I am a little star struck when it comes to my favorite writers.

On the way to the event, I chanted mantras of self-control: “I will not speak unless spoken to.  I will maintain composure at all times.  I will not sweat, babble, or cry.”

You see, Ms. Quindlen and I have met before.

It was 1999, the year of my college graduation from Villanova University.  I was graduating with a BA in English, which meant that I was well read yet devoid of any real marketable skills. I felt adrift and desperate for guidance.

When I found out Anna Quindlen was selected as our commencement speaker, I was elated.  Finally!  Some representation for us right-brained folk: the bright yet hapless inhabitants of the St. Augustine Center for the Liberal Arts, collegiate Land of the Misfit Toys.  If anyone needed some gentle mentoring, it was this Birkenstock-wearing crowd. Well, the English majors, anyway.

But that guidance would not come from Ms. Quindlen, at least not on that muggy day in May 1999.  A small group of Conservative Catholics threatened to protest against her openly liberal views, and Ms. Quindlen gracefully backed down.

The replacement speaker was a Jesuit priest who worked with children…or maybe it was animals…in musical theatre?  I can’t remember.  I’m sure he was a nice guy. It felt a little jaded to me at that point.

That summer, I was in Manhattan interviewing for an editorial assistant position at a popular magazine (I didn’t get it).  After being asked questions like, “What is your plan for maintaining our designer dress code on $23,000 a year?” (I didnt have one), I hobbled down 5^th Ave searching for a place to buy flip flops before my blistered feet bled through my beige pumps from Payless.

Then, in the sea of the city lunch crowd, I saw her. She was walking toward me.

Our shoulders almost kissed as she passed me with a strong and purposeful stride; her eyes straight ahead like a true Manhattanite. I stopped and turned, causing a pedestrian traffic jam.  Panic rose in my chest as I watched her bobbing head get swallowed up by the crowd.

So, I chased her.

In my Payless pumps and $50 navy suit from Lord and Taylor, I chased Anna Quindlen down 5^th Avenue.  What I actually said to her is still fuzzy. I know she was very kind and gracious, despite the fact that a sweaty psycho in an ill-fitting suit practically tackled her in broad daylight.

But that wasn’t going to happen this time.  I am a grown woman now, a wife, a mother of two.  I was in Talbot’s, for crying out loud.  Talbot’s is a grandma grown-up store. Surely I could maintain my composure in the company of literary greatness.

Then, through the rack of seersucker sundresses, I saw her.

A hot flush started to creep up my neck and face, my hands trembling with adrenaline. In an effort to channel my energy, I combed through a basket of bangle bracelets like I was digging for gold.  The crowd begain to gather as Ms. Quindlen took her seat.

“Stop me if I try and raise my hand,” I whispered to my mom.

She gave me a look that said, “Yeah.  Just like I stopped you from getting that tattoo.”

Ms. Quindlen answered the crowd’s questions with authenticity and humor.  A woman standing to my right asked about the inspiration behind Quindlen’s book A Short Guide to a Happy Life.  She explained how the book was originally a commencement speech…

Be quiet Jessie.

..to be given at Villanova University…

DON’T. RAISE. YOUR. HAND.

…but did not give due to threats of protest.

“Ok,” she said, ”time for one more.”

I must have some reflex that is triggered by opportunities to embarrass myself, because up went my hand.

Our eyes met.  She nodded:  “Yes?”

“Hi! I was actually IN that graduating class at Villanova, and I was an English major and was so pumped that you were going to be our speaker because English majors were like 2nd class citizens and then I was soooo sad and disappointed and then a few months later I was in the city for an interview…and then I passed you on 5^th Ave and was so excited that I turned around and CHASED you for like 4 blocks and you were so sweet to me…so when I heard you were going to be here I bought my mom your book for Mother’s Day and….this is my mom actually….oh my God, MOM!  Are you crying? Why are you crying?  Anyway..I think you are great…and.. and I am sorry for chasing you like a lunatic.”

Did I say “pumped”?

She smiled: “It’s when people stop chasing you that you know you’re in trouble.”

When I got home, I found my copy of A Short Guide to a Happy Life and read it cover to cover. In in she writes, “Get a life.  A real life, not a manic pursuit of the next promotion, the bigger paycheck, the larger house…Get a life in which you are not alone. Find people you love and who love you.”

