WWLD?

Breathe...deeply!

I love Lulu Lemon. Not because I’m some peace-loving, zen yogini or anything even close. I just love the style, fit and feel of their clothes. Plus the whole vibe of the store makes me happy. But do you know what I really love most about the place? The bags.

Come on. You love them too. They’re cute. They’re uplifting. They’re the perfect Trader Joe’s reusable grocery bags. But here’s the moment of truth. What do the bags actually say? Don’t look! This is a challenge I’m putting before you. Everything on those bags is thoughtful, philosophical, and inspiring. But I bet, no matter how many tata tamers you have, you can’t come up with 10 phrases that adorn that bag. Too hard? How about five? Three? One?

I wouldn’t ask you to attempt anything I wasn’t willing to try myself. So here goes:

1. Listen intently…to someone?
2. Breathe.
3. Friends are more important than money.
4. Something about sweating every day.
5. Do something every day that scares you.
6. Life is a journey, not a destination. (Okay, I’m stumped and this was the first generic philosophical phrase I could think of. But It could be on the bag.)

I have now retrieved one of the many red and white sacks I possess and am moderately horrified by my performance. I got 4…sort of. “Breathe” is actually “Breathe Deeply.” But I think I deserve at least a half point for my effort. It’s “Listen, listen, listen and then ask strategic questions.” But who would ever remember that? I didn’t get “Love,” which is so blatantly obvious it’s almost embarrassing. I missed “Dance, Sing, Floss and Travel,” “Creativity is maximized when you’re living in the moment,” “The pursuit of happiness is the source of all unhappiness.” I could go on. But instead, I’m just going to encourage all of you to step away from your computer and go into your bedroom, closet or the trunk of your car and pick up one of your Lulu bags. Then grab a cup of tea or a mug of French press coffee, sit down and really read what’s on that bag.

It’s kind of nutty to think that a tote from a retail establishment could honestly change your life. But I really think this one can. Because it’s true, “Friends are more important than money,” and “Your outlook on life is a direct reflection of how much you like yourself.” The bag is like a modern day totem pole, celebrating today’s overwhelming obsession with spiritual enlightenment, and saying to the world and generations to come, “This is who we are. This is what we believe. This is what we are striving towards.”

It’s actually kind of cool to think about this as an emblem of our people. Probably a little kooky too. I doubt that the marketing guru who came up with the bag design considered herself a modern day messenger of current societal standards. But who knows. Maybe Sarah Palin, in one of the upcoming Republican primary debates, will cite Lulu as her favorite political philosopher, just as George W. did in the now infamous 1999 debate when he chose Jesus Christ as his. WWLD?

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Warning on a Halloween Batman costume:  ”This cape does not give the wearer the ability to fly.”

Has the whole world gone mad?

Parents today have reached a new low. I’m not kidding. This is utterly psychotic. My youngest, Eli, has been begging me forever to be on a flag football team. So I signed him up with a league in the neighborhood. I’ve heard great things about the organization that runs the league. It was close by. Sure it was adding an extra burden to our already jam-packed after-school schedule. But he seemed so intent on playing that I couldn’t say no.

The first slightly annoying incident occurred when I signed him up. “What day will the practices be on?” I inquired. “That’ll depend on which team he’s on and coach availability,” the impatient voice on the other end of the phone responded. “You’ll find out after the first game. “But what about all of his other activities?” I asked. “I mean, he’s not free every afternoon.” This clearly was an idiotic point to even bring up and i quickly surmised that if you want your kid on a team, you’d better be prepared to make some serious sacrifices. After all, what could be more important than flag football? I mean, come on.

Then about a week before the opening game, I got an email telling me to bring my son’s birth certificate to the first game. I thought it was an odd request and promptly deleted the email and forgot about it. But a few days ago I got another email reminding me that no child will be allowed to play without a valid birth certificate on file. This seemed rather draconian to me. But, since we live in a post “SB1070” world, I figured they needed proof of citizenship in order to be thoroughly legal. But I have come to learn that neither legality nor citizenship figure into this picture. The actual rationale for collecting my six year old son’s birth certificate is that apparently parents lie and try to surreptitiously slip their older children into younger leagues so that they will have some kind of height/weight/talent advantage. Really? What kind of parent would do that?

