Because We Deserve the Very Breast

I was officially initiated into the club, so the technician told me.

I got my first mammogram this morning.

My husband thinks it sounds like something one would receive upon delivery.  Like a telegram. Or a candygram. Only instead of a land shark at your door, there is a vice grip at your chest.

(did I just date myself with that old SNL reference?)

Actually, the procedure wasn't as terrible or as uncomfortable as I imagined it would be. We're in the digital age now so things move quickly. A few uncomfortable positions in the vice mammography machine, a few snaps of a button, and it's over.

Zim. Zam. Zang.

Easy peasy.

I realize I am a month or so late in encouraging breast health as October was officially breast cancer awareness month, but it took me awhile to get the appointment. That's what happens when your town has half day Kindergarten, leaving you with a small two hour window in which to schedule doctor visits (I'll be seeing the dentist in March).

Long waits or not, if you are at that age or in a risk group or your doctor just wants you to get one for the hell of it, make an appointment.

I swear it was easier than a pap smear.

Screen Time (or How I Became a Hypocrite)

When my oldest was in Kindergarten, I was amazed at how many of his five year old friends were immersed in technology already, and not the good kind. Many had their own DS or other hand held gaming system. Some had a television in their room. Almost all had an Xbox or PlayStation and, more often than not, unlimited screen time.

We, at the time, had nothing but an analog TV tuned to PBS and a Leapster loaded with math games. And, much to my son’s chagrin, a firm hour a day screen time limit. The thought of buying my five year old any kind of video game seemed unfathomable. After all, Kindergartners should be spending their formative years reading! Or playing! Or drawing! But certainly not developing early onset carpel tunnel brought on by overuse of video game buttons.

Oh, my son cried and whined and stomped his feet at the injustice of it all. Why were we the only ones without? He lobbied for a DS on every gift giving holiday. He requested extra chores to earn money to buy his own. When those tactics didn't work, he strategically requested play dates with friends whose homes were limitlessly plugged in. This proved the most successful as I didn’t catch on until he had exceeded his screen time allotment for the next 20 or so years.  

When he was in First Grade, he finally inherited an old Gameboy from his cousin. Although it was considered passé to the under six set, the antiquated graphics kept him satisfied enough. He must have figured that hand-me-down electronics were his only hope to mastering Mario Cart. For months, it was the Gameboy that maxed out his sixty minutes of daily screen time. And for a few years it was his only video game.

Though we have never strayed from our screen time rule, my husband and I have become more lenient when it comes to exposing our kids to entertainment focused technology. We have gradually, maybe even unknowingly at times, updated our unplugged lifestyle. The old analog TV has been replaced with a big flat screen digital one. We got a DVR and OnDemand for the first time. We have acquired a few ipods, and the kids know more about downloading apps than I do. And last year, in a momentary lapse of weakness, Santa delivered a Wii to the house. 

Now my oldest, who spent years pining for video games, is in Third Grade, and my youngest, who has never pined for much of anything, is in Kindergarten. 

Last week they sat down to craft their Christmas lists. The first line item on both lists is a DS - the second and third items are games to go with the DS.  

The Third Grader is ever-hopeful, and The Kindergartner doesn't know any better.

Today we are busy scouting out Cyber Monday deals and will be purchasing not one, but two of these gaming things that I swore I would never buy for a five year old. I would love to say that we arrived at this decision after a lot of careful discussion. But the truth is, we didn't. We simply decided that, at age nine, the Third Grader is old enough for his coveted DS. And it just so happens that his five year old brother is too.

But they still only get an hour a day.

What have you done as a parent that you swore you'd never do?

An Evening of Inspiration. And Wine.

I had the pleasure of attending the Boston Parent Bloggers launch party last week. While mingling and small talking aren't usually my thing (because staying tucked anonymously behind my screen is so much easier), I had a great time. It was a wonderful event filled with talent, ambition and chardonnay. I came home laden not only with loot from various sponsors, but also with copious amounts of inspiration.

