“I can’t go to Art today without my platypus dressed!” Adam wailed with tears streaming down his cheeks.

This was the first I’d heard of his need for a clothed platypus.  In fact, Adam had been awake for the better part of an hour and hadn’t mentioned a platypus, nor had I ever seen a platypus around the house.

Gingerly placing my coffee cup on the counter, I asked, “What platypus? What, on earth, are you talking about?”

Adam shook his fists with frustration as he yelled, “Mommy! I’m talking about the platypus we were supposed to dress up and bring to school today!!”

“Um, Dick, can you give me a hand here, please?” I implored my half-asleep, coffee-sipping husband.

Dick’s idea of help was to say, “Adam, it’s actually pronounced play-tee-puss - with a long “A” sound.”

Adam looked up at his father and began to sob.  I could relate.

As I shot Dick a look, I put my laptop bag on the floor and crouched down to Adam’s level.

“Calm down, buddy.  Daddy and I don’t understand what you need from us.  Please try to explain it differently so we can help you.”  I ruffled his bed head with my fingers as he took in huge, desperate gulps of air in an attempt to calm himself.

“Mommy…the teacher….said…I cannot go to Art today…if…if I don’t have my platypus dressed up.”

“Okay, but where is your platypus?  I unpack your backpack every night and I haven’t seen anything that looks like a platypus.”

“That’s because he doesn’t have any clothes on yet, Mommy.”

I briefly attempted to process the kid logic that would have a wild animal rendered unrecognizable for its lack of clothing and then, failing to grasp any sense in it, moved onto searching the growing stack of school papers on my desk.

There, amidst an assortment of letter “T” worksheets I found what had once been a manila file folder cut crudely into the shape of a T.  It had become folded in the mass of paperwork shipped home the previous Friday.

“Is this your platypus?” I asked, holding up the T-shaped, blank manila cut-out.

“THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT!”, shouted Adam jumping up and down.

Simultaneously, Dick located a crumpled piece of paper with detailed instructions for decorating the platypus with fabric and buttons.  The due date on the instructions was yesterday.

I glanced at the clock – 7:40.  If I leave the house by 7:45, I know I can get Adam there by 8:25 giving him 10 minutes to get to his classroom.  If I leave at 7:55, I know I’ll drop him off at around 8:30 – just as the first bell is ringing indicating that Adam has only 5 minutes to get to class.  But if I miss even one light or get stuck behind one big, slow truck, he’ll be late.

“Sweetie, I don’t think we have time to do this project.  Can I write a note to the teacher and ask her for some more time? I didn’t realize you had homework mixed in with all those papers.  I am so sorry”, I apologized emphatically, rubbing his back.

“Please, Mommy.  Please, can you help me make clothing for my platypus? I really want to go to Art today and I really don’t want to be the only kid there without a platypus”  Adam’s big blue eyes looked up at me, rimmed with tears of disappointment.

“It’s pronounced ‘play-tee-puss’”, Dick offered weakly.

“Not now, Dick!”

I glanced at the clock again.  It was now or never…

“Adam, go have a seat at the chalkboard table.  Daddy, please go get us my sewing basket from the laundry room. I’ll get the glue and the art supplies.”

An enormous smile lit up Adam’s face.  ”Thanks, Mommy. Yay! Now I can go to Art today. Art is my favorite…”, he chattered drawing a happy face on his platypus with a pink marker.

For the next 20 minutes, I frantically cut scrap fabric into clothing shapes as Adam glued and decorated.  Tabitha hovered nearby asking questions about the clothing I was creating – wanting to know why the platypus wasn’t wearing a dress, how I planned to accessorize the platypus and why we didn’t make the platypus wear something purple.

“Dick, I can only handle one nervous breakdown and one platypus at a time. Can you please step-in and stop the fashion interrogation? I don’t need Anna Wintour over here scrutinizing my designs, thank you very much!”

“8:00, honey! You’ve got to go now or you won’t make it,” Dick yelled from the adjacent room.

Adam and I wiped the excess glue from the last button and flung open the front door.  Dick and Tabitha followed outside carrying our belongings.

I drove like a crazy person, bobbing and weaving with a fierceness only Mohammed Ali or the mother of a child late for school can comprehend.  All my tricky maneuvers and excessive speeding meant we made it to school just in time.  Ours was the last vehicle in the drop-off line.  The Vice Principal was turning the key in the lock on the gate just as I pulled away.

As my racing pulse relaxed and I began to settle back into my seat for the drive to work, my cell phone rang. It was Dick.

“Did you get the boy to school on time?”

“Yep. Barely made it, but the boy and the platypus are safe & sound”, I chuckled.

“Actually sweetie, it’s pronounced ‘play-tee-puss’, Dick corrected. “In fact, this whole platypus pronunciation is really going to turn into a big problem.  We can’t have an entire classroom of 5 & 6 year olds learning it wrong from the get-go.  Someone’s got to nip this in the bud.  I’m going to call the school and leave a message for Adam’s teacher…”

“Good idea.  I’m sure all the teachers get off on parental involvement in their child’s education when they listen to voicemail messages from geek parents bitching about the mis-pronunciation of platypus.”