There are days when I still feel like that young platinum haired, nose-pierced, patchouli scented college graduate. I have multiple degrees hanging on my wall, yet no big career to show for it.  Am I just a lonely stay-at-home mom with Walter Middy-esque delusions of being a real writer, or is there a chance that I can make it?

Then I look past the pieces of paper on the wall to see Phil and Emma building a fort with the couch cushions, while Phoebe dances to Fleetwood Mac with her eyes closed.

And I realize I already have.

Well, I knew my clearances were not on file, and the few times I called the office Barb was either at church or in the bathroom.  I had my clearances done before but was pretty sure they were expired, but was equally sure I couldn’t get new ones in a week.  What’s a mom to do?

Phil said, “Just go. That’s bullshit.”  I didn’t disagree.  I wasn’t driving any children, nor was I riding the bus.  Never was I going to be alone with children.  Never mind that I am Emma’s MOTHER, not some shady priest stranger sporting Wranglers and a handlebar mustache.  It seemed like a ridiculous restriction. But I kept going back to the email, my eyes zeroing in on “No Exceptions.”

If I went on the trip, I would be breaking the rules.

When I was in kindergarten, I clearly remember the day we painted our Father’s Day paperweights.  Mrs. Young handed out a rock to each child and instructed us to paint it red or blue, depending on our dad’s preferred color, and then top it off with yellow polka dots.  Her instructions gave me pause, as I was not sure if my dad was a red or blue kind of guy- his sneakers were blue but his windbreaker was red.  What’s a girl to do?  I decided the safest solution was to paint ½ red and ½ blue, and then add the yellow polka dots.  Genius!

Well, Mrs. Young didn’t think so.  “What are you DOING?  This is ALL WRONG!  You didn’t follow the RULES!”

I was mortified, traumatized, scarred for life.  I was a Good Girl: the oldest child, the perfectionist, the people pleaser. I wore plaid skirts and monogrammed sweaters and received gold stars for cooperation.  Yet here I was, relegated to the naughty table during Free Play with Randy Rodecki, who was no stranger to the naughty table.

Never again did I want to experience the humiliation of public admonishment and the shame of the naughty table – thus creating a conflict between self-expression and the need for approval.  Following the rules seems easy…until you begin to realize what you sacrifice for rigid obedience.  For me, the wakeup call came in the form of a man who represented all the fun I WASN’T having: Phil.

Phil, the baby of six children, self-admittedly has “a blatant disregard for rules.”  When we first started dating, I found him so frightening it was fascinating.  Within a month of dating, I had broken more rules than I had in 24 years: I used the men’s restroom several times, stole wine glasses and a pumpkin, drank from open containers in moving vehicles, snuck back stage at a reggae concert for which I had no ticket, and threw my underwear into the Schuylkill.  Being with Phil reminded me of Ferris saying to Cameron as they sat watching a Cubs game at Wrigley Field: “Hey Cameron, do you realize that if we played by the rules, right now we’d be in Gym?”

This got me thinking about Rule Breakers and Rule Followers.  We all resemble at least one of the charcters from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off as it pertains to civil disobedience:

The Ferris

The ultimate rule breaker.  Both charming and devilish, he has mastered the art of skirting the rules without getting caught.  At the heart of the Ferris is resistance to authority and the systems put in place by those in a position of power.  While at times The Ferris may push the limits out of pure resistance to being dominated, for the most part he/she questions the validity of a rule before challenging it.  When faced with a restriction, The Ferris asks “why?” This is especially true when the integrity of the source is questionable: “If I’m gonna get busted, it’s not gonna be by a guy like that.”

The Jeannie

The Jeannie secretly wants to break the rules but doesn’t think she can without getting caught.  She resents The Ferris for leading the charmed life she feels is out of her reach: “I could be bleeding out the eyeballs and you guys would still make me go to school!”  Early in our relationship, Phil pressed the buttons of my inner Jeannie as he charmed his way into the hearts of my friends and family.  After a bizarre third date involving partial nudity while driving and modeling sunglasses for Japanese tourists at a reststop, I confided in my friend Krystin that I was about ready to call it quits.  She replied matter of factly, “He’s awesome.  You just need to stop being such a bitch.”  The Jeannie can be saved from a lifetime of bitterness by recognizing if you can’t beat ‘em, you might as well join ‘em.

