Madonna Lives

Last night, on the way to our friend's house for dinner, Madonna's old song Holiday, came on the radio. As I warbled the song from my own days as an angst-ridden teenager, Chloe looked over at me.

"Mom? Is that Madonna singing?"

"Yep! She was even cool when your old mom was about your age."

*pause*

"Is she dead?"

The Light at the end of the Tunnel - our Future or Just a Hoax?

One of the things that gets me through the day sometimes, I mean really and truly keeps me sane are the conversations I have with my girfriends.

Without other mothers to understand, women who don't think a moment of the shrieking sounds eminating from the toddler glued to your leg, or the caucophony of noise that makes up any background ambience when talking during the after school hours, I would lose it.

These women show me that I am not alone, that I am doing a fine job- - in fact their son/daughter also ate/cooked/lost/glued the family dog/sibling/homework/boyfriend and now their son/daughter is going to a great college and goes to church regularly. And that the police investigation/medical procedure/academic transcript really hasn't affected who they are all these years later. My friends are there where I have already walked, some are ahead of me on the parenting path, and all of them are part of a mutual sounding board that prevents me and them from running away/faking our death/selling a child on eBay at any
given time.

One friend in particular shares a fantasy with me. We daydream about the day when our last child is out of the house, graduated from college, and safely ensconsed in some semblance of career/nurturing relationship. We figure we'll be somewhere in our early to mid seventies.

Then, then the fun begins. This is when we both plan on taking up smoking, tanning, and drinking (more than we already do). My personal goal is to wear nothing but a turquoise bathing suit, carry a cigarette holder and a flask, and park it on some jeweled beach. Screw the consequences. How long does liver disease/lung cancer take anyway?

But then a terrible and dark thought entered our conversation the other day. Something I can't shake. Like a bad dream, my friend (okay, it was Sarah) said to me, "What if one of them has a baby and gives it to us like a puppy to raise while they finish school or growing up or whatever? We'll be eating our senior discount dinners, talking on the phone, and we'll still be saying things like, 'hold on - I have to change a diaper here.'"

I am currently working on my invention, Ortho-Novum Frosted Flakes. I am recommending that we make them a mandatory part of any child's breakfast (even the boys - it may quell some urges).

WWKD Part II

Welcome to the long-awaited (by my cousin and my best friend. Or at least my best friend) second chapter in my not-so on-going series, What Would Kelly Do?

Kelly Rippa kills me with her ability to keep herself so beautiful, work more than a full-time job, maintain a long-term marriage in a profession where two years is the "new" Golden Anniversary, and do all of this while a mother to three young kids. Amazing, ladies and gentleman (or do I have two male readers?) So when I am in times of crisis, I have to ask myself What Would Kelly Do?

Recently I received an email from one of my few single friends. She's independent, educated, beautiful, and struck out away from friends and family to pursue the career of her dreams. She's my hero. As she described to me the latest in her on-again off-again saga with a man she dates, she asked me, "Should women be the ones to call the guys?"

My dear friend. Reader and cousin: In this, the two-thousandth and eighth year after our lord's death, I tell you nay.

After all, What Would Kelly Do? For those of you who follow her host chat, as I did faithfully until my fourth child was born and then parenting events prevented me from my morning cup of coffee and Rippa, I hung on her every word.

Kelly has never, ever EVER called a man. Gird your loins, because I am about to tell you she hasn't even ever returned a telephone call to her own husband. Now that's playing hard to get. Apparently, this drives her husband nuts, but she maintains her truth and authenticity and only phones her estrogen laden comrades. The men have to be the ones to reach her.

Genius.

Yesterday, while driving my kids home from school, the five of us packed like sardines in my battered Volvo, I drove over a pothole. A big one, probably caused by yet another snow plow.

As my tire popped and the car tilted to the right, my rim dangerously close to warping as I considered my options, I thought, What Would Kelly Do?

I can tell you that Kelly wouldn't drive on the rim of her flat tire to the hospital where her husband works and march upstairs to her husband's office, runny-nosed kids in tow, rumpled workout clothes steaming with post-elliptical sweat while the coiffed secretaries that guard the offices of said spouse shined in their non-snotty, non-sweaty Jones New York work ensembles.

So I heeded the voice of my inner Kelly, and instead prepared to pull over into the nearest parking lot to collect myself in a way that would make Regis proud.

As I neared the strip mall where I intended to pull in, I saw to my great horror a group of white men picketing our local Planned Parenthood. On their enormous signs were technicolor pictures of things that made my children gasp and ask me what on earth happened to those babies?

Dear reader, regardless of your position on this delicate and divisive subject, surely you can agree that children shouldn't be subjected to such horrific images?

So as my car careened to the right on my flat tire, I reached over and rolled down the window next to my daughter, who slumped down in horror as she realized what I was about to do.