Everyone had a tale to tell. Everyone had something to say about the string of events that brought them to be standing in Barefoot Books on a Thursday evening surrounded by a Greater Boston blogging community.  There were photographers and journalists. There were foodies and social media whizzes. There were parents who blog full time and part time, for fun and for business. There were ideas being floated, tried on for size. There were introductions that finally linked faces to blog and twitter names (like her and her. and her).

What surprised me as I walked around the room meeting all these fellow bloggers was that within the getting-to-know-you chatter, there was a common thread. The stories I heard, if I listened closely, were remarkably similar. Oh, of course, everyone, all the amazing women I met, brought their own voice and reason for being there, but there was an underlying theme that seemed to weave everyone together.

It went something like this:

I once was That. 

I started a family.

I morphed into This.

My mind ached. 

I craved connection, creativity, a canvas.

An idea.

I put pen to paper; fingers to keyboard.

My words turned into something. Big. Bigger than imagined.

And here I am.

And here we are.

Mothers.Writers. Bloggers. Entrepreneurs. Community members. 


Thank you Christy and Jodi for bringing us together.

Goodbye Cupcake. Hello Pie.

Everywhere I look I see signs that the cupcake fad is finally fading. I'm glad. I've never been much of a cupcake fan. And the whole thing, the whole sugar-laden cupcake thing, was a little over the top. My God, there were (are!) bakeries devoted entirely to the cupcake.  How is it even possible to turn a profit with such a narrow confectionery niche? Obviously, it's all about marketing.

Like when some overpriced glossy kitchen catalog arrives in your mailbox declaring what is hot and what is not.

Apparently, the cupcake is no longer hot.

Do you know what is piping hot, according to my favorite culinary store?

Pie.

That's right. Pie. And pie is something I can get excited about.

I grew up in a pie-loving household. When Thanksgiving rolled around, it was the buffet of pies, not the stand alone turkey, that was the main event. Dinner was just a pre-game warm up to the dessert table. Turkey, mashed potatoes and green beans? These were merely obligations we had to indulge in, but they were not what we came for. We came for pie.

Pumpkin, apple, pecan, strawberry rhubarb. It didn't matter. They were all good.

It wasn't until I was older, when my sister and brother brought home their significant others for Thanksgiving dinner, that I realized my family was not typical in our pie eating ways. According to the visitors at our table,  our meat-to-pie ratios were faulty. After eyeing the five pound turkey for our family of seven, my brother-in-law, a college football player, wanted to know where the rest of the food was. Turned out, he wasn't all that jazzed about pie.

The secret to a good pie is not the filling, of course, but the flaky crusty goodness on the outside. There are different schools of thought as to what makes the perfect crust. Put simply, it comes down to two competing ingredients: butter and shortening. I'm a shortening, girl, myself. It is the essential piece of the pie puzzle, in my baking experience, to a perfectly flaky crust. Oh, butter has its place, but not in my pie crust.

Truth be told, whether you use butter or shortening doesn't much matter. The thing about pie is that it requires great care and nurture. It is finicky. It demands your attention. You have to read it's mood and adjust your ingredients and skill according to its changing whims. It will turn stubbornly sticky at the slightest hint of a hot, humid day. It will crack and crumble if it's worked too hard. But it will be whatever your hands tell it to be if it's heard. Ice water; added slowly, a spoonful at a time. More shortening, less flour. A pinch of salt. Crisp, morning air. It will let you know what it needs; you have to listen. If you listen, if you take your time, it will reward you with a golden brown crust, and a filling so sweet you'll swear it confesses its love to you the moment it touches your tongue.

A cupcake can't do that. Not even close.


What's on your dessert table this year?

Making Mama Proud

I visited my son's Kindergarten classroom last night. It was one of those Back to School Night Come See All The Things Your Child Has Been Doing kind of nights. Something the teacher does to make the parents happy, I suspect.