The fact is that some parent somewhere must have actually tried to sneak their kid into a younger league, right? I mean, just like the ridiculous warnings on baby strollers to “remove child before folding,” or the printed caveat on irons to “never press clothing while being worn,” or the label on my cardboard car sun shield, to “not drive with sun shield in place,” someone somewhere must have committed these inane acts. And there must have been more than a few parents who did this, right? Which brings me back to my initial hypothesis; Parents today have reached a new low.

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Puppy deja vu

I’ve lost my mind again. Remember how we decided to get a puppy and everyone thought it would send me into a psychotic tailspin from which I’d never emerge? Well, it didn’t.

The fact is we got lucky. We got the one and only perfect puppy on the planet. It’s true. She has yet to do anything wrong. I”m not joking. This puppy is like from heaven. She’s never chewed up anything. She learned to use the doggy door in like an hour and a half and has not had any accidents in the house. She has the most gorgeous ebony coat and does not shed even a single hair.

I am madly in love with Maggie. The only issue is that she LOVES the company of other dogs. She adores us and everything. Finds people delightful and loving. She’s very affectionate with humans. But there is a deep, intense joy that eminates from within her when she gets around other dogs.

While we were out of town she vacationed with her foster mommy who had 3 or 4 other dogs. She was in her element. She did clearly miss us. But she played from sun-up to sun-down and had the time of her life.

Maggie just seems a little down these days

Now that she’s back, I think she’s kind of depressed. I can see it in her eyes. They’re just a bit listless

. She’s lost some of the spring in her step. She just seems like she’s lonely, no matter how much love and attention we give her.

So I think the only answer is another puppy. My sister hung up on me when I told her I was thinking about it. Everyone says I must be insane. The fact is, this is not what I necessarily want. I am liking having a dog for the first time in my life. But I never imagined myself the owner of more than one of these playful pooches.

But now that I am devoted to Maggie, I feel obligated to do what is right for her. Without a doubt, she needs a companion. It’s like her soul’s calling is to connect with another canine. What kind of person would keep a living creature from it’s truest, deepest purpose in life?

So I’m looking for the second most perfect puppy in the universe.(and a new prescription for Ativan). Any suggestions on where to find either or both?

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What I learned from the daily funnies.

There’s always a window that’s lowered by a millimeter, a woman’s hair is slightly shorter, a man’s polka-dotted tie turns to stripes. It’s really not so hard. So why am I blinded to these seemingly obvious differences?

I am obsessed with hocus-focus. No, that’s not a typo. And I’m not talking about magic, or the dark arts, or any kind of voodoo witch doctor stuff. I’m talking about that comic in the daily newspaper. You know, the one with two identical pictures and you’re supposed to pick out the six differences between them. They’re made for like five-year-old kids, so that parents can say something like, “Here you go, Junior, take a look at these,” and buy themselves a few extra minutes of quiet morning java time.

But here’s the thing; I can’t do them. I’m serious. I’m lucky if I can find 2 or 3 differences. But six seems totally unreasonable. I mean, how are children supposed to figure these out? The weird part is that it’s always the same stuff, and I still can’t figure it out. There’s always a window that’s lowered by a millimeter, a woman’s hair is slightly shorter, a man’s polka-dotted tie turns to stripes. It’s really not so hard. So why am I blinded to these seemingly obvious differences?

I think there is something else going on here. Some kind of psychic rebellion, a repressed emotional resistance to noticing the blatant, the conspicuous, the glaring. Perhaps it’s just a trick being played upon my feeble psyche by Maternus, the omniscient goddess of all things maternal. Maybe she is mocking the fact that I meticulously note every out-of-place ringlet upon each of my children’s tossled tops and can’t help but comment on their faintly stained t-shirts and popsicle blue lips.

As a mother, I admit my compulsion to scrutinize every aspect of my kid’s personas. It’s like I’m unable to keep my eye on the bigger picture; my children’s kind hearts, their graceful spirits, their unending curiosities.

