his sentiments in the future. Surely that lesson will serve him well in the long run.

I picked him up promptly at 3:15. “How was school?” I nonchalantly queried.
“Oh, it was okay,” he contended with the neutrality of a poker professional, cards close to his vest.

“Anything out of the ordinary occur?” I tried not to sound as pathetically desperate to know the story as I obviously was.

“No. Not really,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Just your average day.”

I bit my tongue, literally, to keep myself from uttering another word. Suddenly he chirped with excitement, “Oh, mom, I almost forgot. I asked Jessica (not her real name) to the dance this afternoon.”

“Oh you did?” I casually inquired. “So…how’d it go?”

“It was amazing! I played this One Direction song at the end of Spanish called ‘That’s what makes you beautiful,’ and I told her I wasn’t Nile, but I’d still like to take her to the dance if she’d go with me. The whole class was cheering and saying, ‘Say yes. Say yes.’ It was such a cool feeling to have everyone wanting me to succeed. And she did say yes, which made it even more cool.”

OK, I did not see that coming. My whole body heaved a heavy sigh of relief. Thank heavens that catastrophe was averted. We pulled into the driveway and I saw a series of texts had come in from my husband. “So?” “What happened?” “Did she say yes?” “Is he okay?” Well, how do you like that? Mr. “I’m so uninvolved emotionally and capable of keeping my feelings out of the situation” is actually waiting on pins and needles to know the results from today’s event.

I started to text back the good news when it struck me that it wouldn’t kill my husband to wait a few more hours to learn the verdict from today’s challenge. After all, I wouldn’t want him to take things on too personally and rob my son of his learning experience.
I texted back, “He prefers to talk with you in person.”

Yes, I know it was a bit childish. O.K., maybe even passive aggressive to purposely lead my husband astray like that. But it wasn’t a lie. Not really. Just a…a…an extension of the truth. And one that cheered me immensely over the course of the afternoon. Honestly, can you blame me? It’s not easy being married to a professional parent who always seems to have all the right answers.

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Where have all the Cowboys gone?

For once I have the perfect gift for our upcoming Anniversary!

Our dog, Maggie, is a lot like Lassie. So the other night while my youngest son, Eli, was sleeping, it wasn’t at all surprising to see her perched in the threshold of the office barking a series of short staccato yips at my husband, Mark, while he typed away at his computer. “What is it girl?” he asked a la Timmy Martin, “Is someone in trouble?”

Maggie voiced a few more Morse Code like woofs and gestured with her head for my husband to follow. He quickly complied and Maggie led him down the hall towards the living room and courtyard. She stopped abruptly at the archway to the living room and yipped another string of urgent yelps. Our other dog, S’more, had joined her in the portal. They wouldn’t extend a paw beyond the threshold.

Mark opened the French doors and walked into the courtyard expecting to find some wayward quail or other lost desert creature. He found nothing and re-entered the house.

“There’s nothing out there, sweetie,” he calmly replied. But the yelping continued as both dogs stood frozen like guards at Buckingham Palace. Mark knelt down and tried to ease their heightening panic. That’s when he heard the unmistakable shake of a rattle behind him. He slowly stood and turned towards the sound. There, in the middle of our living room, stood a 3 foot uninvited Rattle snake.

Secure that our youngest was sleeping soundly down the hallway and the dogs wouldn’t approach the venomous intruder, he methodically backed away and moved stealthily into the garage to retrieve the first long metal object he could find. It was a rake that proved to be the ultimate asp destructor. Once it was officially deceased, he carefully speared it on the sharp end of the rake spokes and shot-putted it into the desert wash behind our property.

When I came home with my older son, Levi, I noted particular nervousness in both of our normally easy-going pups. S’more was barking at every sound and motion, while Maggie just sat curled up in a corner of our bedroom. “Is everything okay with the dogs?” I asked. My husband nodded and tried to smile, “Yep. Everything is A-OK.”

After Levi went to sleep I returned to our bedroom to find the two dogs and my husband cuddling eerily on our bed. That’s when he confessed his murderous crime. I didn’t ask for the details. The thought of my gentle husband smooshing the life out of any creature, be it in self-defense or not, was too much for me to bear.

