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 I thought my husband would be off work this morning when I originally made the appointment.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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No news would be good news!

The news is so terrible these days. Kidnapping in Cleveland. Bombing in Boston. Murder in Mesa. I can’t take anymore. I feel like I’m living under a fog of darkness. Somebody, please bring me a bouquet of sunflowers and some stevia lemonade to brighten my day. And how exactly are we supposed to talk to our kids about this stuff?

Look, I know that some people say there really isn’t more bad stuff happening today than in decades past. It’s just the media mayhem that magnifies everything. But I’m sorry, I don’t remember all this crazy shit happening when I was a kid. Did I just not know about it? Really? How can that be? My kids, and my youngest is 9, hear all the gruesome details about almost every tantalizing media-hyped tale that circulates. Was it different in the 70s and 80s? I do kind of remember tuning out totally in the 90s. It was a very hip, boho way to go for an actor in Chi town. “The news is so negative,” I would lament in what was probably Chicago’s version of a valley girl twang. “I just choose not to allow those thoughts into my psyche.” Dear Lord, how many things from our past come back to embarrass the hell out of us. At least I never got a tattoo. (JK. I know they’re totally mainstream nowadays.)

But I cringe when I read the story about those three girls locked up for a decade. Nobody knew. This Castro guy was a fine, upstanding neighborhood fellow. The youngest girl was his daughter’s best friend. How are we parents supposed to combat that kind of evil? That is definitely the most horrifying part of this ordeal. That some sick, twisted bastard who holds an ordinary job and hangs out with people on a regular basis could manage to hide three girls and a baby without anyone ever suspecting anything. And who can you trust? Pedophiles lurk everywhere. I want to stop trusting everyone I know and everyone I meet. I mean, why has it taken me 12 years to meet anyone in my neighborhood? Hmmm??? Maybe because they’re all hiding something and don’t want to interact with me which might tip me off to the captive whatevers locked in their basements.

I tell my kids not to go in a car with anyone they don’t know. But I wouldn’t think to tell them to avoid their best bud’s daddy. For crying out loud. How can we keep kids safe? They can be “stranger danger” savvy and still end up missing for 10 years because some disgusting cretan, who masquerades as a normal, upstanding member of the community, abducts them on the way to the playground or coming home from the bus stop. I really can’t take this.

We need to hold fast to our children. Unthinkable evil exists and it could happen to anyone at any moment. I think I might be having a panic attack. Does anyone know if the odds of having your offspring abducted is better or worse than winning the lottery?

Lockdown

My 12 year old son, Levi, has anxiety issues. This isn’t a secret. So to those of you who might suggest that I’m exposing some kind of family skeleton, I want you to know that I always check with my family first before airing our dirty laundry in public. As long as they’re okay with it, I figure it’s fair game for public consumption.

That being said, the other day at school his math teacher sent him to his homeroom classroom to make copies for her during class. He happily complied and set off to do so. Apparently, only seconds after leaving the classroom, word got out about a ponytailed, pistol carrying stranger at a school a few blocks away. Our school went into immediate lockdown. I’m not talking “drill.” I’m talking serious, “we’re in a different kind of world after Newtown” lock down. So while Levi haplessly skipped across campus, everyone else bolted their doors, pinned up paper to cover the windows and huddled in bathrooms, closets and corners.

Levi thought it was more than strange when the door to his classroom was locked. Even more odd were the darkened windows that left no view to the inside of the room. He looked around and noted that no one else was anywhere within sight. Hmmm? He remained calm and clear-headed though and knocked softly on the door. Luckily, his teacher slyly squinted through a side gap in the papered window. Then, like an episode of “The Munsters,” the classroom door opened a crack and a hand emerged, grabbed my son, and dragged him into the room. It wasn’t until after he was safe that he felt the anxiety of the situation catching up to him. But to his amazing credit, he held it together and was able to talk himself down and maintain control of his emotions.

Maybe there’s something wrong with me. But I find the irony of this inane confluence of events staggeringly comical. I mean how is it possible that my kid, the one with severe anxiety issues, ends up on the wrong side of a lock-down, only days after the most gut-wrenching massacre in our nation’s history? I guess it’s okay to find humor in the irony since no one was hurt and nothing bad really transpired. I can’t even contemplate the real devastation that could have occurred had a copy-cat ventured onto ours or a nearby campus. Maybe the humor is simply survivor’s guilt or some kind of defense mechanism to protect myself from the overwhelming pain etched into our souls by last week’s horrific destruction.