Dick snorted into the phone. “You know how these things bother me. If she’s going to teach them about the animal than she better have the pronunciation down, right?”

I took a sip of my coffee and muttered, “Absolutely. You go knock yourself out. I’ve done my time with the play-tee-puss today…”

*****

I could wrap-up my little play-tee-puss problem with a pep-talk about the power of a mother’s love.  Or, I could talk about how the limited problem-solving contributions of an otherwise, occasionally helpful mate (Dick) are no match for my lightning quick reflexes and laser-sharp intellect.  Of course, I could also mention that the platypus is most widely known as proof that God, in fact, does have a sense of humor.  But let’s face it, the humble platypus was merely born a silly-looking creature with a reputation for mis-pronunciation of its name.  It is we – as parents – who go around proving the existence of a sense of humor in our deity of choice.  Deluded into voluntarily making silly-looking creatures (who will one day grow to mis-pronounce everything) and then spending the rest of our lives agonizing over our silly creatures – that’s irony at its best.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I’d wake up every morning and frantically assemble a platypus outfit for just one more smile like the one Adam gave me that morning.  And being a glutton for punishment is, my friends, pronounced “loon-ass-ee”.  Go look it up.

“We once had a snake loose in the bathroom for 2 months while my husband was away on duty,” one friend told me in response to someone else’s spider encounter.

“Oh my god! What did you do? Did you trap it?” I asked in horror.

“Eff that! I moved out and lived with my sister in law until he got back and took care of it,” she replied.

We all nodded our heads in agreement with her remedy to the problem; a logical solution to a terrifying problem if you ask me.

“Well, if you think that’s bad,” our other friend chimed in, “let me tell you about the time I had to kill a bat that was trapped in my A/C unit.  Let’s just say it required a new $1500 condenser coil and the smell of rotting meat emanating from every air vent in my house made you want to vomit.  Truly, I still have nightmares, it was so awful.”

A hush fell over the group at the thought of bat rot permeating our own homes. 

Someone said, “Jesus, bats? I’d never even thought of those.  Now how am I going to sleep tonight…”

I chimed in with my own horror story.

“Well when I was in my early twenties, I was leaving for work one morning and as I backed out of the driveway, I felt a bump.  When I got out to see what I’d run over, it was a lizard.  Except, I’d only squished his back half and the front half of him was still alive, trying to crawl away.”

My friends eyes widened. “Ew!  What did you do?”

“I was crying and I called Dick at work and asked him to come home.  He was super pissed that I called him over an injured lizard and he talked me into backing over the lizard again to end its suffering.”

“Did you do it?” they asked, leaning forward ever so slightly.

“I tried, but I couldn’t.  So I stood there sobbing for a few minutes and then walked two doors down to my in-law’s house and asked my 16-year old future sister-in-law to kill him for me.  She didn’t want to do it either so I bribed her. I told her I’d let her drive my car to her boyfriend’s house if she’d finish off the lizard for me.  But by the time we’d worked out a deal and she came over to kill him, he was already dead. I felt awful and there was a horrible, bloody stain all over my driveway.”

“How awful…,” everyone agreed.

My friends and I completed our therapeutic sharing by engaging in a silent group hug.  We knew each other’s pain all too well – the lingering jumpiness at every little movement out of the corner of your eye; the hesitancy to turn the light on in a darkened room for fear you’ll hear or see something scurry into the shadows; the imagined presence of beady eyes encased in impact-resistant exoskeletons lurking around every corner.  We may be moving on, but we will never, ever forget.

*****

This year’s sub-tropical Florida summer has been long and brutal, producing ideal conditions for our plant beds to flourish with vibrantly green-hued flora & fauna.  Apparently all that extra vegetation has created an ideal breeding ground for lizards, frogs and other assorted uglies.  Every walk to our front door is like running a gauntlet through a reptile exhibit – lizards on the walls and the door and tiny frogs jumping over your feet with every other step.

As the children hold the front door open each morning, I usually have them pause to perform what I call the “critter check” to make sure no creepy-crawlies are clinging to it as it swings inward.  In my haste to leave one morning I neglected to do an adequate check of the door and a baby lizard, no longer than 2 or 3 inches, scampered inside and promptly disappeared under a table in my foyer.   As my eyes were distracted trying to follow the zipping lizard in my foyer, a second baby lizard slipped in through the open door and scurried up the wall adjacent to a planter.  I screamed.

The kids began to squeal in response to my screams of “NO..NO…NO…NO!” as I flailed my arms in disgust.

Dick responded to the commotion, remaining un-phased as the children recounted the terrible events leading up to two baby lizards being on the loose in our home.

Glancing at the clock, I realized I couldn’t stay and watch the lizard extraction process.  “I’ve got to go”, I said to Dick as I pushed the kids through the open door.  ”You’re the one who deals with pests so you get these things out of here!”

“I’m on it. I’ll get the broom.”

As I pulled out of the driveway I could see Dick sweeping in the direction of the open door.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

*****

Later that week I was preparing dinner when I glimpsed something small and green darting across the floor of the children’s nearby play area.

“DICK!!!!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

“What is it?”

