Being PC is SO 1999

The Four Year Old is studying Thanksgiving this week at preschool. In which studying at preschool means crafts and some picture books.

Last night he paraded around the house in his feathered headband and beaded deerskin bag replica.

The Husband looked at him, smiled, and said, "Did you learn about Native Americans today?"

The Four Year Old, in his best you're-so-dumb-Dad voice, replied, "NO. We learned about INDIANS."

(duh)

So much for being politically correct.

Happy Tofurkey Day everyone!

Walking Through Purgatory

I'm over at the newly refurbished New England Mamas site today. Join me on my walk through purgatory.

Go ahead. Click on ovah.

You know you want to.

Birthday Strategery

The Second Grader is turning 8 in a few weeks.

I thought he was convinced that he is too old for the invite-the-whole-class-big-party ordeal this year.

After last year's party, and the torturous thank you note hand cramping that followed, he announced that for his next birthday he just wanted three "close friends" over for pizza and a movie.

SweetJesusHallelujah

Finally, I thought, the days of outsourced parties are over.

My little man is all growed up and understands the value of a small, intimate gathering to bring in his eighth year of life.

So proud of him.

I stupidly thought I was off the hook this year.

Never underestimate the power of peer pressure. And the lure of birthday party loot.

Never.

Last weekend he went to a friend's party. Fifteen kids. Huge indoor sports fields. Even a Second Grade brawl thrown in for high excitement.

And? There was a mountain of beautifully gift-wrapped and birthday-bagged bounty.

I could see his eyes gleaming and his gears churning as he entered the white-walled 'party room' and saw, shining before him like a beacon of glittery hope, the birthday boy's pile of presents.

You see, The Second Grader desperately wants a nerf gun. And he knows the odds of getting one from his parents are pretty low. Therefore, his best chance of securing the must-have 35 nerf ammo assault weapon is to have an invite-the-whole-class birthday party. Where, if he plays his cards right, at least one eight year old on the invite list will convince his parents to buy the kid his gun.

That night at the dinner table The Second Grader looked at me and said, "You know what, Mama (because even though he's old enough to target practice with nerf guns, he still calls me 'mama')? I think I want to invite A LOT of kids to my birthday party."

Smart, smart boy.

So here I sit this morning googling 'local bowling alleys' in preparation for another (the LAST, I swear) outsourced birthday extravaganza for The Second Grader.

Because once he sits down to write all those thank you notes, I know he'll be all I just want a few friends next year...

until he wants another boy toy his parents won't buy for him.

Better Than Botox?

When I saw some of my old high school friends last weekend at the wedding reception, I was amazed at how great everyone looked. In fact, everyone looked EXACTLY THE SAME. It was oddly comforting, in a time-warpy kind of way, to find everyone unscathed by the passage of time.

Yet, when I showed some of the pictures from that night to my mother she gasped (sort of) and remarked at how OLD one or two of them looked.

"WOW, he's aged!" she said.

Really?

I looked at the picture again.

"No, Mom, he looks EXACTLY the same. Don't you see it?" I asked her.

"Well, he definitely looks his age," she muttered.

Huh.

I could have sworn we all looked just as we did in 1989.

Well, yes, now that I take a closer look, I guess there are a few grays. Maybe a splattering of fine lines and furrowed brows. Perhaps a few more pounds and, in some cases, a little less hair.

But other than that! We all look EXACTLY THE SAME.

Until the details of aging were pointed out to me, I hadn't noticed them.

What did I see last weekend when I looked at these faces from the past? I saw late night car rides in a '78 VW through a one traffic light town. I saw the orange booth in the back of Pizza King, the friend of a friend's shore house after prom night and the diner at 2 in the morning on Route 23. I saw algebra problems on the chalkboard, Bye Bye Birdie on the stage, and french fries and sprite on the cafeteria tray. I saw people coming and going, red wine* on a white carpet, and the few who helped steam-clean it away the next day. I heard The Violent Femmes, The Smiths and a faint echo of Huey Lewis. And The News.

I did not hear the passage of time. I did not notice wrinkles or thicker middles. I did not see slumped shoulders weighed down by mortgages, careers and child care responsibilities. I definitely did not see 20 years go by.

Why was I unable to see the details that were so clearly there that night? Instead, I saw only what was filed away in the dusty roladex of my memory. I hadn't taken their images out of storage for so long that they had remained unchanged in my mind.

A whole new time-warpy reality.

Of course, it's also possible that I made one too many trips to the open bar that night and can chock up these fuzzy images to good old fashioned college-style beer wine-goggling. Or that even our Passat wagon turned all Back To The Future on us, tangled up the Born In The USA cassette on the tape deck, and crashed us head on into the late 80s.

But that one doesn't seem so plausible when I say it out loud.

Maybe all of this distortion is another reason to hold onto people from our youth. Not only are they links to our past, but they are among the few people in our lives who have the ability to gloss over any damage the years have done to us, and are capable of seeing only our younger selves.

So even if I don't always like the reflection I see in the bathroom mirror, I suppose it's nice to think that there may be a more flattering, airbrushed image of myself in the memory of the kid I sat next to in homeroom.

