This is actually where I am this week — much needed.  Be back next week — hope its a good one for everyone!

Yesterday, my father arrived 45 minutes early for our scheduled Father’s Day breakfast. Dave and the boys were already off for a day of paint balling so we had arranged that Dad would swing by at 9:30 a.m. and we would grab a bite.   He called at 8:40 to let me know he would be in my driveway in 5 minutes.  I said, “Great. I‘m ready to go.”

And I was.

I saw that phone call coming a mile away.  My father is notoriously early.  And thus, so was I,  having gotten up and dressed about an hour before the phone rang.  As promised, five minutes later he rolled up in his 1992 Honda accord.  My Dad is proud of many things in his life – this car is one of them.  With over 200,000 miles, it lacks, shall we say, the comfort and quiet ride of a modern day vehicle.  But, by golly, it runs and that’s reason enough to keep it to “drive“around town.”  Because why on earth would he inflict any additional wear and tear on the Lexus Hybrid  he finally broke down and bought himself a few years ago?   Yes indeed, I saw the Honda coming right after the early phone call and even though I knew the answer, I took a chance and asked:

“Dad, do you want me to drive?  After all, its Father’s Day?”

Of course, he refused as his car was “already pointed in the right direction.”  Even at 75 years old, Dads like to drive.  He is an excellent driver and as I said after all its Father’s Day so I climbed in the Honda Jalopy and off we went.

I had only two demands of Dad for this day.  The first is that he would pick the place where we would eat.  The second is that I would treat.  He agreed easily to the former and reluctantly to the latter, choosing  a very large, very busy diner a few miles from my home.  Dad has always been of the mindset that the quality of the restaurant is directly proportional to the size of the menu.  The more choices, the better.  I had no argument here.

When we pulled up to the diner and saw throngs of people waiting outside, I saw him tense. Dad hates waiting for anything, especially food.     I encouraged him to park the car and I would put our name in.  He obliged and joined me in the waiting area of the diner where I happily shared with him that the wait was only going to be 15 minutes.  To me, this was hardly a wait at all.  But I could see the wheels turning in his head, reliving every experience in his life when the hostess told him 15 minutes and it was 45.

“Maybe we should go somewhere else,” he said.

Even though this was his day, I pushed back gently, suggesting that leaving was a bad idea, that anywhere else would be just as crowded, and 15 minutes is really not that long in the grand scheme of life.  He was skeptical but agreed.  And thank goodness sure enough, were seated within the time frame we were given.   Our waitress handed us our menus and went to get me some coffee while Dad embarked upon a strategic ordering discussion worthy of the joint chiefs of staff. The amn knows his way around a menu.

At that point our waitress returned with my coffee and Dad ordered before she could escape.  Elapsed time since we sat down:  A minute and thirty seconds.  Our food came even faster and as we divided and conquered our breakfast, we covered a ton of ground:  my work, the boys, his investments, my mortgage, upcoming vacations, and the schedule for the next few weeks.  Conversation flowed easily.   Dad and I have never been victim to the pregnant pauses – maybe that’s because the meals we share don’t go longer than 10 minutes, but I think we could keep up the conversation for a while if given a chance.

As we were leaving, Dad mentioned that there was an email he had sent earlier in the week that he wasn’t sure had gone through.  He wasn’t sure where the “sent” folder was and couldn’t check to see if all was ok.  So when he dropped me at the house, I pulled up his email account on my computer and verified that yes – it had gone through.  He was relieved.

He quickly took his leave from me, having things to do at home.  His bathroom needed cleaning and there was overall straightening up to be done.  His parting words of wisdom were to look into re-financing TODAY because interest rates are going up – and invest in the S&P 500.  It’s not sexy but overtime it will pay off.

Roger that.

There was nothing remarkable about this day.  Dad and I have had many meals together over the years – and this one was no different. It was chock full of his endearing idiosyncrasies and my heartfelt indulgences.  If you asked me to script the morning before it started, I would have nailed 95 percent of it.  I imagine this holds true for many adult children with regards to their parents. Could you script a conversation with your Dad before it happened?   Do you like that script?  Would you change it if you could?