I chastised him mercilessly for failing to do something sensible like calling 911 or scooping up our son and canines and rushing madly from the house. “I had to protect my family,” he told me bravely, “I had no other choice.” I admit I kind of liked seeing him as a lone cowboy standing guard over us, his unprotected herd. After all, most of the time he’s just the big lug who leaves his dishes in the sink and socks strewn across the bedroom floor.

I found myself texting everyone I knew. “Nerdy Jewish doctor or ruthless Rattle snake slayer? You decide.” He caught me mid text. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to bed?”

“Oh yeah,” I stammered. “Just had to finish a few emails. I’ll be right in.”

He took a few steps towards the bedroom a la John Wayne, then stopped and turned back to me, “Well goodnight, little lady.” he declared in a low manly voice. Then with a tip of his mythical hat he added, “And remember; Don’t squat with yer spurs on.” And with that, he sauntered off into the distance, leaving me with only the shadow of his courageous smile and the memory of his selfless bravery.

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Stressed out summer

I just read a blog about summer camp for at-risk youth and I realized that that meant mine. Because as of today, their third full day of summer vacation, they are at risk of being throttled, pummeled and bound and gag by none other than their delirious mother who is truly at the proverbial end of her rope.

Summer sucks. It’s hot. I feel perpetually lethargic. Stepping into my car is like being rolled through an easy bake oven. AND THERE’S NO SCHOOL!!!! Help me someone.

About two months ago, while I was furiously researching summer camp options for my 8 and 11 year old sons, my husband made the case that the boys did not want to go to summer camp and he insisted that they were too old to be forced to go. While I vehemently disagreed, I also have a very keen memory of my nephew, several years back, who ran away from summer camp and refused to ever go back. Besides, according to my husband, all the boys wanted to do all summer was frolic happily in our newly added swimming pool in the backyard.

“They’ll be bored,” I asserted. “Nonsense,” he proclaimed. “They’re kids. They just want to play. We need to let them be kids for once. Enough with the over-programming and the rushing between activities. They need down time. It’ll be good for them.”

Fast forward to today. They are mopey, depressive, and completely unimaginative. They don’t want to do any of the myriad of activities we had earlier outlined. They find each other positively detestable, so the idea of even being in the same room with each other is wholly unacceptable. They wont read, (an activity they cherished up until three days ago.) Board games are out because they can’t agree on which one to play. The only shared activity that will be endured is watching “Myth Buster” reruns over and over ad nauseum.

Yesterday my 11 year old son, Levi, decided to put together a professional resume so he could go out and seek employment. Anything would be better than being at home all summer. I have to say that his CV is really rather impressive. But his research was discouraging. He’s still got to wait at least four years to even be considered for a bagger position at Safeway.

My full time summer sitter seems to be sprouting grey hairs even as we speak (and she’s 20), and I haven’t been able to do a stitch of work since this awful summer break began. It’s like I’ve become this powerful magnetic suctioning device. They wont leave me alone for one single nano-second. I work out of my house most days. This is impossible. I even fled the domestic abode for a few hours this afternoon to work on a project at the Coffee Bean. But I was inundated with phone calls about who said what to whom, who wont stop talking, and what kind of gelatin is kosher. It’s too much.

I texted my husband that my life had become unbearable. I haven’t heard back. I’m thinking he’ll find a way to work late tonight.

I know there are moms who are good at this. I’m just not one of them. At a certain level, I accept that about myself. I have a lot of good traits. Parenting full time is just not one of them. But why isn’t that okay? Why do I feel so gosh darn lousy about myself because I need time to work and to be with adults and to challenge myself artistically? I need alone time. Why don’t they?

Look I am fully cognizant of the fact that in a few more years they wont want to have anything to do with me — ever. But right now that actually looks rather appealing. This clingy, needy, unable to walk to the mail box themselves thing is suffocating me.

I love them. I do. I would easily give my life for them. (Which at this point is also sounding rather attractive.) Taking a bullet would be preferable to 3 more hours of uninterrupted “Marco Polo” in the pool.

So I know this is asking a lot; but if anyone of you could tell me that this is normal or at least not identifiably psychotic, I would owe you a debt of gratitude. And if I don’t write back right away, don’t worry, I’ve just checked myself into some insanely expensive sanatorium near Sedona where they don’t take insurance or allow children visitation rights.

