Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all the MoB readers who are celebrating on this glorious Wednesday.  Sadly, I will not be among you.  It’s not one of my holidays ,but I sort of wish it was.  Being Jewish, I have definitely missed out on the whole “saints” thing.   In the simplest form, and according to Wikipedia, saints are “individuals of exceptional holiness”.  And I am in favor of celebrating good people.   This got me thinking.  Saints exist all around us – it just depends on your perspective and how you define “exceptional” and “holy”.  So, lest I feel left out today, I came up with a few of my own non-denominational saints that I can celebrate on a regular basis.  Here are just a few:

St. Danica – The driver who chose to smile and wave at me after I accidentally cut her off because I was distracted by fighting brothers in the back of the mini-van.

St. Micro Geek  – The help desk person who fixed my lap top problems over the phone, without having to call me back or elevate my issue to the next level of support.

St. Wyeth – The inventor of Advil.  Need I say more?

St. Penny — The call center person who agreed to forgive my late credit card payment, taking the $35 late fee AND the interest off my balance immediately.

St. Marcus / St. Atticus / St. Joyce  – The doctor, lawyer and psychologist friends or friends of friends who have come to bat for me or my family, offering advice, assistance or just an ear, all pro bono because I asked.

St. Jimmie – The teenager at the Dairy Queen who really rolls my cone around in the chocolate sprinkles for a good long while to ensure maximum ice cream coverage.

St. Erik – Our babysitter who I can call up last minute on Saturday morning, praying he can hang out with the boys that evening.  He usually can.

St. Macy - The department store clerk who allowed me to use two coupons at once even though she was “not supposed to do this” .  Or the one who scanned her own coupon when I forgot mine. 

St. Sholl -  The pedicurist who dug her thumb into the center of my arch on Monday, releasing every ounce of tension in my body.

St. Fido of the Elements – Anyone who will walk my dog for me when it is raining.

So tell me MoB readers, who are the unsung saints in your life?  Sing about them here.

Does anyone else remember Earth Shoes?

They were hideous. Bulbous.  Caramel colored and custom-made for Bilbo Baggins.  The toe was higher than the heel.  How this made you a friend of the Earth, I’m not sure.  As I recall, my cousin Paul had a pair of Earth shoes in the 1970s, during his Jew-fro phase. 

Maybe it’s a rumor, but I heard that Earth shoes actually ended up really messing up people’s feet, along with their gaits and their prospects for one-night stands.  Now these dorky relics are selling for $150 online, especially the “new old stock” – stuff that never sold from stores, and was warehoused for decades.

There were cuter shoes in the 1970s.  Desert boots were great.  Mostly, guys wore these, but also some girls.  These were also called chukka boots.  J. Crew is hyping its Desert Boots now, which must look completely new and radical to those born after 1990.  They’re not, but go ahead and imagine that you, all you post-Baby Boomers,  have discovered them.

Then there were Wallabees.  I had a pair!  These were sort of the Uggs of the 1970s.  Ugly but comfy.

When dressing up, we girls of the 1970s wore Bear Traps, which had wooden soles and leather straps.  The photos I have found online when googling “Bear Traps” are all hideously pornographic, so forget the illustration.  Maybe I should have added “shoes” to my search.

Shoe styles, obviously, come and go.  Hugh reports that in high school, all the girls begin and end the year wearing flip-flops – which are relatively cheap, ranging from $3.99 to $24.00.  In between, they all wear Uggs, which are terribly expensive and look like the moon boots of yore.  When something dressier is in order, there are gladiator sandals, which I wish had never been re-discovered.

However, as ugly as women’s footwear fashions can be, men’s can be worse.  As long as guys never wear grey lace-up dance shoes again, I will be happy. 

If I told you that today Noah will begin a two year odyssey of painful and uncomfortable cosmetic procedures costing thousands of dollars so that he will become a more attractive individual, you might wonder why Dave and I would endorse such a thing.  Not only do we endorse it, we have saved money for it.  And we are fully prepared to put his brother through the same torture so he too can grow up to be a handsome man.