The Sloane

The Sloane is the loyal follower of The Ferris. She is intoxicated by the sense of freedom from conformity The Ferris provides. The Sloane is the good solider, seamlessly executing the plan set forth by The Ferris without question.  However, it is not in her DNA to be the leader. She chooses to challenge the status quo in more subtle ways, like by wearing shorts with white leather boots and a white fringed jacket.  But without The Ferris she would still be yawning her way through English class.  Sadly, I will never be a true Sloane.  I am a loyal follower of Phil’s schemes only when I am unaware that what we are doing is illegal.  I also could never pull off shorts and boots.

The Cameron

While possessing qualities of The Jeannie and The Sloane, deep down I am really a Cameron.  Uptight, neurotic, and scared of his/her own shadow, The Cameron adheres rigidly to the rules out of pure fear: “Pardon my French, but Cameron is so tight that if you stuck a piece of coal up his ass, in two weeks you would have a diamond.” The Cameron needs The Ferris to save him from himself….or at least show him what he is missing (“To Cameron Frye, who doesn’t think he has seen anything good today!”).  But ultimately it is up to The Cameron to make the choice to come to the other side; to take a stand against conformity and embrace his personal freedom.

So, I didn’t go to the farm….but I did stress about it for 48 hours consider it.

If Emma was not easily bribed by a trip to Rita’s upset about me not going, I would have challenged the system.  But I tried to look at the bigger picture.  The motive behind the rule – to keep kids safe – was a good one, so I decided to save my personal revolution for another day.  The Mother’s Day Tea is tomorrow….

Does anyone have a white fringed bolero jacket I can borrow?

ARE YOU CRAZY???!!!

In all fairness, I was not a witness to this exchange.  It was shared with me after the fact – but it is an experience with which I am all too familiar so I’ll take a guess as to how the scene played out from there.

It took a moment for the child’s brain to click over from being completely secure in his decision to realizing that a colossal mistake had been made.  He was initially confused as to what the big deal was and therefore did not react at the recommended level or speed of remorse, causing his mother’s head to begin spinning on its axis – slowly at first but accelerating exponentially until it was in danger of taking flight from her body as she posed additional rhetorical questions to her son:

WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!?
HOW CAN SOMEONE SPEND ALL THAT MONEY ON CANDY?!
WERE THERE NO OTHER CHOICES!?
DO YOU REALIZE THIS WAS A BAD DECISION?!

Answers to these questions begun to form in the child’s mind (and hopefully stayed there for his own safety):

WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!?  Well, if you must know, I was thinking that I really wanted all this candy.

HOW CAN SOMEONE SPEND ALL THAT MONEY ON CANDY?!  It was actually very easy.  The nice people behind the counter took my money and gave me the candy.

WERE THERE NO OTHER CHOICES!?  Yes.  There were.  I didn’t want them.  I wanted the candy.

DO YOU REALIZE THIS WAS A BAD DECISION?!  Uh, I do now.

And of course…

ARE YOU CRAZY?  No. I am perfectly sane.  You, Mom, on the other hand have all kinds of crazy going on right now and I really hope that Dad gets home soon.

And so it goes.  It happens to the best of us.  Our children exhibit a lapse in judgment and we can’t figure out whose fault it really is.  When my friends gave their son this money, they never said, “Don’t spend this all on candy.”  So, in the midst of going loco, Mom was wondering in the back of her head if the bad choice was partially her fault because she didn’t provide adequate direction.  But truthfully, do you realize how long it would take if parents reminded their kids what NOT to do every time they went out the door?  In addition to instructing her son not to spend the money on candy, she would have also had to tell him not to buy crappy plastic stuff, or play video games, or give it to a friend, or lose it, or…..  and none of us want to be that kind of parent.  As a result, we all have subsequent fallout “conversations” that go somewhat like this:

Son:  Uh Mom, I got a little behind in my school work and I have four projects, a math sheet, and a test to study for …. tomorrow.
Mom:  ARE YOU CRAZY???!!

Son:  I used the money you gave me to buy dinner at the jazz competition to purchase 10 raffle tickets to win a ukulele.
Mom:  ARE YOU CRAZY??!!

Son:  I know we are having a special family dinner in 20 minutes but I was hungry so I just ate two bowls of cereal.
Mom:  ARE YOU CRAZY??!!