One of the things Kindergarten students do these days is journal writing. Yes, they do. During Writer's Workshop. Followed by word problem solving in their math journals and rhyming analysis in their poetry journals. If only there was a shoe tying journal.

The writing prompt we got to see last night was to write about a memorable trip.

There were many enthusiastic entries.

I went to Disney World!

I went to the apple farm!

I went to the ocean!

I went on an airplane!

I went to the emergency room!!


And then there was my kid's:


I went to New Jersey!


That's my boy.

Living Off The Land. Or Not.

The last of the garden haul was harvested this weekend.

I think it's safe to say that we would not survive a New England winter living off our own land.

But we do get more than our daily requirement of beta carotene. So there's that.

Sixteen: It Ain't That Sweet

Last week Twitter was twittering about tweeting your sixteen year old self. Which I did. But I had more than 140 characters worth of wisdom to pass along to my former self. 


Dear Sixteen Year Old Self,

Things get better. They do. You might not believe it right now, but they do.

That senior you want to date because he has a car and can drive you to school? Take. The. Bus. Otherwise, you will spend the next year feeling weak, and the next five repairing yourself.

Believe. In yourself. Your friends. Your family. Your dog. Your English teacher. Just believe.

You are smart. Don't let anyone belittle you or tell you that you Can't.

You Can.

Don't blow too much time trying to figure it all out. You won't. Ever. But I admire your idealistic attitude.

Stop listening to Nebraska on your turntable every morning before school. Your mother is beginning to worry about you.

Spend less time in your room. Those four walls aren't going anywhere, but the people you love might be.

Accept the opportunities that come your way. The ones that scare you the most offer the biggest return (psst, this means not dropping out of Trig your senior year just because you think no one is paying attention).

Don't just read the Cliff Notes.

Smile more. Worry less. Your furrowed brow will catch up with you.

Learn to sew.

Stay connected to your friends. You need them. And they need you.

Breathe. Sometimes you forget to.

You lose your nerve this year. You get it back eventually, but, I'll be honest with you, you have a tough stretch coming up (guess what? you didn't choose The Bus over The Senior).

Use moisturizer, and for God's sake, STOP SITTING IN THE SUN.

I know you won't listen to most of this advice. You will brush it off in your sixteen-year-old way and you'll go on believing that this is as good as it's going to get (you're wrong, by the way). And that's fine. Most of this stuff you'll need to learn as you go. In fact, I wouldn't be able to offer these words to you if you hadn't made the decisions you made.

But there is one thing you need to pay attention to. Listen up. This is, perhaps, the most important advice I can offer: 

When you graduate from college and move to DC, seek out a little company called AOL. Work for them. Ask about stock options. Then cash out before the bubble bursts.

Trust me on that one.


See you in 23 years,

Me.

P.S. Your obsession with Bruce Springsteen? That doesn't go away. But don't worry, he improves with age. Just like you.
(And no, you don't marry him)

Goodbye Jack and Annie

We did it. I didn't think we would, but we did.

We turned the last page of the last Magic Tree House book today. Over the past year, my five year old and I have read the entire series. Start to finish; book one to forty-three. In order, per his insistence. Jack and Annie have taken us from the land of the dinosaurs all the way to the leprechauns of Ireland. We've braved erupting volcanoes, tsunamis and twisters. We've had the pleasure of meeting Leonardo DaVinci, Wolfgang Mozart and Louis Armstrong. In the words of the late, great Jerry (because when is quoting The Grateful Dead ever not appropriate?), what a long, strange trip it's been.

Remarkably, every one of the 43 books has kept the attention of The Five Year Old, though not always mine. After book 12 I found I could easily occupy my mind with other things while mindlessly reciting the words on the pages. I crafted to-do lists, ideas for essays, kitchen designs and what's-for-dinner plans. It was a productive year. So much was accomplished inside my head.  Trippy.