There is no medical justification as far as I know for these procedures.  Yet society – at least the microcosm of society in which we reside – dictates that it be done.  In any other context, what Noah is about to go through might be described as a series of cruelties.  Yet, we have a name for it – and with that name comes permission for parents to inflict a little agony on their children.  It’s called orthodontia.

Noah’s treatment will begin with the dentist yanking out 5 of his teeth in two separate sessions, the first of which is this afternoon.  (Incidentally, we were told last week that Chase needs 8 teeth pulled.  Good times.) Once he is toothless there is “room” in his mouth for the permanent teeth to come in, the doctor will permanently affix a palate expander to the roof of his mouth and every day for a week, Dave and I will take turns cranking this contraption to widen the workspace.  He will wear the palate expander for 6 months, then have metal bands and wires cemented onto his teeth plus who knows what else for about two years, and then the infamous retainer which he will lose I am guessing about 3 times.  If you combine the thousands of actual dollars with the time and aggravation spent on this process, it will equate to, uh, a 5 bijillion dollar smile.

So why do we do readily embrace this process?  Because straight teeth are culturally important, especially here in the United States where you could be judged unfairly if your teeth are going every which way.  Dave and I endured a similar course of action back in the day.  I think the boys are actually looking forward to it because it makes them feel grown up.

Have you ever watched in fascination at one of those National Geographic specials that features tribes in Africa that stretch their earlobes and lips?  Or read about the suffering of Chinese women who had their feet bound because tiny feet were considered attractive in theri culture?  I wonder if those people might look at us and what we do to our kid’s teeth and completely cringe, thinking we are serious barbarians?  (Don’t even get me started about circumcision, another little “ritual” we embraced when the boys were babies, because that is a blog post unto itself.)

But it still makes me wonder, if we were part of an African or Amazonian tribe where the lip plate was the norm, would we do it? 

Probably. 

Would you?

Writing about parenting is hard work, and not because of the reasons you might think. Sure, there is the struggle to find the right words to capture the broad spectrum of universal feelings and experiences.  We struggle with what to share and what to hold back. We dig deep into our souls to find the humor in the banal and the poignancy in the mundane.  But the hardest thing about writing about parenting is coming up with fresh material.  Because it’s basically all been done.  And most of it has been written about somewhere.

So you can imagine my delight when I stumbled across a parenting post yesterday that tickled my funny bone and had me sending physic kudos to the author, Parenting.com’s editor at large, Stephanie Dolgoff.  I was trolling CNN.com and came across the title:  “31 reasons you shouldn’t feel Mom guilt”.  Given yesterday’s post, you can surmise that I needed 100 reasons not to feel Mom guilt – but I figured I would start with 31.  

The post is really mis-titled.  It should read “31 things not to feel guilty about”.  Instead of the usual psycho-barf of mantras that typify these articles, Dolgoff hit the ball out of the park, rattling off a mother lode of confessions that I have never heard publicly before but have ricocheted around my mind for some time.  

My favorites?  Hard to pick one – but I can seriously bond with Dolgoff over numbers 1 – 5,  8 -11, 13-15, 17-20, 22 (yup), 24, 26, 28  and 30.  And for the record, number 12 takes the cake, even though I have never done this.   

Curious? 

Read the article here. 

Each one of these gems is worthy of its own blog post.  And I’m sure we all have ones to add.  If so, do share.  Here’s one from me:  I get insanely envious when a writer I do not know personally puts a parenting piece together that is clever and entertaining — and that writer is not me.   So in the spirit of not feeling blameworthy about the green monster sitting on my shoulder this morning,  here’s to Stephanie Dolgoff!

 Have a great – and guilt free – weekend!

The glow of Monday’s inaugural rock concert is gone and sadly the last two days in our home have been somewhat contentious.  They told me this day would come – the day when my sweet first born child would hit puberty and turn surly and sour for a few years, hopefully emerging into something resembling a human being before he leaves for college. It wasn’t as if I didn’t believe them.  I just chose not to think too much about it. 

Wait to worry.