In each of these cases (which may or may not have happened in MY home),  I never thought to suggest out loud that my child should not 1) completely space out on long term school projects 2) play the lotto to win an instrument he already owns 3) not go to the Lucky Charms trough right before my mother’s birthday dinner.  And for this omission, we all paid.

But, it has — and will always be — a required toll on the road to adulthood.

At the end of the day, we have no idea what our children will face as they run the daily gauntlet of decisions.  The best we can do is cover the biggies – the bad choices where they could hurt themselves or others – and chalk the rest up to experience.  They NEED to make these little mistakes – and we NEED to freak out when they do so they get the gist that something went sideways.  You can bet our friend’s son isn’t going to overspend on candy ever again – and my guys made the errors above ONCE.

One of my favorite fortune cookies says:  The only thing worse than learning from your mistakes is NOT learning from them.

Let’s embrace the craziness.  Theirs and Ours.  And recognize how much we both need it to make our children into the fully functioning grownups they long to be.

So what topic could be so difficult that I contemplate writing an entire blog on a Pilot Easy Touch Retractable Ball Point?

Grief.

Not death…death is different.  Death is tangible.  Death is inevitable.  Death is final.

But grief…grief is mysterious, peculiar, and all too often, silent.  Awkward.  Taboo.

Last weekend we traveled down to Virginia to visit my cousin Megan, her husband David, and their two small children.  Megan’s mother, my Aunt Terry, died of cancer in October.

“Morgan has gotten so big!” I said.  “I haven’t seen her since your mom’s……”

“My mom’s service?”  Megan gracefully supplied the word that suddenly escaped me.

“Yes.” I said gratefully.  “Since your mom’s service.”

Once I got over that initial paralysis, I relaxed. We immediately found our groove and had a great weekend together. Megan had opened the door and I entered.

But why did I need the invitation?  I was stunned by my own initial awkwardness.  Before I had Phoebe, I spent three years volunteering at Peter’s Place in Radnor, a center for grieving children.  I should know the drill..right?

But there is nothing formulaic about grief; what if what I had learned from working with children did not apply here?  When in the company of a grieving person, I think many of us experience those moments of panic and uncertainty: ”Is this going to upset her?  What if she doesn’t want to talk about it?  Am I in her space?  Should I let her come to me?”

Much has been written about what NOT to say:  Clichéd lectures about time healing all wounds, the mystery of life, or anything involving God’s will are definite no-no’s.   So what DO you say? To get an informed opinion on this question, I called my friend Mary, who lost her mom a year ago in March.  She graciously shared some pearls of wisdom on how to help a grieving friend:

Show up and shut up:  So what DO you say?  According to Mary, “It doesn’t really matter what anyone says…so you don’t really need to say anything.  There have been times when it really feels like I will never feel happy again.  [In those moments] it just feels good to have someone call or show up; to just know that someone gives a shit.”  Follow her lead.  While processing feelings is good, so is sitting on the couch side by side, eating Lucky Charms and watching 4 hours of Planet Earth.

Help them remember, not forget: While you may think it is helpful to distract the grieving person, quite the opposite is true.  Mary says:  “If you don’t grieve, you don’t feel as close to the person.”

I clearly remember this from my volunteer work at Peter’s Place.  I facilitated support groups for children (ages 9-11) who had lost a parent.  Some of a kid’s most terrifying moments occurred when his memories began to fade: the sound of his mother’s voice, her laugh, how she made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the fruity smell of her hair when it was still wet from the shower. One family confessed to still having the mother’s voice on the answering machine greeting, despite the fact that the message said “Merry Christmas”…in June.  Peter’s Place created a safe space for them to remember. As a friend, you can do the same by listening to them talk about the person, and maybe even sharing some of your own favorite memories.

Just Do It: Don’t ask what you can do to help; just do something to help.  In her series of blogs entitled “How to Help a Grieving Friend,” Molly Piper shares a story about her friends “surprise” cleaning her house while she was out, complete with fresh flowers and a prepared meal in the fridge.  The gesture need not be so grand – the idea is to take the initiative. If you are taking your kids to the park, call and ask if her kids want to come along.