“Get in here RIGHT NOW. You didn’t get the lizards out of here, did you?”

Sheepishly, Dick admitted that he hadn’t been able to locate either lizard, let alone sweep them outside.

“So you were only pretending to sweep them out of here the other day? Why didn’t you say something to me?”

“I knew you wouldn’t want to sleep here if there were lizards on the loose.”

(Gotta give him credit for being right on this one…)

I was furious.  “Well, get them outta here!  I’ve even found one of them for you.  He’s hiding behind the kid’s toy box.”

Dick pulled the toy box away from the wall a bit so he could see where our little reptile roommate was residing.  He stood and scratched his head.

“Do you want me to get the broom again?” I asked.

“No. I think I’m going to try a different tactic.  Get me a plastic cup or a bowl. I’ll put it over him and then gently slide it and him across the floor and outside.”

I returned seconds later with a Glad disposable plastic bowl and lid.

Carefully, Dick leaned over to place the bowl over the lizard.  The kids were silent with anticipation.  I stood on a chair several feet away with one eye closed trying not to hyperventilate.

Just as Dick was about to lower the bowl, the baby lizard zigged and Dick zagged and then…SNAP!

Dick sighed.

“What? What’s going on Daddy? Did you catch him?” the kids begged.

“I’m afraid the poor little guy perished.” Dick explained.

“But what happened?”, we all demanded to know.

“He started to run away as I was lowering the bowl and the edge of the bowl came down on his neck and, well, let’s just say it killed him.”

“EWWWWWWWWWW!” we all screamed.

As the children and I looked on, Dick retrieved what was left of the deceased critter and unceremoniously flushed him down the toilet – a burial at sea.

Naturally, the children we’re horrified that their Daddy had actually killed a poor, innocent baby lizard. Dick and I went on to explain that it had never been our intention to harm him, rather it was an unfortunate accident.  That story worked –  for a few minutes.

*****

A few minutes later, as I chopped and then sauteed veggies on the stove, I noticed something moving near the philodendron I was watering in the kitchen sink. I put my spatula down and moved in for a closer look just as baby lizard #2 bolted from the planter into the garbage disposal…as it was running.

The sounds of mincing steel blades grinding up the baby lizard combined with my screams prompted the children to run over to see what was going on.

“Mommy, what happened??”

Dick emerged from another room with a “what-in-the-heck-is-going-on-now?” look on his face.

I pointed to the sink and said, “Baby lizard #2 fell in there.”

His face went a bit pale as the realization sunk in.

“Seriously?”

“Yep. He was in the plant and he was trying to jump from the edge of the pot to other side of the sink and he, well, he fell and…and, um, now he’s down there.  

Adam, never one to skip a beat these days asked, “Daddy, are you getting the baby lizard out?”

Me, not being so swift to catch on responded to Adam with, “No, Daddy can’t get him now.”

Dick shot my an annoyed look and leaned toward me, his voice in a low whisper.  ”Are you dense? I was going to pretend I’d caught it and fake an escape outside. Now he’s on to me.”

Adam looked up at us with a hint of a tear in his eye.  “Is the baby lizard dead?”

Dick rolled his eyes at me and nodded his head in Adam’s direction.

“Daddy, what happened to him? He’s just a baby!!! His mommy & daddy and brothers & sisters will all be looking for him!”

I made a pathetic attempt at addressing Adam’s concerns.

“Maybe it’s just his mommy & daddy looking for him now since we killed one of his brothers or sisters earlier.”

“Sam, that was so NOT helpful,” Dick quipped.

I leaned over and grabbed Adam & Tabitha in my arms and pulled them in close for a group hug.  “It’s all over,” I said in a soothing voice as I rubbed their backs. 

But even as I hugged them close I knew the memory of the baby lizard massacre would live on.  The combination of the grinding noise of the garbage disposal as it made mincemeat out of one baby lizard and the sight of the limp, lifeless body of the other baby lizard circling the toilet bowl would leave a lifelong imprint.  In the years to come, the children would reflect on this day as the day their parents slaughtered two innocent baby lizards.  I imagined their horrific tale being recounted in a group therapy session with other suvivors of parental abuse would choke back cries of horror.  Dick and I would not fare well in the re-telling of the tale.  At least we could take some comfort in knowing that the group hug at the end of the session might help them move on.  But I knew they would never, ever forget.

 

Look, I understand that you don’t want my kid to leave your kid’s birthday party empty-handed.  It makes you look cheap in the eyes of the other parents.  However, the problem with your logic is this: giving away crap also makes you look cheap.  Your thoughtfulness about the feelings of my child would come across as a lot more sincere if all the “goodies” you provided didn’t speak to an overwhelming sense of obligation on your part.  So, allow me to share these thoughts with you – to free you from this ridiculous burden:

I’m just going to throw away or recycle those shitty toys (after my kids are asleep of course). If you really don’t want to send my kid home from your kid’s party empty-handed please give him something the entire family can enjoy, like coffee beans (dark roast, please), alcohol or chocolate.

There.  Feel better now?

