TO DO: Write To Do list

Last Saturday started like any other. With my coffee in hand, I sat down at the kitchen table with my special notebook, prepared to start the weekend To Do list.

It’s a ritual. I make so many To Do lists, in fact, that no little scrap of paper will do – I have a bound notebook with a pretty floral cover for this sole purpose.

I know this says something about my psyche. I crave organization. I have a need to feel a sense of accomplishment as I cross each item off the list.

Most of the time, I’m not overwhelmed by the sheer size of the list. Rather, any anxiety I feel is based on the fear that I might forget something. God forbid I forget to get the oil changed in the van or sew on the latest Brownie merit badge.

If it’s not on my To Do list, it probably won’t get done.

I recently filled up an entire To Do list notebook. On the final list on the last page of the book, I’d written:

• Buy a new notebook.

So, I packed up the kids and we headed to the store. We made our way to the stationary aisle so I could find a suitable replacement.

I studied the selection. Admittedly, I’m picky about my To Do list notebooks. The cover design has to be simple and somewhat stylish and it has to fit nicely in my purse so I can keep my list at the ready, prepared to add or cross off tasks as needed.

Often the content of the To Do lists is unpleasant:

• Clean the toilet bowl.
• Mop the kitchen floor. (Ew! Sticky!)

…so I like to pick a notebook that is aesthetically pleasing, at least.

As I surveyed my options, my 7 year-old daughter asked if she could get a notebook too. Assuming she wanted it for drawing, I suggested a large tablet of plain white paper – after all, she’s constantly stealing sheets out of the printer at home.

“No,” she said. “I need a notebook like yours. I need to get organized.”

Hmmm. You’re seven years old, I thought. You need to be organized? Anyhow, I obliged and she picked out a notebook with bright pink flowers on it and an elastic band to cinch it closed.

For the rest of the day, that notebook never left her side. She walked around with a pencil wedged behind her ear and every once in a while, would dutifully jot down something.

I glanced over her shoulder to see that she’d listed several tasks, each with a little box next to it, awaiting a check mark of completion. When she noticed I was straining to see her list, she pressed it tightly to her chest and announced that it was not ready yet.

Well, all righty.

I turned my attention to my To Do list instead. It read:

TO DO:

• Plan meals for the week / prepare grocery list.
• Go to the store.
• Fill out permission slip for field trip.
• Laundry. (We need clean undies!)
• Schedule hair cuts for kids.
• Scrub the bathtub.

I didn’t use the check-box system, but through the day, I crossed off a few items, which felt satisfying.

Later that afternoon my daughter approached – still clutching her notebook to her chest. She told me she’d finished her To Do list and wondered if we could work on a few items together.

“Definitely,” I said. “Show me your list.”

She handed over the notebook. On the cover she’d written: “PRIVATE PROPARDY.” (A clear warning to her brother and sister.)

I opened the book to the first page and began to read.

TO DO:

• Clean my room.
• Watch a movie.
• Eat popcorn.
• Have a pupit show. (Puppet show)
• Play sharads. (Charades)
• Pillow fight.

Her list made me smile. For one, I was pleased that she intended to clean her room without any prompting. But mostly, I loved how she scheduled fun activities.

That night, we worked on completing the items on her list. From room cleaning to pillow fighting, we crossed off each and every “task”. Afterward, we collapsed on the sofa, side by side, glowing with accomplishment.

After I put everyone to bed, I reflected on the day’s events.

I realized that I’d taught my daughter a useful life skill (organization) that she would carry on into adulthood. Hopefully this skill would be useful during her college years as she learned to stay on top of her studies, juggle a full social calendar and care for her first apartment – all on her own. Maybe someday, when she’s in her 30’s with a family, she’ll use these skills to run her house as efficiently, if not more so, than I.

I pulled out my own To Do list to review my progress. I’d crossed off a few items, but didn’t make as big a dent in it as I’d hoped.

While I’d taught my daughter how to organize the details of her life, she taught me to remember to schedule the fun. I grabbed a pencil and added a few more items.

• Paint my toenails.
• Watch a movie (one for grown ups).
• Call a girlfriend.

So now I always try to add at least one fun item to my To Do list. Scheduling fun is just as important, if not more, as scheduling chores.