Maybe the message is to stop focusing on the minutia altogether. Because even when you do catch that missing bow-tie or slightly tilted picture frame, you still end up missing a whole bunch of other stuff and losing the game.

Hmmm…that’s a pretty lofty lesson coming from the daily funnies.

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Hey Voldemort, watch out for Yoda!

What would happen if Luke Skywalker met Harry Potter?

My kids have been fighting like fiends lately. It’s becoming unbearable. Most of the time I try not to get involved, believing some advice I read somewhere about letting them work things out on their own. At my less self-actualized moments, I throw my arms up in despair and ponder why I ever thought that having two children would improve the overall quality of our lives. And on a really bad day, I try to yell down the louder of the two kids. “STOP SCREAMING!” I shriek, never missing for one moment the irony of my poor parenting practice.

But today, I actually had a break thru. The hysteria had climbed to near violence level. I knew I had to insert myself into the fray. Turns out it was all about which pretend game to play. Levi, my 9-year-old, wanted to play Harry Potter. He was all set, wand in hand, ready to cast the first charm. Eli, my six-year-old on the other hand, lightsaber pointed, was prepared to do battle against the Grand Army of cloned human warriors. My intervention seemed about as hopeless as an Palestinian-Israeli conflict resolution.

But I did not despair. Instead, I simply said, “I wonder what would happen if Luke Skywalker met Harry Potter. I mean, do you think they’d be friends? Maybe together they could save the universe.” Then, as swiftly as I appeared, I stealthfully faded back into my office.

After about five minutes of no yelling, crying or hyper-ventilating, I popped my head into the living room to confirm that both children were still alive and well. To my amazement, I saw an astonishing sight. Luke Skywalker, lightsaber aglow, was battling the one who must not be named. Then, in a flash, Professor Dumbledore appeared in deep collusion with a green faced, cloth caped, Yoda. It worked! My kids had merged their two obsessions and were playing heartily.

They continued to play (and I’m not exagerating) for at least two more hours without a single moment of conflict (well, not counting the near destruction of the Galactic Empire.) There was one tense moment when my 6 year old declared that the Immobulus spell his brother kept casting upon him was not really fair because he was constantly being rendered immobile. I had to rule, as the Supreme leader of the Republic, that the Immobulus spell could only be used once an hour. After that, the boys played on happily.

Sometimes I wonder why I don’t always opt for using my creativity when dealing with my children’s issues. It seems so much easier. Everyone’s happy. I’m no longer stressed. And the universe is being saved from the dark side. Come on, what could be better than that?

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I hate Mario Kart!

It’s not the typical mom against video outrage that a plethora of parents express every day in this country. I don’t really mind that my kids enjoy it. Nor do I feel that it’s rotting their brains, leading them towards obesity or peppering their psyches with too many images of death and destruction. I hate it because it’s not fun.

Frankly, it makes me tense. Every time I try to play it I become both anxious and aggressive at the same time. My ugly competitive spirit rears its head. I begin cursing like an old sea dog. And within 30 seconds of the first race I start sweating like Albert Brooks in “Broadcast News.”

“Get away from the tv!” I scream as my innocent children try to point out the arrows on the track that I can actually see but can’t seem to follow. “Here, mommy!” they shout in helpful unison. “Don’t talk to me! I see them.” I shriek like a cornered hyena.

Naturally I come in last nearly every time I play. I wouldn’t care about that except my kids seem so deeply disappointed in my failure. “Don’t worry, mommy. You’ll get better,” they try to sound encouraging. But I can see the sadness in their droopy eyes. Again I’ve let them down. Dejected, I turn the wheel back over to them and make my way to the laundry room to fold yet another load of laundry. Ah yes, this is where I belong; here’s something I’m good at.

“So why play it?” I’m sure you’re asking. Because I don’t want to lose my children. Now I realize this may sound ridiculous to some of you. But where does it stop? If I don’t share their interest in Mario Kart, what’s next? I don’t care about the NCAA championship. Okay, no harm there. I’m not really interested in Harry Potter. That’s fair. But do you see where this is leading? Suddenly, I can’t stand their music, don’t like their friends, don’t know anything about what interests them. They become goth, start smoking cigarettes to be cool, go off to college, get a slew of body piercings, bad grades, and stds and I have only myself to blame.