No?  Well, if you absolutely can’t resist the urge to gift and coffee, booze & chocolate for 25 is out of your budget, for godsake, please DO NOT send my kid home with any more of the following:

• Brightly-colored choking hazard-size toys that are far too deadly for my child to actually play with
• Ink stamps that will result in every hard surface in my home being covered with stamped quasi-inspirational phrases like ”Way to go!”, “You Rock!” or worse, a happy face
• Those sheets of stickers with the surface-etching, epoxy-like adhesive that NASA should use to secure heat shield tiles to the underside of the space shuttle
• Noise-makers, horns, harmonicas or other alleged musical instruments designed to induce parental migraines or seizures
• Any toy that mimics the noises of bodily functions.  We’ve got plenty of things that burp & fart already, thank you.
• Any substance described on the package with the words “goo”, “poo”, “slime”, or “boogers”.  Again, we’re good there…

I acknowledge that my stance on “goodies” is harsh, and somewhat self-serving (particularly the request for booze & chocolate).  I’m sympathetic to your situation. We’ve all been in your shoes – crippled by minimal planning time and budget.  I know that it’s easy to grab handfuls of those cheap crap toys in the dollar bins at Michael’s or Target and shove them in a cute bag tied with ribbon.  However, I think (and I’m hoping you’ll agree with me) that it’s time to stand up to parental peer pressure and say, “Kids, in real life you don’t leave other people’s parties with gifts. The best gifts in life are not the ones you receive, but the ones you give from the heart – thoughtfully and with care & consideration for the recipient.” 

For those of you who remain concerned about your reputation with other parents, allow me to sweeten the deal a little. You promise to keep these so-called “goodies” out of my kid’s hands and I won’t send your kid home from our next party with something like this.

Adam’s magnet school is about a 30-minute drive from our home and leaves us about 30-minutes northwest from our respective work locations.  Essentially Dick and I lose about 2 hrs. a day driving to and from school.  Certainly this change is costly in time, gas & patience but we feel the benefit of our sacrifice is an education for our son that is focused on constructive self-expression through the arts, a teaching staff that is very well-trained and accommodating of Adam’s learning style, and a diverse environment where he can grow up with friends of all different ethnic and socio-economic backgrounds.

But aside from the commute, the biggest shift in our daily routine is the school drop-off.  What used to be a 20-minute process involving parking, cajoling, gathering Adam’s back-pack and other belongings, walking him inside and chatting with his teachers, has turned into a 10-minute process of lining up behind dozens of other parents, pulling up to a designated drop-off point (as directed by a traffic monitor) and then watching as my van door flies open and my son & his belongings are extracted by an anonymous school volunteer – all of this before I’ve even come to a complete stop.  By my estimation, the last time Adam was extracted from anything so efficiently it was from my uterus in yet another surgical, highly impersonal process that required little involvement from me.

Even as my barely caffeinated brain tries to grasp the sudden absence of my kid, I find myself yelling plaintively at a freshly closed sliding door, “Have a great day Adam! I love you!”.  Simultaneously, horns honk from behind me and I’m waved on by another traffic monitor whose frantic screams of “Keep it movin’!” as she waves her hands insistently toward the exit, finally succeeds in startling me back to reality.

*****

Adam’s magnet school is in a rather run-down working class neighborhood predominantly occupied by African-American and Latino families, many of whom raise chickens in their yard and have at least 1 car up on cinder-blocks in their driveway.  It’s very different from our native suburban surroundings but not anything I’d call unsafe.  In fact, the surroundings don’t really concern me at all since I grew up in similar circumstances – but I understand that other parents are less laid-back than we are.  So to mitigate concerns about blue-collar knife-wielding pedophiles roaming the campus, the school takes great pains with security.  In fact, the school is so locked down that it’s almost impenetrable.  I jokingly call it “the fortress” as I’ve only made it as far as the cafeteria on one occasion – the first day of school.  But that’s not for a lack of trying…

You see, in addition to the drop-off queue, “car riders” as kids like Adam are called, can be walked up to the main gate by a parent and passed off to a student volunteer who walks them to their class. Once I realized that I was never going to be allowed to penetrate the confines of the fortress without a Papal dispensation or a permission slip from the Principal, I decided to circumvent the impersonal vehicular drop-off process and use my cunning to get past the security patrol that consists of several larger 5th graders and a few volunteer moms with whistles.  Surely I can smooth-talk and outwit an 11-year old?

Two weeks into the Kindergarten routine, I decided to give it a shot and see how far I could get into the fortress.  One morning I arrived early – around 7:30 – and we began our trek from the distant church parking lot several blocks behind the school, through a fire-ant infested field and narrowly avoiding death in the Frogger-like parking lot.  When we finally approached the school gate with the adjacent doors to the cafeteria I looked around.  The coast was clear.  I had a straight shot into the school’s central courtyard and Adam’s cluster of buildings just beyond. Easy-peasey.

As we slipped past a busy volunteer mom who was on child-extraction duty in the vehicle drop-off queue, our progress was suddenly impeded by a cheerful fat kid wearing a “School Safety Cadet” badge.  With an earnest smile the pudgy boy placed his arm around Adam’s shoulder pulling him inside the fortress as he said to Adam, “Say bye to mommy,” and then to me, “I’ll take him from here, ‘mam.”

