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I’m sorry.

This time of year always gets me thinking about poor decisions I’ve made and how they affect the people around me.  That’s no coincidence – as a Jew, I observe the holiday of Yom Kippur – the day of atonement, where we don’t eat all day, and apologize for our sins.  And I say “observe” rather than ‘celebrate,” because even though it’s technically called a “holiday,” to the outsider, it doesn’t even come close to resembling what they’d consider a holiday.  That is, of course, until the sun goes down and we celebrate not losing consciousness all day by stuffing ourselves full of bagels and lox.

Bagel

Bagel (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But I digress.

While some of my fellow Jews are posting blanket apologies on Facebook to those they’ve offended this year, I’d like to be a little more specific about things I’ve done this year that might require an apology:

To my sons: I’m sorry for sending you to school with a sandwich made with deli turkey that only smelled questionable when I made a sandwich for myself hours after you’d already happily gone off to school with yours, which I’d made the night before.

To a random person living somewhere near me:  I’m sorry I left dog poop on your lawn.  I turned my head for a SPLIT second while my dog was pooping, and you see, she weighs only 10 pounds, so her poop isn’t always visible to the naked eye.  Plus she makes a run for it as soon as she’s done.  In my defense, I did search for a good five minutes before giving up.  But I’m still sorry.

To my son’s 7th grade teachers: I’m sorry he’s used all of your tissues (which I know you bring in yourself) this week.  He has a cold, and I sent him in with a pack of his OWN tissues, which he brings home every day.  I guess it’s cooler to blow his nose in the front of the classroom than to pull one tissue out of the dainty little pack with flowers on it.

To my dog: I’m sorry for making you wear a Halloween costume.

To my husband: I’m sorry for insisting that I need to watch the end of a “cliffhanger” episode of Honey Boo-Boo when the Knicks are playing.

I’m hoping for a better year ahead.  Wishing you all the same.

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Finally!

We’ve belonged to our town pool for about 10 years.  We got a membership when Matthew was a toddler, and have renewed it every year, sometimes just because if you let your membership lapse, you’re required to get into a line at some ungodly hour of the morning on a day in April, without any guarantee that there will even be space available.

And after all these years, I realized today, that it took THIS long for the pool membership to pay off in terms of having any relaxation benefits for me.  With my kids at 8 and 12, they now have both the maturity and swim skills that I can turn my head and have a conversation for a few minutes without fearing that they will drown, or being distracted by “Mommy? Look at this! Mommy?! I have to go to the bathroom! I’m hungry! I’m cold!”  Now they can take themselves to the bathroom, let me know when their lips start turning blue, and saying no to the snack bar no longer puts me on the business end of an embarrassing tantrum.

pool

I put in a lot of years in the pool’s kiddie section (or what we all now call the pee-pee pool), praying that my kid would never be the one who shut it down by taking a dump in a foot of overchlorinated water.  I’ve scooped other people’s kids out of the water, pulled floating Hello Kitty bandaids out of my kids’ plastic buckets, and spent hours worrying that my kids would come down with some vile disease by swallowing pool water.

I now have two kids who can swim.  Lots of their friends belong to the pool, so if they haven’t brought a friend with them, there’s a good chance they’re going to find someone to hang out with.

Now if only there was someone to bring me a nice cocktail.

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Just let it go.

Last night, we took the boys and some friends to a professional soccer game.  There was lots of traffic trying to park, so Dave dropped me with all the boys by the stadium  and went to park the car (MY car, incidentally, which is larger than his, and takes some getting used to).  We went into the game, and shortly after that, Dave called to tell me he’d backed into a spot in the garage, and in the process, hit a concrete panel that was sticking out, and shattered the back windshield.

It was an accident.  I get it – accidents happen, and as long as I knew Dave was okay, and he’d had a garage employee help him put some plastic over the back and fill out some paperwork, it wasn’t that big a deal.

To me, anyway.

Dave met us in the stadium.  We looked on our phones and made an appointment to have someone meet me with the car and fix the windshield this week.  So, the broken windshield was covered, and we’d made arrangements to have it fixed.  Problem solved.