No. I’m not willing to lose them. I will learn how to play Mario Kart. I will not give up because it’s an inane game that makes me dizzy, depressed and nervous. I will practice while they’re at school until I earn a damn medal. I will make them proud of their mommy. I will learn how to throw mushrooms and banana peels and make everyone else small. I will not give in to my inner adult.

I’m actually serious about this. I truly believe that we, as parents, have to stay in tune with the things that matter to our kids. I see so many families that just drift apart because parents are too busy doing their own thing to pay attention to the hobbies and interests of their children. It’s not dissimilar to any relationship you want to keep vibrant and strong. I try to pay attention to the things my husband cares about. I read the business news, listen to political talk shows, watch which wines are earning a perfect Parker 100. Why wouldn’t I do the same for my boys?

Sure it’s one more thing on my “to do” list. But the way I look at it, who can’t take a little time out of their day to spend a few minutes palling around with Donkey Kong, Koopa Troopa, and Wario? Besides, if I get really good at it, I’m hoping to learn how to splat ink over all those obnoxious 101 drivers who cut me off when I’m trying to merge onto the 51 on our way to school in the morning.

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Novelty golf and the Bunny Hutch

Who says you can't go home?

I took my kids to Novelty Golf and the Bunny Hutch last week when we were in Chicago visiting my family. I thought it would be fun to show them a place where I spent countless weekends in my youth. It was kind of weird; like stepping into a tin-type photograph of bygone days. My kids loved it. Thought it was cool that 30 years ago I sat, much like them, chowing on french fries and listening to really loud 80s music.

The golf thing didn’t work out that well though. I think I have an expectation problem. I was excited to go miniature golfing with them. I figured we’d play an orderly round of 18 holes, have a few laughs at balls gone astray, and grab a bite at the famed BH. But on the first hole I realized that my ideal vision of the day was not to be. I lost track of the number of strokes each child swung after about 30 seconds of watching my children, wild-eyed, flailing their individual golf clubs dangerously close to one another’s heads. “Ok, let’s not keep score,” I chirped cheerfully, still determined to make this a fun outing.

I tried showing them how to stand, how to swing, how to putt. But to no avail. They were like Thing One and Thing Two, racing around in circles and wreaking havoc throughout the course. I reached into my maternal trick bag and pulled out every parenting technique I could think of to settle them down. Finally I resorted to “If you swing that club at your brother’s face one more time, we are leaving.” The threat of missing Bunny Hutch was enough to calm their crazed spirits, at least for a while. But their reluctant submission felt forced and wasn’t at all how I’d wanted the day to go.

Defeated and a bit depressed, I walked the remainder of the course with them as they sunk putts on the 18th stroke and repeatedly swatted their golf balls into the water hole time and time again. I was relieved to learn that the 14th and 15th holes were closed due to wet paint. We skipped to the 16th and then rounded the corner to finish with 17 and 18. When we finally lost our balls in the archaic, wooden, “win a free game,” pinball machine at the end of the course, I was hot, annoyed and more than a little grateful to be finished with the first leg of our field trip.

On our way to BH the kids giggled and skipped merrily. “That was sooooo much fun,” they each shouted. “When can we do that again?” I wondered if they weren’t trying to make some ironic attempt at humor with their gleeful pronouncements. But I realized that they meant it. To them, it was really fun. There were no rules, no scores, no real limitations (beside the whole don’t whack each other in the head thing). I had had a really crappy time. But they, on the other hand, couldn’t have enjoyed themselves more.

I think that’s the hardest thing for me to get as a parent. I can be miserable and in my own head about how things aren’t going the way they’re “supposed’ to go. But in my children’s amazing ability to live in the present, they have no expectations to disappoint. Miniature golfing like insane cartoon characters is a fun way to pass a few hours. That’s all it is. It’s not supposed to be something else or to have a different outcome and they live in that reality.

So I let it go. I found myself amused by the whole experience and told them we’d golf again soon. I even promised that next time, if they wanted, I might even show them how to beat the old pinball contraption to win a free round of golf.