I pulled Adam towards me.  ”No. Actually, I’m going to walk him to his classroom today,” I said nonchalantly.

“Oh, I’m sorry.  You’ll have to go to the front office and get a pass to come on campus ‘mam.  In the meantime, I’ll get your son to his room…”

I tugged Adam back towards me again. “That won’t be necessary. I promised my son’s teacher I’d talk with her in person this morning about an important matter. I’ll just be a few moments…”  I moved forward, pushing past the pudge as I tugged on Adam’s arm.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you onto the campus without a pass, ‘mam. I’m sure your son’s teacher will want you to follow our safety procedures and I’m sure you want to set a good example for your son about following the rules, right?  The office is just down the walkway on the left.”

Before I could think about my next move, let alone mutter my next sneaky-twisty-super-smart response – POOF! – Adam was gone. I’d been foiled by a pudgy do-gooder.  Like a bouncer at an exclusive nightclub, this highly-trained 11-yr old had prevented me from setting foot inside.  Denied!

On the upside, I couldn’t help thinking that this must be a really good school if an 11-year old can make it into middle management while adults like me are still clawing our way out of organizational obscurity at our thankless jobs…

*****

Of course my curiosity is really piqued now.  What are they doing in there?  Curing cancer?  Splitting atoms?  And yes, I know I can go to the office and arrange to go on campus “legally” anytime I’d like.  But it’s the sanctity with which the administration and volunteers hold their duties as school security officers that takes me aback.  How do they recruit these people, keep them all trained, on message, on point, highly organized – including 11-year old boys – on what must be a shoestring budget, at best?  My company (who even in it’s dire straights probably has access to more cash than your typical public school) can’t even organize a picnic without a committee and board approval, and even with all the red-tape, the potential for employee mishaps and misery is substantial.

I guess I’m pleased to see the school administration and volunteers taking such great care with my child’s safety; it’s definitely reassuring. But I also think it’s a little bizarre.  I don’t remember being so locked down as a kid in Kindergarten.  Do you?  Is this how it is everywhere? Can this level of security be chalked up to the “Columbine effect”?  Are most white people really as jumpy about sending their kid to a working-class, multi-ethnic neighborhood as they seem to be?

Whatever the reason, the change in our routine is profound and only as I sit here writing about it is it all finally starting to sink in. I have to admit that the only reason I wanted to come on campus that day was to watch Adam walking toward his classroom – like a big kid with his adorable peacock-feather bed-head, his new uniform and his “Cars” backpack slung across his shoulders.  I just wanted to hold onto that image for another moment – a tiny boy navigating a very big world.  In truth, I wanted to be a voyeur and get a glimpse at the next chapter in his life story.

If the past few weeks have taught me anything it’s that the hardest part of this big transition is in learning how to deal with it. Not so much our kids but for us!  Up until now Dick and I have been documenting Adam’s transitions from our perspective. But now the writing burden has shifted to Adam and our new role is merely to teach him how to write his own story.

I think, if it were up to me, I’d be calling this new chapter in Adam’s life “The Fortress”; that’s what I’m calling it in my own story. But maybe in Adam’s story it will be called something even more exciting like, “Chapter 5: Curing Cancer & Splitting Atoms – All While Learning Phonics”.  Whatever he decides to call it I, for one, am on the edge of my seat.  No one told me what a page-turner this story would turn out to be.

Thanks,

~Sam

*****

Running my fingers through his hair, I admired his blue eyes glistening even as his eye lids grew heavy with sleep.

“I love you,” I said, brushing hair from his brow.

“I love you, too,” he said, snuggling into my shoulder, eyes closing.

He placed his arm around me with a gentle sigh.  It had been an exceptionally busy day.  Both of us were up at 6 A.M. sharp with a full day’s activities ahead of us – work, school, after-school, and errands – all the juggling and rushing trying our patience and keeping us forever on our toes.  By the time we could finally lay next to one another that night, we were too exhausted for more words than “I love you”.  Instead there was a lovely, indulgent silence between us.  We were grateful for these few minutes together; quiet time, just the two of us.  

“I miss you, ” I whispered.

Yawning, he replied sleepily, “And, I miss you, too.”

Turning the light out and rolling towards the edge of the bed, his hand grabbed my shoulder pulling me towards him.  I felt him warm against me.  More snuggling, and then a surprise.

“I want to marry you someday,” he said.

I couldn’t help but smile.  “I’m afraid you’re too late, handsome,” I said as I removed the tangle of tiny limp arms from me, pulling away, stumbling out of bed. 

The light from the living room streamed through the crack in the open door, reflecting on a narrow strip of race car themed artwork. I blew him an air kiss as I pulled the blankets up to his shoulders.  He didn’t hear me leave.  Already, the soft, wet, heavy breathing of deep sleep had overtaken him.  

Out in the hallway the light from the living room was brighter, and brighter still where Dick sat working.  As I rounded the corner, I could make out the gentle tap, tap, tap of Dick’s fingers on the keyboard – my favorite lullaby. 