To me, anyway.

I’m going to chalk up what happened next to the difference in our gender.  Or the fact that Dave is the one who shattered the windshield and felt like he needed to do something about it.

He continued to hem and haw to figure out what we should do, which to me seemed silly to me, because as far as I was concerned, we HAD done what we should do.   Dave tried to figure out how we could cover up the windshield better (which, okay, is probably a good idea, since it might rain later).  Made sure I’d gotten the model year of my car correct (um, yup).  Called the windshield repair company back to confirm.  Thinks that maybe we should back my car into our garage tonight, in case it rains.  Which could be a good idea, except that we have a one-car garage that its overrun with about a thousand basketballs, bikes, and other miscellaneous outside crap.  So we’d have to leave the garage open, and I think there’s a fair chance we could do some more damage to the car trying to back it into a 1950s garage that wasn’t really designed for a 2000s SUV.  And this morning, I awoke to a plethora of notes about what we need to do.

Automobile windshield displaying "spiderw...

Automobile windshield displaying “spiderweb” cracking typical of laminated safety glass. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I guess what I’m really trying to do here is to get Dave to just put this aside and enjoy the rest of what this summer, seems like one in a series of very short weekends.  I’m ready to move on, knowing that we’ve taken steps to fix the problem.  So, I’ll get back to you, friends …. not sure if today will be a relaxing summer Sunday, or a day to fix a problem that in my mind is on its way to being fixed.  But at the end of the day, I’ll still be glad to have spent the day with my problem-fixing husband.

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It’s our little secret.

I just mowed the lawn.  Don’t tell anyone.

Not only do I not mind mowing the lawn, but I kind of like it.  Our lawn takes about 45 minutes, so it’s kind of a workout.  I work up a little sweat, get to be outside, and when I’m done, I am pretty pleased with myself.  I find the neat green rows to be very satisfying.

I don’t usually mow our lawn.  Dave does, but he’s out of town.  He tells me it’s for work, but he’s in Lake Tahoe over a weekend, so I’m just a little skeptical.

Lawn

Lawn (Photo credit: Moyan_Brenn)

And today, the lawn mower ran out of gas, and we didn’t have any left in the gas can.  I did play the girl card a little bit at the gas station when I asked for help filling it up (but keep in mind, we live in New Jersey, where we have good pizza but the law says we can’t touch the gas pump).

There was something empowering about doing something I don’t usually do and that’s often stereotypically reserved for men to handle.

But on the other hand, I feel a little weird about it, because we live in a town where a good percentage of the residents hire a landscaper to mow their lawns.  We don’t, because it’s a task Dave kind of enjoys.  But sadly, I often wonder if people judge us for mowing our own lawn.

I realize how ridiculous that sounds. I wish I didn’t feel that way, and I like to chalk it up to whatever small scraps of adolescent insecurity remain in my more or less fully-developed adult self.  I think that most of us have certain things that we still worry that people are judging us for, whether that be our intelligence, our looks, or the choices we make.

As we get older, I think a lot of that stuff fades, and we realize that if who we are is okay with us, then it’ll be okay for the people who matter, and anyone who doesn’t like us this way shouldn’t be someone who matters to us.

So there, I said it.  I mowed the lawn this morning.  Judge away.

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We’ll stay put, thanks.

My husband Dave and I have an expression that we use – “we are not a nomadic people.”  It basically means this – with the exception of college (and for Dave, a one-year post-college internship in a city several hours away), both of us have always lived within a 50-mile radius of the towns where we grew up.

I’m not saying that’s a good thing.  Or a bad thing.  But for us, the thought of moving somewhere that’s really different from our suburban New York reality, is for now, something that just doesn’t appeal to us, and thankfully, we’re both on the same page.

That’s not to say we don’t want to experience other things.  We’re not exactly world travelers, but we’ve both traveled to most of the states in our own country, and to a handful of other countries.