I struggled with this at first because I worried about “boundaries.”  Yeah, f**k the boundaries.  Obviously exercise common sense in terms of privacy, but asking “what can I do” makes the person feel like suddenly they need to make YOU feel comfortable. Mary joked, “I would never, ever ask someone to mop my kitchen floor….I mean, have you seen my kitchen floor??”

Don’t Be Weird: Don’t disappear, but also resist the urge to make your friend a personal project.  “Be sincere”, Mary says.  One of the biggest issues for the kids at Peter’s Place was being treated differently.  Friends either ignored them or treated them like mental patients.  This made them feel even more isolated and alone.  Be a grounding force and familiar face.  I think of it as turning up the volume on your friendship.  Act the way you normally would, just with a higher degree of awareness and sensitivity.  And maybe don’t talk as much.  Let her do that.

“Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.” I always remember this line from Steel Magnolias because I think laughter has amazing healing powers.  For Mary, some of the best therapy has been going out for a (few) glasses of wine with friends and having a few laughs.  Again, be sincere.  If you weren’t funny before, don’t suddenly try to channel Rodney Dangerfield.  But if in the past (before the death) you would have texted your friend the message “OMG, I just ate a burrito and now my gas smells like the Barnegat Bay at low tide,” don’t hesitate from sending it now.

You might think, “Oh she doesn’t need to hear me prattle on about meaningless shit”.  When really, that might be exactly what she needs.  She needs you to be yourself, so she can feel comfortable being HERSELF.  Smelly gas and all.

It was a lovely event all around – but only for a lucky few.  I am relegated to watching it on video.  You see I wasn’t invited.  I never will be.  And it’s kinda not fair.

Wait.  What’s that you say?  Of course I wasn’t invited because I am not a “father? ” Or that my children weren’t invited because they aren’t, um, “daughters?”  Well…yes.  I realize that.  But I think you are missing the point, which I only discovered while coveting this particular community event. Did you ever notice that every parent /child relationship has a multitude of opportunities for bonding and connecting except one?  MoB readers, allow me to present to you the world’s most misunderstood and persecuted familial relationship of all time:

Mother and Son.

Think about it.  Mothers and daughters live in a world of opportunity to spend quality time together, if they so choose.  There are organized events for sure, but also chances to bond around mutually enjoyed activities.  I still love joining my Mom for shopping, mani-pedis, tea, and good ole girl talk.  Be it good or bad, the mother/daughter relationship is an intense one and perhaps the most enduring.

On the flip side, fathers and sons tend to gravitate together for like-minded plans as well.  Dave and the boys left me alone for the entire day on Saturday to go “paintballing” in the Poconos.  They returned with matching welts all over their bodies which they say came from the paint pellets but I have sneaking suspicion it was some sort of male ritual.  Needless to say, I was not invited.  Also needless to say, I was glad. Boys will be boys. Happy together.

And then we have the father/daughter activities such as the girl scout dances, or Indian Princesses, or coaching their soccer/softball/basketball teams.  Society looks on the father/daughter relationship as perhaps the most righteous and benevolent.  We cheer for the women who still look up to their dads as their protectors, no matter how old they are. And it is certainly viewed as an appropriate rite of passage for any suitor to win over “the father” before marrying a daughter.

All of these relationships are heralded and cherished.  But the mother/son relationship?  Not so much.  Imagine an older boy or (worse) a grown man who checks in with his mother on a daily basis?  Would he be viewed favorably?  How about the mother who is incredibly close with her son over the age of 12? Or one who needs to be “won over” by a potential wife?  Can you say chick repellent?

The bond between mothers and sons is tolerated, but not really celebrated. Ever.  There is a universal acceptance that little boys need their mothers for a finite number of years, but at some point that strong relationship becomes creepy.  One moment you are tying their shoes and before you know it, there is this unspoken pressure to cut the apron strings despite the fact that as mothers, we feel forever tethered to our boys.  This needs to change.

I think there is an opportunity to start at the very beginning, with more organized events for moms and sons, and go from there.  The father daughter dance works because little girls love to dance and the dads who don’t can fake it.  So we need to come up with an activity that boys love to do – and the mom’s who don’t can fake it.  In a short time span, I have come up with:

Mother/Son Xbox Marathon with Mojitos and Dr. Peppers
Mother/Son Water Park Extravaganza with Pools Heated to 89 Degrees
Mother/Son Henna Tattoo Afternoon and Ice Cream Social
Mother/Son Fishing Trip and Sushi Dinner
Mother/Son Camping with Nearby Hotel Option (you know, in the event of in the event of rain..or bugs)

So… all you mothers and sons out there… any of these events sound appealing?  Committees are now organizing, so sign up!  And if none of these work for you, we can always host the first ever mother/son dance because while society frowns on us getting too close to our boys, it delights in us mortifying them.  And I’ve got the moves like Jagger.