Would I have my Dad show up on time in the Lexus with a Zen like attitude about patience and a sudden desire for dim sum instead of diner fare?  Would we have endless talks about the great philosophers rather than five minute raves about great financial advisors?  Would he be a whiz at email and have an active Twitter feed?  Would he read my blog – or even understand how to get here?

Would any of these changes tether us closer than we are today?  Maybe.  Are my Dad’s quirks anything more than fodder for gentle ribbing and secret roasting with my siblings? Not really.  Do I hope someday that my boys will forgive my daily trespasses which are no starting form in their infancy?  Indeed.

It is amazing how liberating it is when you decide that you don’t need to change your parents — probably even more so than when you decide you don’t need to change your kids.  The amount of energy that is transferred from angst and frustration to appreciation and simple enjoyment is powerful indeed.

At 75, Dad has earned his right to do things his way. With so many friends not having the chance to spend Father’s Day with their Dads, I feel grateful to be able to tag along – even if it means a 10 minute breakfast 45 minutes earlier than I expected via a car 2o years past its prime.

Here’s to all the fatherly quirks out there.  May they continue to thrive and remind us all from where we came.

I received the news in early April via a text message from my husband.

Ellen just announced her retirement.

Oh no. When?

June.

“Ellen” is Dr. Ellen Milgrim, the long-time principal of Wallingford Elementary School where both our boys spent their formative grade school years.  She is also the boss of Dave (I know most of you thought I was the boss of him, but no) as he has been teaching there for the last 16 years.  Of course we all knew this day would arrive; I’m not sure we thought it was going to be THIS year or THIS rapid, but here we are.  Nothing like ripping off that bandage as quick as possible to minimize the pain!  But I am certain she was thoughtful in her approach and timing.  Why should her retirement be any different than anything else she has done?

To say Dr. Milgrim is beloved here in our little town is to speak the simplest of truths.  Her work as an educator, administrator and mentor has lifted up all who have had the privilege to engage with her.  Ellen has defined our school district in the most exemplary manner and our community collectively functions at a higher level because of the contribution she has made.  She has, perhaps  unknowingly,  transcended her role as principal, rising above the day to day duties of running a school and making a difference in the lives of so many.

So how does one achieve such a feat?

I’m sure my community could construct a long list of Ellen’s traits and qualities that have endeared her to us.  Words like kind, smart, empathetic, confident, funny and insightful would easily roll off the tongues of colleagues, parents, children and alumni.  But lest you think we’ve developed a commoditized profile worthy of match.com, you should know that there is something more.  I have thought about this for some time, trying to transform the feelings in my heart into words in my head.  And it comes down to the simple message that Ellen has delivered each and every day since she has been here with us.

Her message is:  You matter.

I can’t imagine she has explicitly stated those words to the thousands of people she has touched, but the point has been conveyed loud and clear to each and every one of us.

The children of Wallingford Elementary School know they matter because Ellen knows them all by name.  Thousands of students.  Every class.  Every year.  For nearly 20 years.  She greets them in the morning and sends them off in the afternoon.   And not only does she know “John” and “Jennifer” but Ellen knows that John is a great writer and Jennifer is a visual learner and Felix is nothing like his older sister, Ramona and Teddy is struggling with some issues at home.  These kids aren’t just educated.  They are “seen.”

The parents know we matter because we see her car parked in the empty school lot on evenings and weekends, especially in the summer months  when it’s time to match students with teachers for the following year.  We know Ellen has her eye on every placement.  The child centric policies she has put forth at the school — like siblings getting different teachers — are flexible enough to meet the needs of a diverse populace.  A meeting with The Principal at WES is not an exercise in anxiety but one in collaboration.  I cant imagine anyone leaving her office not believing that they are all on the same team.

The teachers who report to her – I am married to one – know they matter because they are given the latitude to educate in a manner that best suits them and their students.  Dave experiments every year with his class. One year, he gave up having desks for an entire month.  He encourages gum chewing on test days.  His kids are blogging and making movies and holding poetry slams at the local coffee shop.  Ellen doesn’t say “yes” to everything (no, the kids cannot stand on top of their desks anymore), but she wholeheartedly supports a spectrum of teaching styles, demonstrating respect for her staff’s varying approaches and philosophies.