United States

United States (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

One of my friends moves every few years – usually to a different country.  Since her parents have moved from where she grew up, and many of her friends are in the same line of work and move just as frequently, she’s said that our family is the one constant in her life – that she can always come visit us when she’s in the country, and know how to find our house, and where everything is in it.

I’m sure that some people would find that pretty boring, but there’s something about the fact that this friend can come here once every few years and still find her way to make her own coffee in the morning, that makes me happy.

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I had no idea!

On the way to camp this morning, Matthew told me that he needs a white t-shirt for something his bunk is doing one day next week.  No problem, I cheerfully replied, because I always have a stash of plain white t-shirts in various sizes (purchased when they’re on sale at the craft store).

Now THIS is something that they don’t tell you in the parenting magazines.  Someone ought to publish a book with some more useful parenting tips than how to get a preschooler to eat more more than just pretzels and string cheese.  Here are a few pointers that I’ve had to figure out on my own over the years:

1. Your elementary schooler is going to come home with a request from his teacher for a shoebox, coffee can, plain white t-shirt, ziploc bag the size of a small SUV, or something more obscure like a goat heart.  And because this request has been sitting, crumpled in a damp ball in the bottom of your child’s backpack for several days, you will have approximately 12 hours to procure this item, label it nicely with your child’s name, and present it to the teacher.

2. At some point, your child is going to embarrass you with a tantrum or a swear word they learned from you.  Probably in a nice store or in front of your boss.  When it happens, here’s hoping you’re surrounded by people who have kids too, so they will pity, rather than judge you.

3. There’s always going to be some annoying mom somewhere, who has a kid who walks, talks, is potty trained, reads, lands a back handspring and does algebra before your kid.  Remember that every kid reaches milestones at their own pace.  And that this braggy mom just sucks.

4. It’s possible that your child is going to have some weird habit that perplexes you.  For a while, one of my kids insisted on stopping at every car in the supermarket parking lot so he could read me the license plate.  And for a solid two years, the other kid couldn’t fall asleep unless he brought some random item (which he referred to as his “sleeping things”) to bed with him.  card faceWe’d find him with an Uno card stuck to his sleeping face, his hand in a cardboard box, or his sweaty little preschooler fingers wrapped around a ladle when we’d kiss him goodnight.  The moral of the story: embrace the quirks, because if you don’t, you’ll question half of what they do.

Any more questions?

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Next time, let’s hit the road.

For the first time ever, we tried our hand at a “staycation” this past week.  Now, I’m only using the term staycation because it’s become part of our vernacular, and you’ll know what I’m talking about.  Because generally, I think it’s just a dumb, made-up word to describe a fairly lame concept.

NBA store

Because of the shifts in school calendars due to Hurricane Sandy, my kids had an unprecedented week off between school and camp this summer.  We’d thought about going away somewhere, but decided to stay home and do some fun local things with the boys, while still having time to relax and get ready for camp.

We went to the beach, and to Six Flags.  We took the boys into New York to see a Broadway show (which was immediately followed by a testosterone-repleneshing visit to the nearby NBA store).  So, yeah, that was fun.

We also took the boys bowling, where Matthew complained about losing the first game and Michael complained that he was hungry.  We went to our local pool, where the boys complained they were bored.  I did a load or two of laundry every day, served breakfast every day and dinner a few days, and argued with Dave about the clutter level in the house.  Things that just made it feel like an extra-long sucky weekend.

So, I kind of came to the conclusion that while the concept is a nice one (and don’t get me wrong – it might work for some people), I’m glad that our “real” vacation at the end of August involves air travel and a hotel room.

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Why we both go along.

Flagler Beach

Flagler Beach (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dave and I took the boys to the beach today.  It’s an easy drive – about an hour – so it’s good day trip for us, but since we’re not huge “beach people,” we only end up doing it a few times a summer.

My kids are lucky to have us both along on days like today.  Dave is the parent who’s great about taking them out to swim in the waves.  I’m definitely more cautious and have a healthy respect for the ocean.  So I’m the perfect parent for the kid who wants to stand in ankle-deep water and collect pretty rocks and shells.  I’m also the perfect parent for the kid who wants to hear, “Be careful!  Stay where I can see you!  Don’t go too far out!”