This week's To Do list, for example, includes:

• Clean out the fridge. (Ick!)

But it also lists, in equal importance:

• Build a snowman.

After all, it’s like I always say, if it’s not on my To Do list, it probably won’t get done.

Mean teacher

My 7 year-old daughters have entered a stage where they bicker and fight almost all of the time. They disagree over nearly everything. Which show to watch on TV, who gets to use the computer first and even what to wear. (I expected arguments over clothes to wait until they were at least 12 years old.)

However, my girls are in strong agreement on one thing: Miss Donna is mean.

The girls are in an after school program where they can do homework, play games and have gym time before I pick them up after work. The program is run by a woman who is soft spoken, but extremely firm. She runs a tight ship – and she has to. She’s responsible for nearly a dozen kids ranging from first to fifth graders.

Miss Donna expects the kids in her care to speak with hushed voices, sit still when instructed to do so and engage in quiet activities such as drawing, reading or playing board games.

Personally, I don’t think these are unreasonable expectations, so when my girls started coming home complaining that Miss Donna was mean, I assumed they were overreacting.

My girls are typical 7 year-olds. They’re talkative and bubbly, and would rather dance and twirl than sit still for too long. So naturally, I figured they were just getting scolded for giggling too much or being too chatty. I told the girls to follow Miss Donna’s directions and they shouldn’t have any problems.

And we didn’t have any problems – for a while.

One evening, as I picked up the girls, Miss Donna approached with a solemn face and told me there was something she needed to discuss with me. We stepped to the side, slightly out of earshot from the kids. My girls sat and stared at us, knowing Miss Donna was delivering a bad report. They looked frightened.

To be honest, the stern look on Miss Donna’s face scared the hell out of me. Her voice was low and serious; indicating that one of my girls had done something awful – shocking even. Did she steal something? Did she hurt someone? I braced myself for the worst.

“Today, your daughter said a bad word,” she began. “She said a very bad word.”

Before I continue, I need to confess something: I have a very bad mouth. Though never in front of the kids, I tend to pepper my language with what I like to call, “sentence enhancers”.

I’ve always loved the English language and am a self-described ‘Word Nerd’. And as such, I’m simply fascinated by the versatility of the F-word. It’s the perfect word. It’s a noun, a verb, an adverb – it’s incredible.

I love the F-word and like to use it. However, I use it sparingly because I know that not everyone is as fond of it as I am. I never use it at work, in the company of my mother, or in front of my children. I know better than that.

Miss Donna’s expression indicated that my daughter had said something terrible – and I could only guess that it was pretty effing bad.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, preparing to say the word herself. She leaned in and whispered, “She said…the D-word.”

I stood there, stumped for a few seconds. The D-word? What the heck is that? D? Which one starts with D?

“Oh! You mean, ‘damn’,” I volunteered, a little too loudly and causing some of the kids to look our way.

“Yes,” she said in a hush, “and obviously that kind of language is not allowed.”

I assured Miss Donna that words like the “D-word” were not permitted in my home either. Frankly I was a little relieved that the hubbub was only about swearing. She hadn’t done anything dangerous or defiant. She’d only said one little bad word – and not even one of the really bad ones at that.

I told Miss Donna that I’d speak to my daughter about it and motioned for the girls to get their things together. Miss Donna stared me down and didn’t budge. Her demeanor suggested she expected something more from me. I felt a little like a kid at the principal’s office. At her nonverbal prompting, I added,

“And there will be consequences for her behavior here today,”

This seemed to satisfy Miss Donna. I realized that during our brief exchange, the woman had somehow cornered me against a wall. I edged my way past her, waiving my kids over to the door. They quickly grabbed their coats and backpacks and scooted through the doorway. We all were relieved to step outside.

Without a word, we piled into my van. My daughter, the one that said the offending word, sat with her eyes cast downward, afraid of whatever punishment I was about to bestow. The other one knew better than to act up, so she sat quietly, watching me in the rear-view mirror, awaiting my reaction.

I could now see how my girls thought Miss Donna was mean. She definitely put me on the spot. But despite the fact I felt she had overacted to what in my mind was a minor infraction, I needed to support her.