I could easily go on.  I know there are countless stories out there that bring to life all the ways Ellen let us know that we mattered.  The list of people who have done the same for me, (aside from those who are legally obligated to do so). are few and far between.  And isn’t that all we really want and need on this earth?   To matter?

My work schedule is such that I won’t be able to take part in much of the farewell festivities this coming week so in this space I needed to tell Ellen that she has mattered to me.  To my sons. To my husband.  To my community.

Dr. Ellen Milgrim doesn’t walk on water.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  Ellen has risen above because she is so firmly grounded.   She has led so many of us on a path of growth and love, never too far ahead and often stopping to assure us in her calm and confident way  that  we are going in the right direction.  So as Ellen takes those first steps onto a new road to a different life, I can only hope that the ground is soft beneath her bare feet – for she has not only left behind a legacy, but also her very large shoes to fill.

xxoo

Bad situations make the best stories.

I am a firm believer that as long as no one winds up permanently maimed, killed or orphaned, unfortunate circumstances are often a huge gift in disguise, one that keeps on giving long after the worst is over and every last victim is made whole again.  And nowhere is that more true than in the world of parenting.

The folklore that is passed from generation to generation regarding the vast array of travails, big and small, poignant and nonsensical, heartbreaking and humiliating is an all important thread that helps weave us closer to our family.  From ruined vacations to birthday parties gone bad to hapless trips to the emergency room, these stories are more than entertainment; they are allegories, with morals to be shared and hopes that the listener might learn from past mistakes.

“And THAT, my son is why you never wipe your butt with a REDDISH green leaf when you are camping.”

There is one type of fable that seems to be particularly effective and resonant with my sons.  These are the stories rooted in the theme “The Time Mom got in Big Trouble.”  It may be because I spin a particularly good yarn, but I suspect the stickiness of the lessons are hinged on the sheer delight at the thought that their mother (a.k.a. their guiding compass of morality) could ever have been any kind of awful and that their grandmother (who adores just about everything they do even when its borderline psychotic) could ever have called bullshit and brought the full force of authority down on my sweet little head.  Regardless, these are stories that the brothers don’t seem to mind hearing more than once when the timing is right and a gentle warning is worth heeding.

One of our most famous and favorite stories is based on a large can of Del Monte Fruit Cocktail.  Back in the day, this delectable treat made an appearance at our dinner table once a week or so.  Mom was always careful to divide it evenly among my older sister, younger brother and me – each one of us getting equal amounts and the requisite half maraschino cherry in our bowls.  I don’t remember what evil demon overtook me the night of the story in question, but for some reason, I thought that sharing the can was entirely beneath my middle child stature.  I wanted the whole thing – and was prepared to go to the mat to keep all that syrupy goodness from my siblings.

My mother could have easily told me “no.” That happened a lot.  But instead she counseled me that the can was very large – with plenty to go around – and I was being selfish.  I held my ground as she continued to play along.  Mom told me that, yes, I could have the entire can to myself that night but I would have to eat it all in one sitting.  I had won!  My sister and brother looked on miserably as I accepted the challenge and dug in – eating all those half maraschino cherries first, then moving to the juicy peaches, and slowly turning my sights on the pears.

Surely when my Mom said I had to eat the whole can, she didn’t mean the pears!  But yes indeed she did.  And I sat at the dinner table for the rest of night alone while my siblings pranced around me and the largest bowl of canned pear cubes ever, now mixed with my crocodile tears and a healthy side of good riddance.

The Del Monte Fruit Cocktail story has become my legacy.

It has been told to my boys many times over the years when “sharing” seems like a bad idea.  It has stood the test of time alongside of the “Don’t Feed the Dog from the Table” story which stars my older sister who found herself eating spaghetti off the floor one night after failing to abide by this important family rule.  My childhood is a jukebox of these tales – and I credit my parents for having the creativity to invoke such original punishments and mettle to see them through, which brings me to my current cause for concern.

I do not punish my children enough.

Forget about being creative – we don’t even do the boring stuff well.  As I thought about the stories that they will someday tell their children about how grandmom really gave it to them for this or that, I have come up completely empty.  Our parenting style is so much different than our parents, and does not lend itself to any type of grand retelling.  Tales of war and battle  are far more compelling that sagas of negotiation.   My boys have yet to be grounded for a year, have never been forced to eat pet food, and we have never locked them in the dog crate or duct taped them to any piece of furniture.  At best, I have on occasion unleashed a string of profanity at them until their little ears started to turn red and I knew my work is done.