Pulling up to these people WITHOUT A UTERUS OF THEIR OWN I laid my hand on the horn of my trusty mom-car and drove dangerously close to the protesters. Narrowly missing the bank of snow on the curb, road slush lapping at my Hilary for President bumper sticker, I screamed out the window, "Noooo! Boo to you! Thumbs DOWN gentlemen!" And then I drove a bit more and parked my car in the nearest grocery lot and waited to be saved by a man.

What Would Kelly Do?

Probably not that.

A Good Neighbor - Worth His Weight in Expensive Beer

Yet again we've been dumped on with more snow. One of our cars has told us by screeching its pretty little wheels that it will not leave our driveway in its current, unplowed condition.

If we had a regular driveway, my guess is a quick forty minutes with a snow shovel and we'd settle the score with our reluctant car.

But our driveway is U-shaped, and then takes a long L to the back of the house. It would take a while to shovel it all by hand. Like sixty-four years.

So imagine my delight, my sublime happiness when I heard a buzzing noise this afternoon.

I walked out to the back gate to investigate (yes, we still have some straggling wreaths around the property). Much to my surprise was a jolly not-so-old man on his John Deere! My awesome friend, Pam, married a swell guy with yard equipment.




And he came over all on his own to plow our driveway.

No one asked him.

As you can see, Jacob took an interest right away. I was standing in the 25 degree weather, Jack on my hip, shooting pictures, and screaming, "Whooo Hooo, Steve! Yay!" Like the laid-back, understated gal that I am.After a bit when I was done embarassing myself taking pictures, I called Pam and gushed my thanks. Now we can drive into town tomorrow. Things like this make my day.

The Teacher is Coming! The Teacher is Coming!

My son's kindergarten teacher is coming to the house for dinner tomorrow night. It is an expected thing with Waldorf, that the younger grades host their teachers in the home.

I suppose this makes for a greater learning environment, when the teacher can truly educate the "whole child" which is the Waldorf way, to include knowing who this child comes from and what kind of home environment is shaping the little one.

To me, it means I need to clean the hell out of my house. NOW. All four kids are home due to snow (again!!) and if you could see my house right now - oy. Cleaning any big old house can be a challenge. But when you have four kids and a huge dog tracking in snow, leaving things everywhere, and the ubiquitous trail of wrappers, toys and hair in their wake - it's next to impossible.

I can count the times every single room in my house was clean at the same time on one hand. Typically, there are at least one or two shameful rooms (like one of the bathrooms used exclusively by preteens) present, even when the rest of the house looks great.

Will she want a tour? Will she judge me based on my functional furniture? How to explain to the woman that my children have used couches as their own personal Kleenex - and thus my decision to go leather in every room. A lot of animals sacrificed their skins so I could wipe off body fluids with ease, you know?

What do I cook? I want to cook something that says This is a nurturing, warm home and even though this dish is sublime, she didn't try too hard. You have no need to rifle through her medicine cabinets.

I plan on serving wine, since I know from other parents that this is okay. And I know on one level that I should take a chill pill.

But come on. She's human. And if she's anything at all like me, even a smidgen, she's consumed with curiosity. I know I would be - I love seeing what kinds of houses people live in. What they fill their 'fridge with, what kind of soap they use, what their kitchen looks like. Especially the kitchen - it is the heart of the home in my opinion. I used to run at night when we lived on Air Bases (you can actually do that, since the odds of getting mugged are like zero) and I loved running past homes where they had yet to close the curtains. I suppose I'm a bit of a voyeur.

Also, Waldorf is very very anti-commercial messages. Students cannot advertise anything on their clothing, including logos, and television is eschewed as a general policy.

We respect the policy while on school grounds, but if she wants to see Jacob's room (and you know she will) she is unwittingly going to set foot on the Death Star. His room is so saturated with all things Star Wars that if there was a way to make the toilet sound like Jabba the Hut when it flushed - we'd have it. Then again - maybe she doesn't know what Star Wars is. Maybe we can just mask it as a high level of interest in astronomy.

You never know - when I told one of the moms at school that I was writing for Nickelodeon she looked at me blankly and asked, "What's that? Is it a magazine?" Seriously, she hadn't even heard of Sponge Bob.

So I'm off. I will be cleaning and planning today. And food suggestions would be wonderful.

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In Praise of Shoes that are not Sensible

Last night I wore a pair of heels to my book club. After a great meeting, we all went outside to get in our cars and drive home.

Our hostess last night lives in a beautiful house in the woods down a long sloped drive. There was a lot of snow, none of which had been tamped down or plowed.

So when one of our girlfriends with front wheel drive got stuck, we all jumped out and pushed her. Were my feet red and freezing? Yes.

Did the heels of my shoes act like ice picks and give me adequate purchase in the snow to help push the car?

Hell yes.