It’s important that parents support their children’s teachers and caregivers. I have friends who teach and tell me that it’s common for parents to side with their children on disciplinary issues. They question the teacher’s authority and don’t support their classroom decisions, which is wrong.

When parents teach their kids that they don’t have to listen to authority figures, they’re setting them up to fail as adults. What’s that kid going to do when he’s got a boss who’s demanding? Call his mommy? Life is full of difficult people. Learning how to deal with them is probably one of the most important life skills a parent can teach their children.

I needed to put my own impression of Miss Donna aside and support her. I don’t know what it’s like to wrangle all of those kids for 3 hours every day. She’s got to do what she’s got to do to keep things running smoothly – and that means squashing even the smallest infractions. I couldn’t undermine Miss Donna’s authority.

I turned the key in the ignition and announced the punishment. My daughter cried when she learned she wouldn’t be allowed to play on the computer that night. I asked if she knew it was a bad word (she did) and if she knew bad words weren’t allowed (she did). I explained that she had to be punished for doing something she knew wasn’t allowed. It was that simple. She seemed to understand.

That night, watching TV, I saw a 22-year-old girl perform in a singing competition. She was awful. While she looked like a hip, pop star, her singing was off-key and sounded terrible. Anyone with ears could tell this girl was a bad singer.

The judges delivered the bad news. “Sorry sweetie, but your voice isn’t strong enough to be a professional singer.” Instead of accepting the bad news with any kind of grace or dignity, she blew up.

The girl accused the judges (each a music-industry expert) of not recognizing good talent. She went on a tirade, cursing and carrying on. Finally, she flipped the judges the bird and left. The cameraman followed her out into the lobby, where her mother was waiting with open arms.

“Oh honey,” her mama said. “They’re crazy – you’re great!” The girl sobbed into her mother’s bosom. “You’re going to be a star someday, really, you will,” her mama said, stroking her florescent pink hair.

The show put the whole situation into perspective. We can’t shield our kids from so-called, mean teachers – and we shouldn’t even if we could.

One little bad word today could lead to a televised tantrum tomorrow.

Top five benefits of being a single parent

I know it sounds hard to believe, but there are actually quite a few benefits to being a single parent. Sure, it’s hard work – extra long hours, one income instead of two and a general lack of adult conversation — but believe it or not, there are quite a few perks to working solo too.

So, here they are, in no particular order, my list of the top five benefits of being a single parent. Enjoy!


TOP FIVE BENEFITS OF BEING A SINGLE PARENT

5) The Thermostat.

There's no more wrestling over the thermostat. You set it once and it stays right were you set it – every time.

4) You know where every penny goes.

This benefit isn't about arguing over joint checking account expenses. It's about keeping the joint account balanced. Single parents don't have to chase down debit-card receipts or checks written but not recorded. The issue of keeping the books balanced, simply isn't an issue anymore.

3) Total control of the TV.

Unless your kids are old enough to work the remote, the TV is all yours. Instead of watching SportCenter or televised golf, chances are you’re enjoying a DVR full of Oprah episodes and TLC’s What Not to Wear re-runs.

2) You can cook whatever you want…or not.

If your ex was a picky eater, the meals you cooked were probably influenced, at least in part, by his tastes. It can be pretty stressful, trying to please someone who's hard to please. When you're the only one driving the menu, you can cook what you like, the way you like it.

In addition, with one adult in the house, if you don’t feel like cooking, well...don’t. Obviously you should still feed your kids, but they'll survive with leftovers, drive-through or PB&J (all in moderation, of course). If your kids have a good hot lunch program at school (where they serve hot and healthy lunches everyday), you can skip the more labor-intensive, traditional meals from time to time, guilt free.

1) No more waiting for your ex to pitch in with house/yard work.

Sure, there’s more work for one person to do overall, but the stress and arguments over who will do what and when is completely eliminated. I know of lots of women who beg, nag and bargain trying to get their spouses to pitch in, only to end up doing it all themselves anyway.

Single moms get to save time and just get to getting the work done. There's no arguing. No mental Olympics. No drama. The workload is the same, but getting it done can be less stressful.

~ ~ ~

Now, I’m not saying that being a single parent is better than being a married one. I’d just die if someone read this list and decided to dump their husband because he watches SportsCenter 24/7.