My first boss lived by this mantra and I have embraced it as best as I can both professionally and personally. Because there is no shortage of tragedies big and small to worry about when you are a parent.  If you wait as long as possible to start wringing your hands, you save yourself a ton of anguish because 90 percent of the concerns work themselves out.  But I think the Age of Discontent is here to stay.  And I’m worried.

I’m worried that our family dynamic is in for seismic shift.  Noah feels misunderstood.  I feel underappreciated.  Dave feels irrelevant.  Chase feels ignored.  A single bad spell can wreak havoc on everyone.  Noah gets his horns twisted, utters a few obnoxious thoughts and Dave is usually the first to fall – and the last to recover.  Chase sees Noah’s behavior as an opportunity to grow a halo, offering advice to anyone who will listen about how to correct the situation to which we all respond in unison, NO ONE ASKED YOU!  At that point, I LOSE it and begin screaming obscenities. The Von Trapp family, we are not.  At least not anymore.

I’m worried that I have raised my child to be disrespectful, spoiled, and lazy.  How much of his behavior can be chalked up to teen angst and what is ingrained in his heart and mind?  I take comfort in watching him interact with other human beings in a kind way, but wonder why he saves none of the love or effort for his own flesh and blood.   Last night he complained that he only got one Wii game for Hanukah this year.  My retort that there are kids out there who cant afford a Wii fell on deaf ears.   He has no concept of what it is like to seriously go without, and I think that is a serious deficiency. 

I’m worried that I am ill equipped to adjust my parenting navigation system properly.  How do I lay down the law now without turning my home into the set of The Hurt Locker?   Is it too late to make changes or have I already ruined him?  Or am I right on track but just don’t know it because dry land is still too far away?

I’m worried I won’t have the energy to make it through this time.  I have always said that the first ten years of a child’s life are physically exhausting; the next ten years are emotionally exhausting.  I would be better off if it were the other way around.  I think I need an emotional trainer, someone who will help me build me stamina and strength to uphold my convictions, teach me the skills necessary to endure the next ten years, and promise me that if I do these things, it will all be okay.  I think they call this trainer a ”shrinky dink”.  I’m now accepting referrals.

The same boss from above also shared with me one other gem when I was pregnant with Noah.  In response to one of my expressions of insecurity about being a good parent he said, “You know what, Emily?  You have to try really hard to f@$% your kids up.  You are going to be fine.”

I hope he’s right.  I have no choice but to do my best and wait… to worry.

Car rides are where it’s at, when I need to have a meaningful chat with someone in my life.

Many parents know this trick.  To get your kid to open up, usher him or her to the automobile for some sort of longish errand, sit behind the wheel, pull off a complicated left turn, and throw out a casual observation or question while seeming to be paying only partial attention.

The distance between front seat and back seat, the lack of eye contact, and the buddy-movie equation tends to get the conversation flowing. 

Going back a generation, my mom knew this trick.  I remember the 120 mile drive west on I-70, heading to Kansas City to buy new school clothes, an annual odyssey of August.  It was probably the summer before senior year.  Despite the fact that no boys had ever asked me out, and despite my conviction that I was a skinny freak who would never attract the opposite sex, she knew better. 

As I recall, when we crossed the bridge over the Missouri River near Rocheport, she began a meandering, awkward lecture about boys, their goals vis a vis girls, and the dangers therein.  I was mortified, of course, and don’t remember anything specifically, except for the euphemistic conclusion.  ”You have to be careful, Jennifer, or some boy will wrestle you to the mat.” 

I’m sure I grunted something noncommital, inwardly thinking “As if!”  Or maybe “If only!”  Still, her melodramatic pronouncement definitely sank in.  Chris loves this quote, which only adds to his appreciation for my mom’s often brilliant wordsmithery.

The monotonous lull of I-70 seemed to bring out cautionary lectures among parents.    That same summer, a group of innocent girls piled into a car driven by our friend Caroline’s father.  We were bound for Six Flags Over Mid-Missouri.  Grey-haired and  ancient, Caroline’s dad was gruff and protective of his 8th child and only daughter.  I was shocked when he lectured us about watching out for predatory boys.  He actually said “You girls mark my words, boys will try to get down your pants” – another phrase I had never heard before.   Muffled gasps and giggles met his words.  But again, I remember those cautionary words and that ride to this day.  And sadly enough, it was Caroline who got pregnant shortly after graduating from her Christian college.   She kept the baby and tabled her dreams – a life-altering event indeed.