I sat silently on the sofa nearby, sipping a warm cup of coffee and imagining the roller coaster ride that was Adam’s day.  It was remarkable to me how all his boundless enthusiasm for life, his nervous energy, constant grasps for understanding and, of course, his never-ending chatter could all be tucked in and put to bed so easily, and yet here I was older, much less energetic, quite sleepy, but still awake thinking of him. 

The truth is, the memory of being with him in peace, stripped of our obligations and free of artifice, could’ve kept me awake all night.  I can think of nothing as joyful as admiring him in repose, brushing his hair with my finger tips and feeling the rise and fall of his chest, just as I did when he was a baby.  The time has gone by so quickly.  We’re not even 5 years into our relationship and just getting to know each other.  It’s all so new and yet, before we know it, he will be tucking his childhood adoration of me into that safe, comfy spot every boy has for his mom. 

When I said to him, “I miss you”,  it was more than an acknowledgement of the fleeting nature of today, it was also my expression of longing for more of the time we had yesterday, and a nod to the inevitability of tomorrow.   I miss you, already, Adam.  You’re growing too fast.  Can we tuck in and cuddle just a bit longer before you have to go?

Dick saw the exhaustion on my face.  He took the half empty coffee cup from my hand.

“You look so tired, baby.  Can I tuck you in?”

“Yes.  That would be nice.”

After filling my water carafe, fluffing my pillow and removing the dog from my spot, Dick pulled the blankets up around my shoulders, kissed my cheek and tucked me in.  I don’t remember much after that, only that I dreamt of the smell of newborn baby hair and warm milk that night.  It was a lovely dream and gave me just the whiff of yesterday I needed to carry me through today.

*****

Join me in feeding hungry bellies.  Please donate today.

As Dick and I began negotiating a birthday budget for King Adam’s celebration, we couldn’t help but long for the good ole days of birthday oblivion when our children were too little to be aware of elaborate birthday fanfare let alone to express opinions about the breed of stallion that should be pulling their golden carriage through the city streets.  All our previous birthday celebrations were quiet family affairs featuring simple pleasures like a picnic, a day in the park or a trip to the zoo.  Birthday cake was homemade and ineptly decorated by your’s truly.  Party decorations, if any, were sparse and hung hastily by Dick while the kids were napping.  A few times we went crazy and got some balloons.  As Dick and I wax nostalgic on these modest family birthdays I can’t help but feel that we’re viewing events with the same kind of reverence our own parents had for the good ole days of 3 TV channels, AM radio, and rampant racism.

*****

Now that Adam has (predictably) fallen prey to birthday party peer pressure, we can assume Tabitha’s a goner as well.  We figure once she sees how Adam enjoys being King for a day, she’ll be plotting her own little parade route through the streets and perfecting her royal wave as well. 

Having attended about a dozen elaborate & semi-elaborate birthday parties for school mates this year, the bar has been set high.  Tabitha is still flexible on the birthday details.  But Adam knows exactly what he wants.  He knows what a “real” birthday looks like now and it doesn’t take place at home and it doesn’t feature one paltry balloon, 2 parents, and 3 gifts.  He’s made it clear that he expects nothing short of:

• Two parties – one with us and one at school
• Bouncy castles for his family birthday party and water-play for his school party
• Both parties will serve pizza, and both kinds of pizza – pepperoni AND cheese
• Two birthday cakes; one for each party
• Themed décor (see above) 
• Music, singing, and “fire” on his cake (lit candles, I’m hoping)
• Gifts – LOTS of them

I’m sure I’ve left off a few big items - like the fireworks extravaganza and the tributes of gold, frankincense and myrrh – but you get the idea.  The boy’s got big plans and we’ve got a big bill to foot.

Dick and I foresaw the unavoidable birthday expenditures this year and mentally prepared ourselves to take the hit.  But TWO parties? One involving expensive rentals, party play “coordinators”, themed décor and pricey bakery-crafted cake?  That’s all proving to be much pricier than we’d imagined.  Less of a hit and more of a knee-capping.  Forget asking the grandparents to send a gift to the birthday boy.  Have them send all gifts to the parents in the form of a check made out to “Mr. & Mrs. Pathetic Sucker”. 

*****

On top of all the stress about the money being spent is the fiercely competitive nature of other parents who are all vying to secure that most coveted venue and the even more coveted Saturday morning/early afternoon slot for their kid’s birthday party.  Trust me when I tell you that the competition is BRUTAL.  Roller derby is less cut-throat. 

Of course the consequences of NOT securing an acceptable party venue and a good time slot are even worse.  Even with months of advance planning, preparation and a fair amount of bribery you could still end up desperately scrambling for a picnic table at the local community park.  If that happens, you’ll be lucky to convince any kids or their parents to come to  your kid’s mosquito-ridden, haphazardly organized party, particularly if they’re required to ditch some other kid’s ultra-cool, bouncy, air-conditioned party.  Shame, ruination, and complete social ostracization will follow…and that’s just for you.  Years of therapy won’t even begin to scratch the surface of the damage done to your innocent child’s self esteem.