My point comes more from a making-lemonade-out-of-lemons kind of place. Being a single parent means you can do things on your own terms - and that fact alone has certain, undeniable benefits.

Playing stay-home mom

I can still remember the first time I took the week off to enjoy Spring Break with my kids. This would be my chance to see what it felt like being a stay-at-home mom. I was so excited. I planned to savor every second of my vacation away from work.

I started the week ambitious and energetic. I had a huge list of things to do. Actually, I had two lists. One was full of fun stuff like going to the library, spending a day at a water park and letting the kids play at a Playland while I read a book.

The other list contained chores that I normally don’t have time to tackle. Things like boxing up clothes the kids had outgrown, cleaning out the pantry and sewing patches onto the girls’ Brownies vests. Yes sir, I was ready to rock as a full-time, stay-home mom.

MONDAY

We started the week out with a treat – pajama day. We all stayed in our PJs the whole day, lounging about, watching movies and playing board games. I didn’t get to any of my chores, but what the heck? I was on vacation, right?

TUESDAY

Tuesday, we managed to get to the library and to McDonalds. Sadly, my little guy missed his nap so the rest of the day I paid for it, trying to get things done with a 2 year-old glued to both of my legs. I didn’t get any of my chores done, but it was still early in the week. I had no doubt I’d eventually cross them off my list.

WEDNESDAY

I said goodbye to housework for one more day, and we hit the water park, only to later return to a total disaster zone. Toys were strewn everywhere and now wet towels and swimsuits littered the bathroom floor. Our eyes, red from chlorine, burned and we all were in bed before 7 p.m.

THURSDAY

The kids were up at 6 a.m. (They’d gone to bed too early the night before.) I was determined to tackle the house and it took me most of the day to pile through laundry and get the kitchen and bathrooms into shape.

By the time evening rolled around, I was tired and frustrated. After all, with the kids home all day, the clutter and mess was relentless. While I was cleaning the living room, they were in my bedroom, jumping on the bed, watching my TV and shoving previously folded laundry onto the floor.

When I kicked them out to clean my room, they moved to their own rooms and trashed them in seconds. I was so busy with basic tidying I was too pooped out to tackle any of my big projects.

Also, at this point, everyone’s fuses have grown short and the bickering is constant. Tattle-tailing is at an all-time high and we look more like the family from Malcolm in the Middle than the picture-perfect one on Full House. I’m saying things like, “If I have to come up there one more time, you’re going to get it!” and “Keep your hands to yourself!” with alarming frequency.

FRIDAY

By the time Friday came I was absolutely starved for adult conversation. So I packed up the kids and we left for Grandma’s. As my brood raided Grandpa’s snack stash, I hung on Grandma’s every word. She obliged and told me, with great detail, about her recent trip to the casino.

“Really,” I asked, riveted. “They just gave you the free meal tokens?”

She could’ve been reading the back of a cereal box for all I cared. I was just happy to hear someone talk in a normal tone of voice – no whining, no tattling. At 9, they pushed us out the front door, waving and shaking their heads.

SATURDAY

When Saturday rolled around I began to feel desperate. Somehow, I managed to blow my whole week and had very little to show for it. I was determined to get the too-small clothes out of the kids’ dressers by the end of the day.

I’d envisioned packing everything away into perfectly labeled storage tubs, to be given to a friend for her kids. But with time waning, I stuffed them into a couple of trash bags and stashed them in a corner in the basement instead.

SUNDAY

I always look forward to church on Sundays. It’s partly because I enjoy the preacher, but mostly because during the service, I get to sit alone and listen to an inspirational sermon, uninterrupted.

With my older kids in Sunday school and my little guy in the nursery, I get one whole, delicious hour to sit quietly and listen. For me, that hour is as relaxing as a Swedish massage, honest.

Sadly, this Sunday, the nursery volunteer was sick. I brought my two-year-old into the church and had to nearly sit on him for the hour to keep him quiet. Despite my best efforts, an old lady with bright red lipstick which had settled deep into the creases around her mouth scowled at me.