When Ian was a preschooler and had just learned about death, he asked me a long barrage of questions on the subject in the car.  I remember it vividly – the town we were driving through, Ian’s struggle to articulate abstract concepts, the surreal juxtaposition of banal landscape and sublime workings of a child’s mind.  

And when I want to have a long talk with Chris, the car is usually the best place.  If you’re the driver, there’s nothing else to do except listen to the radio, or talk.   We’ve had long, meandering, meaningful discussions while the miles roll away beneath.

At home, we’re distracted by computer screens, phone calls, unwashed dishes, unfolded laundry, unmade beds.  Someone is always buzzing around doing something, because there’s always something to do.  But the siren song of the computer is especially tempting. 

I hate talking to someone and seeing their eyes darting to the screen while they say “uh huh, uh huh.”  You know they’re not really taking in what you’re saying, they’re trying to trick you so you’ll stop moving your mouth and go away, after which point, they’ll retain little.

This does not make me unique.  I have a friend who sometimes barks at her uber-wonky husband, “Take your hand off the mouse and step away from the computer!”   A woman I know who has a high-powered lawyer husband once whisked him away on a surprise trip to Martha’s Vineyard, because she heard that there was poor reception there and his blackberry would be stilled.  I hope they had a least one or two dinners featuring all human conversation.

Cheaper than Martha’s Vineyard is the family car, which also enforces stillness and focus.  If you can prevent all the other forms of intrusive technology that have encroached into automobiles from butting in,  it’s still – in my mind – the best place to have an uninterrupted talk.

As your children get older, their “famous firsts” become fewer and far between; yet each milestone is far more memorable for them.  My boys will never be able to recall the uncertainty of their first steps, the pain of their first tooth or the thrill in our eyes at their first poop on the potty.

They will, however, remember their first rock concert. 

Last night Dave and I took the boys to see Five for Fighting at The Electric Factory, a standing room only venue.  We hit the trifecta – a great pre-concert family meal at Jones, a spot just a few feet from the stage to watch the show, and pictures and autographs following the performance.  And of course, the prerequisite concert tee which both boys asked if they could wear to school today.   The awesomeness was evidenced by Chase’s smug smile and Noah’s gang signs (makes my heart melt).

Dave called me Mama Bear as I protected our space so that the boys could see.  When one woman plopped herself right in front of poor Chase just moments before the show began, he looked at me with panic in his eyes.  I told her (very politely) to move.  Another couple was standing a little too close to us so I sang in their ears for the first three songs.  Another situation addressed quickly.  I wasn’t completely obnoxious — just committed to a good time.

I remember my first concert.  I saw Crosby Stills and Nash at the Mann Music center in Philadelphia.  At the time I was not familiar with their music, but I knew “Teach Your Children” and when the band stopped singing so that the audience could belt out the chorus a cappella, I was overwhelmed with the feeling of being a part of something bigger than myself.  I think the boys got the same feeling last night.

Times have changed since I was young.  My parents never took me to a rock concert, most likely because they couldn’t stomach whatever music I was listening to at the time.  Yet, I know many parents who have been to a concert with their kids in the last year.  Could that mean the generation gap has narrowed when it comes to musical taste?  I think perhaps yes – but only because we parents are willing to listen and enjoy new music today.  Kids certainly aren’t going backwards; we are moving forward.  My boys won’t listen to Billy Joel, Elton John or Bruce Springsteen (which I must sadly admit are now played on our local oldies station).  But Dave and I will tune into Nickelback, Linkin Park or Simple Plan.  (My condolences go out to those parents of Miley Cyrus fans.  That is one concert I will never be forced to have the opportunity to attend.)

Last night was a fantastic first for the boys — and for Dave and me.   Not only do our kids “firsts” become less frequent as they age, but so do the number of milestones that we can experience with them. 