I’m kidding, of course; just being extreme to make a point.  But from talking to other parents about the absurdity of it all – the fees, the planning, and the scrambling – many of them come across as believers in the very kind of birthday party urban mythology I just laid on you.  So traumatized by the process and intimidated by the social pressures, these poor people are actually relieved to throw money at someone else to “make it happen”.  They consider it a bribe gladly paid to offset even the potential for guilt feelings later on down the line.  When I ask what made them decide to go for the canned & pre-planned birthday party, they all recite the same lines:  

“It’s a totally hassle-free way to throw a birthday party for your kid.  They do all the invitations for you, provide all the toys, the music, the oversight, the food  & drink AND they do all the clean-up!  It’s a bargain, really.”

Wow. They’ve all had a drink of the birthday punch, Kool-aid no doubt, and there’s no going back. 

Frankly, it makes me a little bit sad to think of the demise of the simple, old-fashioned family birthday party.  Even sadder when I realize that Dick and I are treading down the party path of least resistance, right along with all the other Kool-aid swilling parents.  I wish I could say that we’re going to do things differently, that we were going to stick to our less-is-more stance by hiring a balloon artist and having all the neighborhood kids over for some weenies on the grill and a pinata in the backyard.  But the truth is, we’re not going to do that.  In the end, it’s not about us or our birthday dreams for Adam.  It’s about what Adam wants and when what he wants is within our grasp, for good or for ill, we’re going to bust our chops to get it for him.  We will bleed money and Adam will be King  (with either a Scooby Doo or a Transformers theme – he’s still deciding) and all will be welcome.

Funny how the birthday lust object of my youth – the pinata - now seems like such a quaint notion, like those articles in science magazines comparing the computing power of an 80’s era calculator to the latest MacBook Pro – ridiculously simple.  Much like the pinata, the low-key birthday celebration at home is a quaint thing of our not-so-distant past. Now that our mini-humans have their own ideas and opinions, Dick and I are left standing by wondering what happened to the good ole days when life was simple, telephones had chords, and kid’s birthday parties didn’t require a signature loan.

*****

Don’t Forget to Donate!

Clearly I have no problem admitting my love of bake sales.  I’m a regular at all the local church & school bake sales, not out of a burning desire to support my community but out of a selfish compulsion to eat homemade baked goods that I don’t have to dirty a bowl to enjoy – all while feeling like I’ve given generously to others.  See what I mean?  Win & win.   But the problem with bake sales is the post-binge heartburn, the sugar headache and the inevitable guilt that comes from hiding 2 pounds of brownies from your family by stashing them in a stack of unmatched socks in the laundry room.  When it’s all said and done, the only thing that makes you feel slightly better about yourself is knowing your money went to a good cause.

So let’s cut out the charade.  I know you’re not out there prowling bake sales for the good of mankind and you know it too.  So I’ve decided to spare you the humiliation of having your secret brownie stash discovered by making my first annual bake sale a virtual one that’s all about raising funds to feed hungry kids.    

Seriously, the latest child hunger statistics are sobering.  According to Share Our Strength.org:

• By the end of 2009, more than 12 million children in the U.S. will be worried about where their next meal is coming from
• 500,000 more children live in poverty in the U.S. now than 1 year ago.
• The highest unemployment levels in 20 years mean that millions of Americans now rely on local food banks and pantries.
• More than 30 million Americans participate in federal nutritional assistance programs – the highest participation level in 40 years. The average benefit per person is $1.12.

Crushing, eh?  So I decided that it was time I stopped supporting my community by buying brownies or even baking brownies.  Instead, I’m participating in the Great American Bake Sale by holding a virtual bake sale.  My goal is to raise $500.

Some other reasons why I’m holding a virtual bake sale…

• 100% of funds I raise will help feed kids.
• It’s a fun solution with a large impact.
• I didn’t have to train for six months to run a marathon or make a large donation to make a big difference.  (Besides, you all know that I don’t run – ever.)

So Loyal Drips, won’t you join me in whipping up a fresh batch of love for the wee ones around us?  It’s been said a million times before but in a country with so much wealth (even now) there’s no reason children’s bellies should be empty.  If saving starving children or donating to a virtual bake sales just isn’t your thing or if you just blew your last bit of disposable income on ramen noodles because of your own scarce food supply situation, please do me the favor of passing on a link to this post or spreading the love via the social networking medium of your choice. 

Remember, this is the best kind of bake sale: guilt-free, fat-free, carb-free, and environmentally friendly!  Thanks for your support!

Love,

~Sam

Here’s the link to my donation site:

And then a funny thing happened on the way home.  Silence.  In fact, it was so quiet that I actually looked back to check and make sure I hadn’t just imagined that I’d picked up my kid.  Nope, he was really just sitting there silently watching the world going by through his window.  

And then something even stranger happened – I kinda’ freaked out. I did what any mom does and tried to fill the conversational void.

“Let’s play a game.  How about I Spy?  In fact, I Spy the word ‘park’. Do you see it, too?  It’s on a green sign.  The word park starts with the letter P, right?”

“Mama…”

“Yes, Adam.”

“Can you please stop talking to me?  My bwain is tired and wants to west for a wittle bit.”