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Believe me it hurts me more than it hurts you!

Eli's poem 😦

Being a parent sucks! I’m serious. Why can’t we just love our kids, play with them and have fun? Instead we have to teach them lessons, watch them suffer, and worry about them every waking moment. It simply is not fair!

Today is a bad day. I open a big show tonight. It’s been a grueling few months. I’m tired, strung out and full of anxiety about the performance. So my adoring spouse decided to let me sleep in and drove the boys to school this morning. On any other morning I would have been thrilled. But when I awoke around 9am and stumbled into the kitchen for a much needed double espresso, I discovered a sight so horrific, I wanted to crawl back under the covers and never emerge again.

You see, there on the counter, all ready for transport, sat my 8 year old son Eli’s painstakingly created diorama and all the accoutrements of his poetry project that were due today. My heart sank. He has worked so hard on this project it’s unbelievable. This was an injustice I had to make right.

I threw on some clothes, grabbed the diorama and poems and ran out to the car to rescue him. But there was a hint of doubt filtering through my mind that I couldn’t quite shake. Of course I was doing the right thing by bringing him the project. Wasn’t I?

I called my husband at work. “Just wanted to check in on what went down this morning. It looks like with you driving the boys and the change in the routine, Eli forgot his poetry project and I know they’re presenting them today,” I could hear the guilt in my voice even as I tried to sound neutral. “So, I’m just gonna swing by and drop it off for him.”
Silence. “OK?” I added beseechingly.

The icy voice on the other end of the phone chilled me to the core. “No. Don’t bring him the project. He has to learn from this. If you go running to school to save him, this entire painful experience will have been for naught.”

“But it really isn’t his fault,” I clamored. “If I would have taken him, I would have made sure he brought the project. Don’t you think this is an extenuating circumstance?”

“No, I don’t,” my husband cooly replied. “Debra, this is a perfect lesson in taking and owning responsibility for himself. Don’t rob him of it.”

“But…but…but…” I couldn’t get the words out. “But he’s only 8! And he must be devastated,” I could hear my sobs backing up in my throat.

“But he wont forget his school work ever again if we let him learn this lesson,” my husband countered. “Besides, you don’t have to see his broken-hearted expression in your mind every day for the rest of your life. I do. It’s brutal.”

So I came back into the house, replaced the diorama on the counter alongside the poetry book, and tried not to feel like the worst parent on the planet. But it’s hard. I believe so firmly in the “Love and Logic” approach to parenting in which we are engaging. I see my friends with older kids, and I know that the lessons grow ever more complex and challenging as kids grow up. Learning personal responsibility today could very well save a child from making a really bad decision when he’s older; and the truth is that the stakes get incredibly high as kids get older.

I’ve asked most of my friends whether they think I did the right thing. Most of them say yes, but they add that they would never have done it themselves. That makes their tacit nod of approval feel like condemnation of the highest form. I guess we’ll just have to walk this path alone and stay true to the principles of natural consequence in which we believe.

But, just in case you feel compelled to comment and tell me that I did the right thing, feel free. It might help me sleep a bit easier tonight. But no pressure.

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Union busting

Please help me! My kids have unionized and taken a strict “no camp” position which they insist is non-negotiable. I, on the other hand, come to the mediation table with an equally undebatable policy that not only demands full-time summer camp, but also promises a complete maternal break-down and subsequent walk-out if my demands are not met.

Bottom line; I do not have the time, capacity or stamina to entertain my children 24-7 for 3 months of summer activities. I have come to believe that there are some women (even perhaps a few men) for whom this would not only be possible, but, dare I say, even enjoyable. Unfortunately, I am not one of them. I’m not even good at entertaining myself for unstructured stretches of time extending beyond 15 minutes. The combination of me and children for days at a time at record temperatures is like a highly combustible mixture of picric acid and sodium hydroxide. Not something you want happening around the house.

My husband has sided with the children. “You can’t force them to go to summer camp,” he admonishes. “Besides, it’s expensive. And you know how it’ll be to fight every day and force them to go against their wills.”

“Yes,” I concede, “It’ll be hell on a daily basis. But, if I were to put it in Dante-esque terms, I’d have to say that the daily tiffs were more like the first circle, while staying at home with them from June through August plunges into the ninth.” My husband stared at me in bewilderment. He’s not a big Alighieri fan.