Sunday night, my daughter informs me she has a science project due the next day. No problem I think, looking at the clock. It’s 6 p.m. – there’s still time. She proceeds to tell me about the germination experiment she was to conduct, wrapping sunflower seeds in a moistened paper towel and documenting when they sprout over the course of a week.

After a little quick thinking, we punt and turn it into a research project (without the hands-on part). I cross my fingers and hope for the best as I shove everything into her backpack. By the time everyone is fed and bathed, it’s 8 p.m.

After the kids settle down for good – drinks of water have been disbursed, under-bed monsters exterminated and threats of “…if you get out of bed one more time…” have been administered – it’s nearly 9.

At the end of my “vacation from work”, I learned an important lesson about myself. I need structure. I need to get out of my house. I need time alone.

Sitting on my couch after a week as a stay-home mom, I realized that I needed to go back to work – and soon.

Working is good for me. Working gives my life balance. An office setting makes me feel professional and confident. The time spent away from my home and my kids gives me perspective on my life.

Don’t get me wrong. I love being a mother and think I’m damn good at it too. But, working outside of my home helps me appreciate my at-home time more.

For me, one of the biggest, most practical advantages to working full-time can be boiled down to a simple equation:

Less time spent at my house = less time spent cleaning my house.

During the workweek, I tidy my house once in the morning, leave and come home to find it in the same condition as I’d left it in 10 hours earlier. When I’m home all day, the cleaning is continuous. I don’t know what’s more stressful for me: cleaning a house that’s continually getting messed up or trying to function in a messy house. Either way, I relish leaving and coming home to a tidy home. And this, for me, is a very big deal.

So there you have it. This week illustrates exactly why I couldn’t be a stay-home mom. I simply need more time away from my kids and home.

Some people might think that admitting all of this makes me appear to be a less-than-ideal mother. I’ve had bosses whose wives were stay-home moms, sneer at this suggestion.

But I strongly believe that deep down every mom needs time away from her house and kids. It rejuvenates the spirit, rekindles the fire.

And how much time away varies from mom to mom. For some, a quick trip to the grocery store by oneself does the trick. For others, an extended weekend every now and again is what it takes. And others, like me, need a slice of time away every day in order to come home recharged.

And there’s nothing wrong with admitting it.

No doubt about it

It’s hard being 100% responsible for little people. In my case, I’m 100% responsible 90% of the time. That means that generally, the lion’s share of tough parenting moments are mine and mine alone.

Since the day my boy turned 5 months old, there’s been nobody else around to lend a hand with late-night misery. I remember being up all night with a crying infant, then trying desperately to stay awake and be productive at work the next day. And this went on for months.

In addition, when the kids get sick, I’ve typically the only one to deal with fevers, vomit and taking time off of work. Of course, to the kids, nobody else will do when it comes to backrubs, making toast and snuggly hugs. And honestly, there’s no way in the world I’d let someone else step in – though that doesn’t mean that it isn’t exhausting.

Being the only referee in a game where you’re clearly outnumbered is tough. At my house, there’s no man-on-man defense. I’m stuck playing zone – all the time. Negotiating disagreements, breaking up brawls and maintaining a level of peace and harmony with only one set of adult eyeballs is challenging to say the least.

Sometimes, to put it bluntly, single parenting can suck.

Whether you’re a single mom because of divorce, death or military leave – or you’re a married mom who’s alone because your spouse works long or odd hours – it’s a tough gig. There are times when you feel like everyone just takes and takes from you, depleting your time, energy and your sanity.

It can feel like the world, including your own kids, is conspiring against you. And at the end of the day, you either collapse into bed, asleep before your head hits the pillow or lay awake at night, praying for the strength to get through another day.

But, on the flipside, when you’re a single parent, you get to be the only one to reap the benefits and bask in millions of tiny little victories.

Those precious times when your kids look up and say, “Love you, Mom,” are all yours.

I remember the day I taught my daughter to ride a two-wheeled bike. It was frustrating for us both, but when she rode off down the street, I was never more proud of her – or of myself. When my girls’ science fair projects earned blue ribbons, I was just as proud as they were. I helped them pick their projects and I helped them document their progress with painstaking detail. Every time I pass the ribbons, which hang in a place of honor on the fridge, my head swells a little. And someday, when my kids get their college diplomas, I’ll be on cloud nine.