[screeching brakes]

Seriously?  Seriously?  Have I just been shushed by a 4 year old…for talking too much?

I had.  

And, then, a final funny thing happened on the way home from daycare – I realized that the quiet kid in the backseat was enthralled by the world outside his window, completely content to just be in the moment.  All my yammering was distracting him from enjoying some peace in an otherwise hectic day.  More so, this need for quiet meant that my baby was growing up and he didn’t need me to entertain him as much as he needed me to be a safe place to share his ideas and his worries and then, to honor & respect his very human need for solitude.

Once again, I am left scrambling to understand my evolving roles & responsibilities with this ever-changing little person.  I know that’s what all parents are doing, so there’s some comfort in numbers.  At the end of the day, after the children are asleep, and with the dog at my side, it’s Dick who provides my safe place to share my ideas and worries, and it’s the sound of silence that brings us comfort.

I’d like to extend my heartfelt thanks to you for challenging the rest of the parents in room 450 to step up and take a more active role in our children’s education.  Your complete commitment to involved, hands-on parenting sets a new standard most of us can only dream of achieving.  Yes my full-time job is demanding. Yes, my other child’s needs are demanding, too.  But that’s no excuse for relinquishing my parental responsibilities to actively engage in every little moment of my son’s life, much like you’ve done with your daughter.   

I really admire the way you always make yourself available for class field trips, library visits, playground duty, nap times, story times, and birthday & holiday parties.  As if all those activities don’t keep you busy enough, it seems like you’re always the first person on the list to sign up for class potlucks! Goodness knows I have a hard enough time trying to plan 4 home cooked meals a week for my family, so I can hardly imagine where you’re able to find the time to bake, from scratch, 27 individually hand-decorated, dairy-free, peanut-free, gluten-free soy cupcakes! 

It’s also clear that little Stephanie has inherited her mother’s eye for detail and natural artistic talent.  Some parents (I won’t name names here) thought you may have helped Stephanie with the stunning life-sized paper mache sculpture of Dr. Martin Luther King she brought to school in late January.  But when I saw the artistry in the Valentine box she fashioned by hand out of recycled railroad ties and painted in a Van Gogh starry night motif, it was obvious to me that little Stephanie is just naturally talented. The best most of the other kids could muster was a shoe box covered in aluminum foil and heart stickers, but as usual, Stephanie showed the rest of those amateurs how it’s really done.  You know what they say – the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, right?

Now, this is hard for me to admit, but I am humbled by your boundless enthusiasm for parenting.  Often times I allow my needs for sleep, adult conversation, and alone time with my husband to take precedence over my children’s educational needs.  Yes, I’ve used TV as a crutch.  I’ve even allowed them to watch non-educational TV from time to time so I could sleep in on a Saturday.  I justify this neglect and laziness, by convincing myself that I’m striking a balance between meeting my personal needs and the needs of my children.  But the truth is, I just don’t have the attitude and the focus I need to be a stellar parent.  I’ve settled for “good enough” when I should be striving for “exceptional”.

It’s shocking how pervasive this culture of parental neglect has become. I’m amazed at how many other moms are also lying to themselves.  Sadly, when I’ve discussed my selfish ways with other moms, rather than ostracize or shame me, they commiserate.  When I mention your great example of selflessness, some have even turned to spreading vicious gossip about you in a pathetic attempt to make themselves feel better.  With martini in hand, they tell stories about how you are the token wife of a much older, wealthy man who can afford for you to be a stay at home mom in this economy. They talk about your housekeeper, Imelda, who does all the grocery shopping, cleaning and errands. With looks of disgust on their faces, they talk about how your empty life has come to revolve around aerobic exercise (I can only assume that they’re jealous of your lovely figure and the fact that you’re always wearing those tummy-baring, skin tight workout clothes the rest of us can only dream of getting into) and nurturing the budding genius that is Stephanie.   They also imply that the successful marketing career you left to stay home and raise your only child, has left you with “too much time on your hands”.  They insinuate that you are micro-managing Stephanie’s life in lieu of creating a life for yourself.

It’s obvious to me is that these kinds of people just aren’t cut-out for a life of truly involved parenting.  They are not motivated to make the necessary sacrifices. So, rather than use their time and energy to improve themselves and their children, they tear down the accomplishments of those who’ve shown they have the initiative, drive and focus necessary to be superior parents.  

I tell you these things not to make you feel self-conscious, but knowing that you’ll feel sorry for us and turn all this negativity into a positive – for Stephanie’s sake.   I know, someday, Stephanie is going to look back upon her youth and thank you for being there with her every single, teeny, tiny step of the way! 

Regards,

Adam’s Mom (aka Samantha)

Upon further reflection, I fear I may have crossed the line of acceptable parent/child dialogue.  Below are the actual words I used [gulp] to kick her out of my room this morning. 

“What part of me allowing you to watch Scooby Doo while eating breakfast cereal on the sofa indicated that I’d be okay with hearing you whine about juice? You’re not getting blue juice, orange juice, or white milk.  You’re drinking water, capiche?   Now go away.  Can you not see that I’m trying to put on my mascara before I’ve had coffee?  Oh, and mommy loves you, darling…”