As the boys posed for this picture with John Ondrasik, I leaned over and thanked him for giving us music that we can enjoy as a family.  His stuff is edgy enough that it’s interesting, but soulful enough that our ears don’t bleed.  I highly recommend all of his CDs but the latest one, Slice, is especially good for family harmony in the car.

I think everyone is ready for an encore. 

A very exclusive Academy voted last night, choosing winners of Hollywood Awards.

No, not the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.  The Reynolds Academy of Cinema-Goers and Netflix Pickers.

Chris, Ian, Hugh and I gathered in the kitchen to watch the big show.   Malcolm is more interested in Facebook.

We agreed that Steve and Alec were excellent together, and we even liked the big dance production number that is usually just a huge embarrassment.  Ian’s eyes went back and forth from his Mac screen to the TV screen, as he read Twitter and blogs for instant commentary.

Hugh kept track of his predictions of winners from the Wall Street Journal, which he had filled out during our wonderful lazy beach getaway this weekend (thank you to our great friends, you know who you are).

Chris was impersonating PricewaterhouseCoopers, tapping numbers into his laptop, doing the weekly finances.

I suppose that makes me Joan Rivers, keeping up commentary on hairdos and evening gowns.

For the first time in recent memory, we had, among us, seen most of the big nominated films.  Just the other night Chris, Hugh and I watched The Hurt Locker and were….blown away by it.

Just last Sunday, Chris and I went to see Up in the Air (despite being advised by our friend Leslie, who is an actual voting member of  the AMPAS, to wait for what used to be called video).  We loved that too. 

The boys had seen Avatar and that Nazi movie with the stupid spelling and several others.

So.  The point is, we were all invested and interested.  We did come up with our own awards, however.

Best chin:  Hands down, Quentin Tarantino.

Best Hair – the white-maned guy who was sitting behind Quentin.  Who WAS that, anyway?  The telecast should be required to tell us who is on camera if they are this unusual looking.

Recipient Who Most Resembles our Neighbor – T Bone Burnett.  Trust me, he looks exactly like the guy down the street.  Major credit to Ian for pointing this out and cracking us up.

Most Powerful Speech:  Mo’Nique. 

Least Exposure to Sunlight:  The sound guy from the Hurt Locker.  He was so pale, he doesn’t even show up in any photographs from last night.

Best Use of Unusual Material in a Dress;  Jennifer Lopez.  Hugh swore her dress was made from bubble wrap.

Ian stayed up, but the rest of went to bed before the big winners were announced.   Here are our final awards:

Biggest upset:  Sandra Bullock.  We’re upset that she won.

Most exciting win:  Kathryn Bigelow.   Queen of the World!

Did you ever notice that grandmothers are supposed to be all old and annoying with grey hair – and our grandmoms aren’t like that at all?

Yeah. Seriously.

Truer words have never been spoken. 

Today, Grammy turns 70 years old and I know she is a bit mortified by the milestone.  They say that 70 is the new 60, but I don’t buy it.  Spending time with my mother-in-law is like hanging out with a girlfriend, which makes 70 the new 40.  I can only hope that someday when I am a grandma (God willing), I can pull off 70 with the same fun, energy and grace that she does.

Grammy, far right, and the "fam"

What ever happened to that sedentary, grey-haired grandmother from yesteryear?   It would be easy to say that scientifc advances in hair color treatment have rendered these creatures extinct.  But it’s more than the hair.  Today’s grandparents got game.   For her birthday today, Grammy wants to take the boys to drive golf balls, maybe do a little shopping, and spend the evening ripping into lobsters. At some point, she will check her email.  And as far the teetotalling granny stereotype, fuggedaboudit.  Our grammy can always be counted on to pose the question everybody wants asked:  “Is it too early for a glass of wine?”  

Just two weeks ago, Lisa ran her first 5 miler, outside in the cold, and kicked some serious butt.  By that I mean, her mile pace was faster than Dave’s!  (Sorry, hon I needed to make some comparison.  I still think you are VERY fast.)