Sometimes it’s just too painful to contemplate the very real risks we endure every day as we try to live our lives, watch over our families, and protect our precious children. And so to all who suffered a loss in Connecticut, our hearts ache over your pain. The nation grieves along with you and sends love, strength and healing to you.

May you all be blessed with a sense of peace and may God bring comfort to those in mourning who must now learn to accept the unfairness of life as they struggle to live without the earthly presence of someone so deeply cherished.

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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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Fried at “Fry’s”

Yesterday my eldest son, Levi, got electrocuted at

No, I don't want FRYs with that!

“Fry’s” Electronics. The irony of that is not wasted on me. It was truly a horrifying event. We sat down in these massage chairs and when they weren’t working, Levi went to check and see if they were plugged in. When he picked up the cord it exploded into flames, knocked him back about three feet and singed his hand badly. It was terrifying. He then became completely hysterical and I tried to comfort him while also barking out orders to nearby nitwit employees who just stood there staring at me.

He is fine, albeit a bit fearful of anything electronic. But the fact remains that this could have been a grave, irreparable tragedy. That’s the part I can’t get beyond. I’m haunted by the “what ifs.” What if the current had been stronger? What if the explosion had caught fire and spread. What if something truly terrible had happened to my son?

It’s funny. When bad things happen, I almost always realize how lucky I am. It’s that Jewish “imagine the worst” thing that guides my thoughts towards the worst possible scenario. Then I’m deeply grateful for whatever minor event has befallen me. But I can’t forget how quickly life can turn — forever. It can leave you shattered, alone, sick, lost, afraid; for no other reason than random chance, and there’s simply nothing you can do to control it.

I stood right next to my son as he innocently picked up a cord, an ordinary event that had an unexpected, extraordinary outcome. A friend of mine told me how her toddler daughter had fallen and broken her arm, twice, as she walked helplessly alongside. I remember countless times when minor accidents occurred under my watch and only through luck and good fortune amounted to only a few cuts and bruises.

It’s all very frightening. I want this realization to make me live more fully, embrace every moment, appreciate all that I have. Instead it makes me want to slip under the covers, barricade my front door, and turn out all the lights in the house like my lame neighbors on Halloween night. I want to keep my family safe, my boys alive and unscathed by life’s darts and daggers.

Today my car was broken into. The window was shattered and an expensive item was stolen. My first reaction? Relief. Thank God no one was in the car. Thank God my husband and kids were safe. Thank God no one was hurt. But maybe I’m too passive. Maybe I ought to be more proactive, see potential bad things around the corners before they appear. Maybe my “thank god it wasn’t worse” attitude is really just a manifestation of fear, helplessness and the reality of how truly ineffective I am in life.

Help, I think I’ve fallen into a philosophical minefield and I can’t get up.

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Glowing up

Halloween. My kids, who have never enjoyed a really great All Hallow’s Eve because we live in the lamest neighborhood in the universe, full of snow birds, snobs and seniors, are finally experiencing the holiday as it’s meant to be. They’re racing through my best friend’s neighborhood, lit only by the neon glow sticks she gave them when we left her house. Hundreds of costumed kids line the streets. There are parties, haunted houses, and mounds of candy everywhere. They’re having a ball.

Around 8pm I look over at my 9-year-old son, Levi, and notice something odd on his costume. There are little glowing spots of light running down the front of his clown suit. I’m slightly mesmerized by them, wondering what they could be. Suddenly, I look up and see that he’s like frothing at the mouth and more glowing liquid is dripping from his lips. “Oh my God,” I scream. “What’s wrong with you?” I grab him and pull him towards me. All he can say is “Something tastes bad,” and he continues to spit the incandescent fluid out of his mouth. I scream for my husband, the pediatrician. “Something’s wrong with Levi,” I cry. “Do something!”

Mark runs over to our son, grabs him, and tries to make sense out of the situation. He’s not getting very far when my friend’s husband says, “He was chewing on that glow stick, you know.” Suddenly, it all makes sense. My child is ingesting some kind of radioactive phenol and I’m certain he’s not long for this world. I begin to hyperventilate (OK, I’m not really good in a crisis). Levi’s still spitting and Mark is efficiently rinsing out his mouth with a bottle of Aquafina.

Halloween pre glow stick ingestion

After a few minutes, it appears that Levi hasn’t actually swallowed any of the poisonous substance. I begin to breathe again. There’s no point in telling him not to ever chew on anything, ever again. I’ve been saying that since he was 2 years old. I guess maybe the scare from my terror-filled reaction might dissuade his next potential chewing disaster. But, you never really know. I also thought that throwing away his ipod shuffle might teach him to be more responsible with his toys. So far that hasn’t worked either.