Part of what makes those victories so sweet is that I don’t share them with anyone else. I put in the long hours. I do the legwork. The parental credit is all mine.

Last night, my youngest was sick. It was awful. He was up every few hours with a throbbing ear infection and congestion that made it hard for him to breathe. At 3 a.m., as I tried to relieve some of his discomfort with “Mr. Snuffy”, our bulb syringe, I cursed the fact that his father was probably sound asleep across town.

Eventually, my son and I ended up falling asleep on the floor in his room.

At 7 a.m., with my ear to the carpet, I was awakened to the sound of a chair being pushed across the kitchen floor below. Instantly, I was wide awake, wondering how much trouble, two seven year-olds could get into trying to make their own breakfast. I felt frustrated, knowing I’d gotten too little sleep to face whatever disaster was waiting for me downstairs with any kind of patience or objectivity.

But when I opened the bedroom door, I nearly melted at the sight of a little stool, perfectly set with my breakfast. There was a bowl of cereal, mug of milk, a folded section of newspaper and even a small vase of daisies. This sweet gesture touched me so deeply. It renewed my spirit and instantly gave me strength to face the day.

There are times when your kids recognize that someone needs to take care of mom too – and this was one of them. And I was so proud of my girls for understanding this and stepping in.

After my initial surprise, again, I thought about the kids’ dad. He was probably still sound asleep miles away. Instead of feeling resentful or jealous that he got a peaceful night’s sleep and I didn't, I felt really sorry for him. Sure, he misses out on the hard stuff, but he also misses out on great moments like these.

Even though being a single parent is the hardest, most frustrating thing I’ve ever faced, it’s also the most rewarding, fulfilling thing I’ll ever do. I wouldn’t trade my life for anything – not even a full week’s worth of uninterrupted sleep. And I bet that other single moms feel the same way.

So for now, I'll just continue take things one day (and night) at a time. And drink lots of coffee in the process.

What goes around

At 26 years old, I was fresh-faced and single and lived in a charming flat in a trendy part of town. I’d graduated from college, had a promising marketing job and knew even then, that my future was a blank slate. Though I had no kids, I complained about my “tummy” (geesh!). Despite always wanting to lose a few pounds, I remember feeling great. I felt so energetic and alive.

One day at the office, a few of my co-workers and I were chatting about our lives. We were all young women, without kids, whose conversations were dominated by discussions of men, fashion and what low-fat, no-fat concoction we’d eaten for dinner the night before. The talk turned to our ages. We went around the horn, stating our how old we were. Everyone was in their mid- to late-twenties, except for one woman who was 35.

“Thirty-five?!?” I blurted. “You’re 35? NO WAY!”

I said it with a tone of incredulousness – like it was a compliment that she looked so young and hip despite being so very, very old. She was so cool and fabulous-looking, it seemed impossible she could be 35.

“Wow,” I concluded. “I hope that when I’m 35, I look half as great as you do.”

FAST FORWARD NINE YEARS…

I work in a different office now. I’m still in marketing and still congregate around the coffee machine talking about men, clothes and low-fat recipes. But one thing’s different: I’m 35.

Last week as we sipped our coffee, the conversation turned to our ages. At this office, the age differences are greater. There are quite a few silver-haired folks with kids in college, there’s me and then there’s a tall, beautiful blonde who is – you guessed it – 26.
When I told the group I’d just turned 35, the blonde blurted out,

“You’re 35? NO WAY!”

She delivered it the exact same way I had so many years before. It was meant as a compliment – and I knew it – but on the receiving end, it didn’t exactly feel like one.

Since turning 35, a few things have changed. For one, my doctor suggests running different kinds of tests because I’m now in a higher-risk age group for various conditions and ailments. The morning after a bike ride is spent easing sore muscles and walking bow-legged. The hair dye I used to use to turn my dull, brown into a shimmering chestnut is now applied to cover several noticeable grays.

Still, all that considered, I really do feel great. While my body is different (three kids’ll do that to you), I feel more comfortable in my skin. I’m happier, more confident.

I still feel like my future is a blank slate, but I think the biggest difference is that I now know better what I want out of life. At 26, I didn’t have tremendous expectations of my future because I wasn’t seasoned enough to know what I really wanted. But now, my expectations are greater. My dreams are better defined. My goals have shape and the path to get there is clearer.