So there are many women in their 40s who run.  Big deal, right?  But growing up shall we say that Lisa never embraced her inner athlete?  We shall.  Maybe she didnt have the self assurance to do sports; maybe she didnt have the competitive drive. But I can say with complete confidence that today she could beat all us former athletes in a race.  Lisa didn’t have to run in the cold; she didn’t have to run at all.  But jeesh – she did and at 42 she has reinvented who she is!  I am so proud of her.  (Now I just have to get her to start writing and my work will be done. Hint, Hint)

Happy Birthday to two amazing women who humble me in their ability to stay forever young.   Grammy, Lis –  if you suddenly hear someone behind you, don’t be alarmed. That would be me trying to follow in your footsteps.

 Clubs are an interesting cultural phenomenon, changing with the times.   One of my grandmothers was a member of The Friendly Club, which got together mostly to eat.  Another was a member of the Homemakers Club, which convened to discuss housekeeping and crafting tips. 

I would gladly join the first, but not the second.  Luckily for me, times have changed, and book clubs, at which you eat, have been all the rage during my adult years.  Here’s a book report on my book club experience.

SETTING:  I loved the first book club I was in.   I hung in there for nearly 20 years, but it became untenable because after we all married and left the city, I was the only one who lived in this particular  neck of the woods.  Driving for an hour alone by myself in snowstorms and summer heat – and then back again – finally got too old.  Besides, I was also in a book club in my own neighbhorhood.  This club dates back to when I was pregnant with Malcolm, so that’s 13+ years now.

CHARACTERS:  In terms of make-up of the group, any new members must be unanimously voted in.  If anyone has a true hesitation, the nominee is out.  Our book club is not a place for petty politics (we get enough of that at work, church and school) or for competition.  It’s a sacred trust.  We all have to like, respect, and enjoy each other.  

We have had some drama in our own cast of characters.  In my old group, there was a screaming match between a very high-strung woman (Catholic) who thought another woman (Jewish) was dissing her religion, and had been doing so for years.  Things finally came to a head, as the rest of us watched in horror, in a very lovely living room that I’m sure had never seen such contention.  The Catholic woman was deeply ashamed and summarily quit, via postcard.  We never saw her again.

In that same group, there was the unhappily married mother of two who got a job volunteering at a theatre – and ran off to Ireland with one of the actors.  She’s still there, to this day.  Everyone endlessly asked, how could she leave her little children?  Her story has become legend.

My current group has known tragedy, when the irreverent and spirited Wendy lost her battle with breast cancer.  Wendy is legendary too.

PLOT:  Here’s how our club operates.  We only choose books a few months ahead.  I know some clubs draw up their reading lists for the entire year in January.  But by the time you discuss December’s book, and somebody read it back in April, doesn’t the discussion suffer due to memory loss? 

We meet at different houses, on rotation, usually decided by email as the date approaches.  We can only meet at my house in the summer, because our house is old and uninsulated, sound travels too well, and our talking and laughing keeps the boys awake too late on a school night.  We love to meet at Kathleen’s house in the summer too, because she has a pool and her husband makes pitchers of exotic drinks for us.

Some people have perfect meeting houses – enough parking, good insulation, lots of comfy chairs – others have drawbacks like mine.

We try to discuss the book for a respectable period of time before inevitably branching out into family, in-laws, crazy neighbors, college applications, what the teenagers are really up to, etc.

We don’t do dinner meetings.  With an 8 PM start time, it’s strictly wine, seltzer, snacks, fruit, cookies.  Sometimes we have themes, like the time Anne served marshmallow peeps because we were discussing The Diary of Samuel Pepys, and she served Pimms Cups, because they are so English.

That was our most contentious book.  Lots of women in the group hated Samuel.  We also went thumbs down on Eat Pray Love (another of my choices, thanks a lot, gals), and a book that was co-written by two women called Ugly Cookies (never, ever read a piece of co-authored fiction).

We have learned that the best discussions arise from unloved books.  That’s where the debate is.  Controversy is lively.  Agreement is boring.

CONCLUSION:  Life without book club would be immeasurably bleaker.  And, to plagiarize from every elementary school book report ever written,  if you want to find out what happens at the end, you have to read the book.