Who’s in?  Noah and Chase are you with me?  Boys?  Anyone?

Five Lessons I Have Learned About Selling A House….So Far

1. Give up the Dream of Winning Mother of the Year.  One of the toughest parts of keeping the house staged has been the parental guilt.  It seems that most toys fit into one of two categories: “Very Messy” (Play-doh) or “10,000 Microscopic Pieces” (Polly Pockets). Weather permitting, playing outside is my go-to plan, but on the mornings when we get a phone call for a showing, I am forced into speed-cleaning mode.  Phoebe has watched enough Diego to know the difference between a Ring-Tailed Lemur and a Needle-Clawed Bushbaby.  And then God forbid the kid get hungry. When a showing was scheduled during her lunchtime, her mobile meal consisted of Ritz crackers, fruit leather, and handful of cashews.  (But they were organic!) I keep telling myself that this is temporary; hopefully the house will sell before she suffers a permanent cognitive loss or gets scurvy.

I also vow to never again judge the mother in Starbucks with children who would clearly prefer to be at Chuck E. Cheese.  Because I am now that mother.  The majority of scheduled showings have unfortunately occurred on rainy days.  The library lost its luster after about a week, and you can only fool your kids into thinking that driving around aimlessly is a fun game. “But where are we GOING?  What are we DOING? We are STARVING!”  Phoebe knows the drill at this point, and has now become the self-appointed cruise director on these little outings: “Hey Ma!  We goin’ to ‘da STA-BUCKS? Dey got ‘doz Wice Cwispie Tweats!!”  So to the mother trying to enjoy her venti skim mocha and a rare moment of silence, I apologize.

2. When in Doubt, Hire Out.  This has been the biggest area of stress between Phil and me.  Phil fancies himself a do-it-yourself kind of guy….which would be great if were actually ever home to DO whatever “it” is.  This is not his fault; he has a demanding work and travel schedule. However, this does not stop him from overcommitting to household tasks. Last week he was in Los Angeles, and I called to him to address the Dandelion Dilemma.

“We need to call the lawn guy about the dandelion jungle.”

“No we don’t.  I can just pull the dandlions.”

“Right.  While you are in LA?”

“Well, can’t you just pull the dandelions?”

“No, because there are about a million of them, and FYI, the root of a dandelion actually begins in Hell.”

“Can’t you just trim them?  We should really save the cash; I was just running some numbers and..”

“OMG! So I will pay him in sexual favors chocolate chip cookies! JUST CALL THE F***ING LAWN GUY!”

“Ok, Ok, relax.”

*Public Service Announcement:  Telling your wife to relax (from sunny Southern California) after she has spent the morning in the backyard scraping up dog poop, spraying a wasps’ nest and disposing of a dead bird may result in a psychotic episode or Class A misdemeanor.

3. My Car Will Not Alway Look (Or Smell) Like This.  The cleaner my house is, the nastier my car becomes.  In the car-line at school, I try to leap out of the driver’s seat and throw Emma in the back before the teacher on duty catches a glimpse of my bio-hazard on wheels and starts a rumor that we are homeless. As we turned a sharp corner the other day, a loud crashing noise erupted from the trunk.  Phoebe almost jumped out of her car seat: “MOM! What was ‘DAT?!”

“Its’s Ok, it was just the coffee maker.”

4. Create a Zen Environment: Why is the coffee maker in my car, you ask?  Because I have a theory that if I remove all signs of stress related to the daily grind (alarm clocks, coffee makers, school calendars) the potential buyer will feel mysteriously relaxed without really knowing why.  The glitch in this plan is that the alarm on my cell phone doesn’t wake me up, I missed a dentist appointment and keep forgetting which day Emma needs her gym uniform and/or library book. This morning I finally found my cell phone charger in the Tupperware drawer.