Thirty-five is a gift. It’s an opportunity to stop and reflect on where you've been and think about where you want to go from here.

When I was 26, I was living on my own. I remember being so proud at the life I’d created for myself. I felt successful, responsible and independent.

Today, I’m full of even more pride. I’m still supporting myself and now, three kids. While it can be overwhelming at times, mostly I feel independent and capable at doing it all, alone no less.

Thirty-five isn’t all that different than 26. Both still think about men, clothes and ways to lose 10 lbs. But 35 has a leg up on 26. Thirty-five is wiser and is better equipped to get what she wants. My 35 is better than my 26 was. It’s fuller, richer and all around better – even without that flat tummy.


“From birth to age 18, a girl needs good parents, from 18 to 35 she needs good looks, from 35 to 55 she needs a good personality, and from 55 on she needs cash.”

- Sophie Tucker

The baby’s armed. No seriously, he is.

There are whole organizations dedicated to eradicating toy guns from the shelves of retailers. There are armies of concerned citizens, squarely focused on stopping the sale of plastic weapons that in their minds, achieve no other purpose other than incite violence and mayhem.

Personally, I’m not in favor of violent toys like video games that base point totals on body counts. I don’t like movies that glorify violent behavior. Directors claim art reflects life, but I think the door swings both ways. Why expose kids to that kind of junk?

Besides, I’m not much of a risk taker anyway. So I’m going to play it safe and refrain from letting my kids see violent stuff. I am trying to raise responsible, law-abiding tax payers after all. I figure it’s best to expose them to educational toys and TV programs that might plant seeds of positive ambition, instead of grizzly influences that could sway them to the dark side.

However, let me go on the record to say that banning Nerf guns and water pistols is just plain crazy. I mean, come on! They’re harmless, right?

I was recently shopping with my kids in one of those stores were everything costs a dollar. Normally when we shop at normal-priced stores, I preface the trip with the following speech:

“We are going to this store to buy X. It is the only item we will purchase. We are not here to buy new toys, games or candy, so do not ask me to do so. What are we going to buy?”

“X,” they grudgingly respond in unison.

“Yes! Good job,” I praise. “We are here to only buy X,” I repeat.

Fast forward two minutes: We’re in the store, the kids are begging me to buy this or that and I’m ready to blow my stack. I don’t have money to waste on over-priced crap that’s going to get lost in my kids’ over-stuffed toy boxes, so the answer is, “No, no, NO!”

ANYHOW…so we go to the dollar store and the kids immediately start in, asking me to buy them toys. My instinct is to say no, but then I stop, realize I’m in the dollar store, and heroically proclaim:

“Yes! You can pick out ANY one thing from this store and I WILL buy it for you.”

The kids go nuts. They exclaim, “Thank you, mom! You’re the best!” and bolt for the toy aisle.

A minute later my two-year-old toddles up to me with his selection. It’s a bright red plastic gun that shoots foam darts. I inspect it for possible choking hazards - or throat plugs as I like to call them - and deem it an acceptable choice. He thanks me and smiles his biggest smile. This is his first toy gun.

So I bought him a gun. Big deal. It’s bright red - could never be mistaken for a real one - and shoots large foam “bullets”. This is not a toy that’s going to turn my cherub-faced boy into a cold-blooded killer. It’s harmless.

We’re home for about five minutes when suddenly, I’m ambushed. My baby jumps out from behind a corner, gun drawn and shouts,

“Freeze, mama! I said FREEZE!!”

I instinctively freeze. Despite my compliance, he squeezes the trigger and shoots me anyway. I fake a dramatic death and collapse on the living room floor.

Laying there I wonder if I’ve made a mistake buying the gun. Am I fostering a future criminal? Am I grooming a young delinquent? Will I be on the 5 p.m. news someday saying I don’t know where it all went wrong – he was such a sweet child?

Nah, I don’t think I’m going to worry too badly about it. Just because he sometimes plays with an airplane doesn’t mean he’s going to grow up to be a pilot, right?

Besides…he did yell, “Freeze!” and not, “Stick em up!”