I’m generally also the more prepared parent.  I’m good for a fantastic sunscreen application before we leave, additional sunscreen in the beach bag, along with frisbees, sunglasses, as well as a supply of snacks and drinks.  Today I brought along spray water bottles, which I was especially delighted with, since it was 90 degrees AT the beach, and the sand felt like hot lava.

If Dave took the boys to the beach without me, they’d probably stop for Slurpees on the way there, and Dave would bring his wallet.

I like to think that the boys are learning some important lessons by having us both along for the ride.

#1. Take chances.  Go swim in the deep end.

#2. It’s nice to have someone who wants to keep an eye on you.

#3. If you feel like staying in the shallow end today, find someone to stand there with you and hold your hand.

#4. While I don’t believe in the phrase “you can never be too prepared” (because I think you CAN – I believe in being “just right” prepared, because there’s only so much stuff I want to lug around), being prepared can save you a lot of time, hassle and money.

#5. Respect the choice of the person who’s swimming all the way out, and the one who’s hanging by the edge.

And don’t forget the sunscreen, even on your feet.

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All for one, and …. oh, whatever.

My husband Dave and I and our 2 boys are a pretty tight-knit family.  Which is mostly a good thing.  Until it’s not.

It seems lately that it takes just ONE of us to be in a bad mood to throw off the entire dynamic of our family.

Earlier this week, Matthew was frustrated about a group project for a required 6th grade class (where he had to build some cockamamie contraption to fly ping-pong balls. Or something like that). Which, in turn, meant that the rest of us were frustrated.

Then the next night, Michael started falling apart around dinnertime, because he’d been kept up late, listening to Matthew complain loudly about said cockamamie project.  So the rest of us were dragged down by listening to a tired, whiny 8-year-old.

Tonight, for whatever reason (perhaps from listening to several nights in a row of complaining and whining), Dave just came home in a crummy mood. Which put the rest of us in a bit of a crummy mood.

I’m not suggesting that we pretend to be something we’re not, especially at home where we should be able to let loose and really be ourselves.  We’re all entitled to a bad day now and then.

But on some level, it’s sort of ironic that the people we love the most are the ones who see us at our worst and get more of our crap than anyone else.

On the flip side, which is generally what I prefer to look at, when something good happens to one of us, it’s a celebration for us all.  I guess we’ve all gotta put up with a little rain to get to the rainbow.

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Happy Father’s Day…..

….. to all the wonderful dads out there.

To the dads who, like my husband Dave, work long hours at a job, then come home and play basketball (still wearing a tie) with the boys who want nothing more than to play with their dad, even if it’s  just for a few minutes.

To the dads of little girls, who let their daughters paint their toenails pink.

To the single dads, who leave a 20 dollar bill under a pillow in exchange for a tooth, because they just don’t have anything smaller.

To the stay-at-home dads, who change diapers, supervise homework, and nurture kids as well as any mom out there.

To the dads who don’t live with their kids, but still find a way to stay engaged with them.

To the single moms, who seek out the wonderful men in their lives to love their children, and step up themselves, because there just isn’t a dad.

To the dads, like my own, who can still make their adult children laugh by making a funny face.

To the dads who teach their kids to play a  sport, to fish, or to play guitar, just because they want to share something they love with someone they love.

To the dads who have been thrown up on, had a runny nose wiped on their shirt, or have had a diaper seemingly explode in the back seat of a new car.

To the dads who play endless games of Candyland, Chutes & Ladders, and Monopoly, when all they want to do is sit and read the newspaper.

To the dads who pretend to eat play-doh hamburgers and sip tea out of tiny plastic teacups.

To the dads who say “I love you” to teenagers being dropped off at school, because they know that when these kids are just a little bit older, they’ll say it back again.

Happy Father’s Day, from the moms, kids and everyone who loves you.

Dave and boys

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