Household appliances are not the only things getting shoved in the trunk. While I love dogs, I realize that not everyone does, so I have tried to create the illusion of a pet-free zone.  Apparently I am doing a convincing job, because I have to keep reminding myself that I actually DO have a dog. After a showing on Sunday, we dragged ourselves in the house to get dinner started.  About 20 minutes later, Emma says, “Where’s Ellie?”  We all ran out to the car to see Ellie’s face hanging out the back window with a look that said, “Are you serious?”  Later that night as I was turning out the lights before heading upstairs, I found Ellie glaring at me from the kitchen doorway: “Ok, now where the Hell is my bed?”

5. Stay Committed…But Don’t GET Committed: Yes the stainless-steel fridge should be free of fingerprints (vinegar + olive oil = magic!), but it doesn’t need to double as a mirror. While frantically scrubbing the inside of the microwave one morning, it suddenly dawned on me that potential buyers won’t be making popcorn or heating up leftovers.   Phil gently suggested that maybe I was going overboard when he caught me clipping lilacs off the neighbors lilac bush…in my pajamas….at 6am…in the rain.

Good thing he didn’t see me lug the Dyson outside so I could vacuum the leaves.

In a last minute decision, I ran in my first 5K race in about three years on Friday night.  It was a fundraiser for a great cause at the middle school.  My boys were running in it.  It was a lovely evening and I had been toiling at my desk all day.  I have gotten into shape in the last three months.  But oddly, none of those points was a worthy enough rationale for me to run.

I ran because I wanted to try out my new sneakers.

Yes, MoB readers, I couldn’t wait to lace up my sea foam green, springy Brooks running shoe and kick some new sneaker ass.  In fact, I was sure that my new purchase would make me a contender for fastest Mom (among a highly competitive crowd.)  For reals.

Well, the gold medal was not to be.  But I still had a great time running with my family and alongside my partner in crime, Mo.  And my feet felt good.  But the real consolation prize was inspiration for today’s blog.

Have you ever stopped to acknowledge those time-honored convictions which you developed around age 5, which still hold true in your mind today, despite overwhelming scientific evidence that they are complete bullshit?

Me neither.  Until now.

So dear readers, today I present to you:

10 Timeless Half Truths for Intelligent Adults

1. New sneakers make you run faster.
2. Covering your eyes during scary moments in your life will stop them from happening.
3. Making wishes on birthday candles, shooting stars or dandelion spores are still worth the effort.  (You never know.  Could come true)
4. The best part about baking anything is licking the bowl.
5. Some people actually do have cooties and should not be touched.
6. The first serving of peanut butter out of a fresh jar tastes one million times better.
7. A band aid noticeably decreases the pain of a superficial wound.
8. Sunglasses immediately raise your coolness factor by at least 10.
9. Stepping on a crack will indeed break your mothers back so avoid these at all costs. *
10. When you can’t get a gadget to work after working at it for an acceptable length of time, hitting or slamming it onto a hard surface might help.

I feel as if I am only scratching the surface here.  Surely there are behaviors you have been stealthily exhibiting through most of your adult life that you don’t want anyone to know about because they are rooted in childhood myths.  Share them here!  Kids – out your parents – its time to start embarrassing them back.

And everyone have a mature and sensible week.

While Phoebe napped and Emma ran around out back with the neighborhood kids, I curled up with my book and lost myself in its pages.  I literally could not put it down (even when the washing machine started beeping and dinner time loomed dangerously near.)  “This is such a treat!” I marveled. “It feels so decadent- better than The Real Housewives of New Jersey!  Why did I ever stop reading novels?”

And then I remembered why. It’s because I am a chicken shit.

The book – while not giving anything anyway – took a disturbing turn.    I knew I should stop reading…but I couldn’t.  I was in too deep; it was too late to turn back.  I soldiered on knowing I would pay for it later on.  Phil found me huddled in my chair and I practically jumped out of my skin when I finally became aware of his presence.  He knew what was up: “Oh great.  It’s going to be The Lovely Bones all over again.”

I have always had boundary issues when it comes to disturbing books or movies.  My mother would hide invitations for sleepover parties, because she knew whatever movie was shown – inevitably involving a Ouija board or a doll that stabs you in your sleep – would rob me (and her) of sleep for months weeks.  Even though intellectually I knew that these movies were make-believe, I struggled in erasing the images from my mind…and eventually they took on a life of their own.