I'm all for reading aloud to children - I had my own story teller when I was his age - but I'm ready to say goodbye to Jack and Annie for awhile. They were an interesting pair, those little time-traveling friends, but it's time to move on.  There is so much more for The Five Year Old to see. Why, he hasn't even met Ramona yet. Or the Boxcar kids. Or Charlotte! He hasn't solved an A-Z mystery or seen Times Square with a cricket.

So much for him to do.

The beautiful part is that soon, very soon - I can feel it, he will be doing it all on his own.  

Leaving me with less thinking time, but him with thousands of new worlds to explore.

And that's pretty magical.


What are you and yours reading?

What Next?

Every weekday morning I walk the dog around our wooded suburban neighborhood, about a mile loop. The streets are quiet at 9am. There is the occasional chipmunk and the yappy terrier in the invisible fenced yard that startle the dog, but mostly it is quiet. Mostly, it is just me, the dog, and the thoughts in my head. 

This walk, which begins as a necessary part of my morning - the dog has to go, after all - turns inwardly, annoyingly reflective about three houses in. The thoughts that usually lie still during the rest of the day tap me on the shoulder and jabber into my ears. Amidst the jumbled jabber, it bubbles to the top, it always does. Clear as the crisp morning sky, it bubbles and asks, What next?.

I don't have an answer. Not yet. Instead, I talk to the dog, even though I know she is more interested in sniffing all the wonderful dog smells her wet little nose can find. I talk anyway. I ask her. I run ideas by her. She is my silent, steady sounding board. She doesn't judge. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, she chases a squirrel and the question is momentarily lost.

I'm in an in-between kind of place right now. My kids are getting older, more self-sufficient. My baby is in kindergarten, my oldest in third grade. There are quiet moments throughout the day for the first time in a long time. The eight year old can bury himself in a book while the five year old loses himself in intricate Lego building. These are times when I wonder what did I do before I became a mother? It seems an eternity ago.

They still need me, of course. I am sure of that. Perhaps in a different way than before, but, still, I am needed as every mother is. I taxi them to soccer and karate and music and playdates. I pack their school lunches and supervise homework. I advise and scold and hug. I am the face they feel safe enough to cry in front of after a tough school day. I am it.

And yet.

I am restless.

I am restless and wistful and ready at the same time.

What next?

It seems, all my life, I have been asked the same question.

At every unsettled turning point the question presents itself, whether I want it to or not. It's there. Tapping me on the shoulder. Jabbering in my ear. Bubbling to the top.

What next?

The answer comes, eventually.

From somewhere, it always comes.

A few more walks around the block with the dog and maybe it will come.

Ticks Don't Eat Salad Dressing

By far, the most common search phrase that brings visitors to my blog is something along the lines of: when is tick season in new england?

Which lands them on this post, which, oddly, is the second link that comes up on the 'New England tick' google search.

Apparently, there are a lot of folks with a lot of ticks in their Northeastern backyards.

I feel kind of bad because the post I wrote gives no useful information whatsoever. If I were searching for tick advice and clicked on my blog post, well, I'd be disappointed. At best, it is blog drivel drizzled with sarcasm that describes what happened when I flicked a tick off my leg and into my living room, and how I learned that it could possibly live for up to 200 days crawling around my house without a blood meal. Gross, yes. Useful? Not really.

So, in an attempt to provide practical information for all the 'New England tick' searchers that end up here, I have a natural repellent that works (I swear).

TICK REPELLENT (can also be served chilled over salad greens)

Fill a spray bottle with

1 Cup water
2 Cups vinegar
1 TBL. vegetable oil
a few drops of peppermint extract or essential oil

You, your kids and your pets will smell like salad dressing, but I'd rather smell like marinade than have eight legged parasites clinging to my legs.

Yes, you could also use a DEET filled insect repellent (and, truthfully, DEET would be more effective if you were planning a long trek into the deep, dark woods), but I'm not a fan of spraying myself or my kids or my dog with toxins for a quick jaunt to the backyard swing set.

Of course, now that we got our first real frost, the ticks should be hibernating until spring.