“They’ll play together,” he proffers with the simplicity Jack the Dullard. “Yeah,” I reply sarcastically, “Until one of them gets mad and hits the other with a croquet mallet. This is a horrible idea.”

“OK, we’ll hire someone,” he concedes, realizing that unless he’s ready to reenact a modern day version of Medea, he’d better start coming up with a Plan B. “We can use the money we would have spent on summer camp to hire sitters and then they can hang out, relax and swim everyday. It’ll be awesome.”

At this point, I am virtually speechless. I do manage to spit out a single intelligible phrase. “They will be bored in three days time.” Then he slams me with the argument I abhor most. “Well, I didn’t go to summer camp and I managed to entertain myself all summer long. They’re kids. They just want to play.” Then to add insult to injury he adds, “You know, summer camp is an option, not a god-given right. You act like every kid is entitled to go to summer camp.”

“No,” I harshly retort, “Every reasonably sane mother is entitled to send her children out of the house for at least six hours a day. I don’t want to end up a gelatinous puddle of tears every day by the time you get home from work. Trust me, this will not make anyone happy.”

To be honest, I am used to getting my way when it comes to family issues. I often rely heavily on the “I’m the mom, and what I say goes” philosophy of family dynamics. But somehow in this case, I’m not feeling up to waging that battle.

So, we’re going for it. The boys and I will be hanging out at the pool this summer. Feel free to stop by…anytime. We’ll just be here…doing nothing…all day…every day. Dear Lord, please help me find some sort of mental sanity, internal patience, and emotional serenity for what I am about to endure. And please take note that I am on the record saying this may be the single most cataclysmic parenting decision we have made to date.

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Vote for…mom?

I ran for Vice President of the Student Council at my son’s middle school this week. I lost. But that’s not the point of my story.

Well, technically, it wasn’t me that ran. I just felt like it when at 4:00 on Tuesday I picked up my 11 year old son, Levi, and he informed me that he was running and that the election was in two days and the forms and posters were due before school the following morning.

My plan for the afternoon had not included a mad dash to Walgreens for poster supplies and a creative campaign brainstorming session. I had mapped things out a bit differently since I had to scoop up the boys, drive them out to my husband, Mark’s, office in Glendale, eat something on the run and get to rehearsal by 6. But, as usual my schedule was foiled by two small urchins who rarely pay any mind to my neatly ordered, pre-established agendas.

We spent the drive to the West side discussing my son’s political platform and how he wanted to market himself. After all, I kept insisting, this was his campaign, not mine. Yet somehow, when the time came to create the posters, it was me who found herself cutting, pasting and painting, while Levi and his younger brother, Eli, did their homework and dashed playfully from room to room in Mark’s office. In my defense, I did finally note that this was unfair and tasked Levi with peeling the adhesive backs off the sign letters so I would feel less like an indentured servant and more like a collaborator.

The posters came out fairly well. And I don’t honestly think our defeat was due to my lack of artistic talent. But here’s the thing, I was and am still deeply conflicted about my choice to do the bulk of the work on these posters myself. A multitude of internal voices were clamoring about this issue in my head as I worked. The more sane and practical voice kept insisting that this was Levi’s campaign, and that I had no right or obligation to be taking on the responsibility of art director. But there was also the helicopter mom voice that repeatedly reminded me about Levi’s fine motor control challenges. If left to his own devices, he might create unintelligible posters that would not only assure an election defeat, but might also cause him to be a target of teasing and ridicule.

Other voices declared Levi’s graphic talents on the computer and wondered why I didn’t encourage him to create something electronically. Still others suggested I get myself fed and to work on time and simply allow his dad to handle the poster debacle. Of course that triggered a memory of the time Mark sent Levi to school for dress-up day, costumed in a bed sheet and kitchen mop wig, which wasn’t a disaster I cared to repeat.

In the short run, it was just easier to do this myself. So that’s what I did. I’m pretty sure that by most traditional parenting guidelines, I did the wrong thing. Most of the time I live by the doctrine that kids need to succeed or fail based on their own actions and behaviors. This just seemed…well…like an exception.

What would you have done?