When I was 10 years old I saw the TRAILER for The Exorcist.  That was it for me.  While my friends spent the rest of the summer waiting for school to start, I waited for Satan. At night I would lie in bed perfectly still under a heap of “protective” blankets, rivets of sweat collecting in the creases of my knees and elbows.  I was convinced that the soft rustling noise I heard was the footsteps of the devil incarnate coming to stab or strangle me. (It was my New Kids on the Block poster flapping in the breeze of the ceiling fan).  It became so consuming that my dad suggested I go talk to one of the priests at our church; he would set my mind at ease.

“Father Bob,”(names have been changed to protect the wildly incompetent) I asked. “Do you need to be bad/evil to get possessed, or is it totally random?”

“Random.  It can happen to anyone. Nothing you can do about it.”

Awesome.  Thanks for that, Padre.  I’ll be sure to call you at 3am when I start spewing green vomit.

Sadly, 25 years later, I am not all that different.  Captivating books such as Every Last One, The Lovely Bones, or Room prove to be TOO well-written; I can’t seem to separate myself from the characters and the unthinkable tragedy that befalls them.  The words fuel my worst fears, and my mind wants to go beyond what was written: “What was (the character) thinking the minute the man grabbed her arm?  Could she sense what was about to happen?  What were her last thoughts?  Did she feel pain?  What does death feel like?  Did she feel scared or is there a sense of peace?”

Then I begin to castigate myself. Why can’t I just read a book and enjoy it?  This can’t be normal.

So I asked my therapist (yes, I am putting this in here for all the people reading this who are thinking “wow, this chick really needs to see a therapist): “What’s wrong with me? Do I have OCD?”

He looked at me with bemused empathy: “No. I think you just have a really active imagination.”

Emma also has the mind’s eye of a Cyclopes.  She attends a Catholic school, and bedtime leading up to Easter was a real treat. For weeks she had nightmares about being buried and rising from the dead.  Poor kid. As if the Easter Bunny isn’t scary enough.

She and I will have discussions about the differences between fantasy and reality, but we both know these conversations are bullshit not very helpful.  I know that Kevin Spacey didn’t REALLY have Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in that box, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking about what it looked like.

So what’s the solution?  Even though I strictly monitor her media intake, I can’t put her (or me) in a happy bubble where scary things don’t exist.  Before I know it she is going to be at a sleepover party watching Children of the Corn, and then what?

A little research led me to some interesting suggestions.  Dr. Charlotte Reznick, author of The Power of Your Child’s Imagination, encourages parents to see an active imagination as a gift rather than a curse.  She claims that through breathing exercises and creative visualization, Emma can use the positive power of her imagination to reduce fear and anxiety.

The idea is to harness her powers for good and not evil.  Use the force.

At first I felt a little hokey trying these techniques out on Emma -the clichéd yoga teacher with her magic crystals and chakra wand.  But Emma LOVED it.  Not only that, she is really good at it.  I bought her a CD called Yoga Nidra for Kids of All Ages that she listens to when she has trouble settling down.  Recently, during a long traffic-filled car ride in which Phil had spilled coffee on my legs while scrambling for the EZ Pass, Emma decided that “our energy was too intense.”

“I will now lead us all in a Yoga Nidra,” she announced in a soft yet commanding voice. “Get comfortable…relax your fingers…now your toes.  Imagine we are on the beach.  Feel your feet sinking into the sand….”

“We not at the beach!” Phoebe interjects.

“Feel the sun on your face, hear the gentle ebb and flow of the ocean…”

“We not at the beach, Emma!”

“Lie down on your towel…feel your body sink into the sand.”

“What? Sand? Emma, we not at the beach!  We in the CAR!”

Something tells me that Phoebe will be able to watch Children of The Corn and sleep like a rock.

We fear things we can’t control.  The world is full of violence, sociopaths, and tragic scenarios.  Having kids makes the existence of these things 100 times more terrifying. But what I am learning is the one thing we do have power over is how and where we choose to use our channel our energy.  Seeing the mind as a tool that can be used in a myriad of ways has helped me understand this.  You can use a rope to pull yourself out of quicksand or to hang yourself with.

Which reminds me of this episode of Law and Order where this psychopath used a rope to tie up his victims and then…..