I guess it beats Botox injections.






*Really? We were drinking red wine then? Maybe it was a very berry wine cooler.

Going Home Again

The journey back in time was a success.

It's difficult to explain the many emotions one experiences when faced with a trip down awkward teenage year lane.

But I did it.

And, miraculously, everyone stayed healthy so I didn't have to face 1990 by myself.

I hadn't been back to the small town I grew up in for about 15 years. My parents moved from my childhood home the week after I graduated from college leaving me with no place to live.

I should probably backtrack and tell you that my four years of high school weren't your typical football-games-rah-rah-sis-boom-bah and all that jazz.

It was more like The Breakfast Club on downers.

The stories aren't all mine to tell, but let's just say the school psychologist earned his salary from 1986 to 1990.

So, yeah, I was a little nervous revisiting my hometown roots.

But I left my 16-year-old insecurities at the door, put on my big-girl little black dress and crossed the river to the Jersey side.

After fidgeting sitting through an hour long Catholic ceremony (have I mentioned I'm not much a church-goer?), we made our way out of the church and into the reception line.

And when I saw my friend from 20 years ago? We instinctively grabbed each other and let the tears flow.

"You made her CRY!" her new husband said to me.

My friend and I wiped our tears as I said, "We have some history together".

Our eyes still locked, she nodded, "Yeah, we have some history."



Two hours and a detour through my old neighborhood later, we arrived at the reception.

Here's where it got tricky. Because inside that country club banquet room was where I would come face to face with a few home town peeps. Where the odds of regressing to the age of 16 were pretty high.

First there was the obligatory small talk.

Then there was the ice fountain of vodka.

Then there was the chardonnay.

And then I found myself on the dance floor, happy to be back in Jersey where wedding receptions include Bruce and a whole lot of Grateful Dead.



And for a few hours, as I looked at the people around me, I felt like I was home. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I don't think that we ever have friends like the ones we grow up with.

Our childhood friends authenticate our past for us. They share our history. They are irreplaceable.



And after a few more glasses of wine, I was triple-fisting it with the bride after hours.



Miss you already, my friend.

Weddings, Mucus and Water Boarding

It's been eerily quiet on these pages, I know.

I've been so busy slathering my children in hand sanitizer this week that there's been little time for anything else.

Other than their daily lysol wipe downs, that is. Oh, and trying to keep them in those handy dandy automated sanitizing isolation bubbles I invented for them (told you I've been busy).

You see, in three days we will be road tripping to the tri-state area. New York, New Jersey, the city that never sleeps, blah blah blah.

Historically, when a trip to New York is planned, one or both of my children will spontaneously vomit and/or heat up to a toasty 102 degrees.

Normally, I wouldn't care so much because canceling a trip to the in-laws is hardly a tragedy. But this time, this time, we are dropping the kids off and The Husband and I are continuing on to my home town roots to attend a wedding of a high school friend.

The anxiety that comes with the thought of interacting with fellow high schoolers after more than 20 years deserves its own post, so I'll skip over that little morsel of fun.

The important thing here is that I am trying desperately to keep this family healthy for the next three days because no amount of vodka will make facing a banquet hall of high school peeps by myself seem like a good idea.

I would keep the kids home from school this week if I could, but I'm guessing the school district would frown upon a week of tv watching homeschooling.

So, The Four Year Old and The Second Grader are getting double doses of vitamins and enough hand washing to jump start an early onset of OCD.

But for me? For my health maintenance, I bring out the big guns.

Well, more like the hand crafted, nasal irrigation guns.




My beloved neti pot.

While some people may compare the process of pouring warm salt water up your nose to water boarding, I find it to be kind of like a medieval spa treatment.

And you know what they say, a nasal irrigation a day keeps the germs away.

It's pretty simple to use, actually. You fill your cute little neti pot with about a half cup of warm water mixed with about a 1/2-1 teaspoon non iodized salt. Tilting your head over a sink, you slowly pour the water in through one nostril until it comes dripping out the other nostril.

Fun, right?

I purchased my neti pot a few years ago when I was having some pretty extreme sinus pain. Because I avoid doctors whenever possible, the thought of filling my nose with water seemed like a much more sensible solution than, say, consulting a professional.

And it worked! I was pain free within hours of my first self-prescribed treatment. I had a feeling it would work because Dr. Oz said it would when he was on Oprah, so, see?, I don't completely disregard the advice of health care workers. He's a doctor AND he plays one on tv. The best of both worlds.

A few nights ago, I finally convinced The Husband to give it a whirl. Skeptical, but always willing to prove me wrong try new things, he did his part and stepped up to the kitchen sink. Unfortunately, his nose requires a more powerful tool than the ceramic neti pot, which operates on the assumption that what goes up (or in) must come down (or out). He may be better off consulting a surgeon.

So now you know what I've been up to this week. Creating a clean-house is no easy task. But between obsessive hand washing, family hazmat suits and nightly mucus cleansing, we are the poster family for good health.

At least for another three days.