But what kind of story does that make?

Time is running out for Dave and I to get our game on and instill some awesome punishments worthy of Noah and Chase recounting them someday to our hypothetical grandchildren in a lesson to school them on right and wrong. How else are they going to learn?

Let this be fair warning to you boys:  Before you even think of going down a treacherous path with us in the next few months, just remember the four little words that are loitering in my mind, waiting for you:

Once. Upon. A. Time.

I found out about Chase’s relationship status last week standing in line for water ice. He was a few miles away at a drum lesson at the time. But as I waited with his brother, a Mom of one of his friends informed me that he had a new girlfriend. I had suspected as such, but he had neither confirmed, denied nor offered up any information in the last several weeks that would have put me out ahead of the community knowledge curve.  Still, I was grateful for the intelligence. Otherwise, he may have fallen in and out of love a few more times before I had a chance to pop my head into the cone of silence and set up shop.

Perhaps the mother really is the last to know.

I would buy into that credo if not for Chase’s older brother who is far more generous with sharing the elements of his life. With Noah, I am often the first to know about his victories, challenges, and musings – both happy and troubled. We talk things through, make plans to address to speed bumps, and carry on our separate lives, lightly but firmly tethered. I know I have a life line to Chase as well, but it is just much, much longer and takes far greater skill to reel him in.

Why one child is so connected and the other aloof is another post for another day.

In Chase’s defense, the topic of “girlfriends” is not one that simply rolls off the tongue in casual conversation with your mother, especially if she hasn’t been in the loop from the beginning. Revealing that you “have one” or “no longer have one” must always feel as though you pulling the pin on an emotional grenade and handing it over, praying to God that it’s a dud as the last thing you want is your mother selflessly throwing herself upon you with only your safety in mind. I try hard not to be that Mom. But the fact of the matter is, fessing up is embarrassing. I get it. Most of my children’s love life will (and should) be off limits to me. But I really would like to know their fundamental status before the neighborhood does.

If Chase invoked his fifth amendment rights only when it came to matters of the heart, I could cope. But the kid gives up very little else voluntarily. Yes, he always answers my questions; and I ask many each day. But if left unprompted, he could probably go days, even weeks without relaying a single pertinent detail about his world outside the walls of our home.

Unfortunately, all of my ideas to alleviate the communications barriers between us are likely more mortifying than the barriers themselves.

• A suggestion box-like model where anonymous notes offering pertinent information can be discreetly dropped…
• A safety word which when uttered indicates there is a conversation to be had…
• The formal deputizing of his older brother who, if called into service, would like nothing more than to rat out speak on behalf of his little bro.

Alas, none of these suggestions promise to yield much more than a raised eyebrow and a scurrying away before Mom really goes off the deep end.  My husband fails to take any issue with Chase’s silence because, well… let’s just consider apples and trees.

Which leaves me alone with my thoughts and a familiar question I often ask myself when I am toiling with an issue around which everyone else seems just fine: Whose problem is this anyway?

The answer is always the same: It’s mine.

The range of feelings that wash over me when I make a late discovery about my children spans the spectrum from amusement to real hurt, with the latter rooted in my ongoing need for relevancy. Being relevant – or “mattering” – doesn’t come into parental play until the kiddos begin making their own decisions around issues where once you had a dictatorship. Being relevant is really easy when you are living their lives for them.  As soon as they have a say – and don’t want or need your input – it is a clear sign that your work is done. At least for the time being.  Dealing with that reality is all in the attitude.

You can wring your hands and sob:  He doesn’t need me. Gulp. Sniff

Or you can jump for joy: HE DOESN”T NEED ME!!!!! Woooot!

I think over time we as parents transition from mourning our children’s independence to celebrating it. And I am somewhere smack in the middle of that personal shift. It is not lost on me that – at their ages of 13 and 15 — there are more and more elements of their lives that I DON’T want to know about than do. I guess I just still want to decide what’s fair game and what’s off limits.

But the new reality is that – at least with Chase — I am on a need to know basis – ironically knowing less but needing more. And as with every passing phase, I will not hold back the inevitable, but rather let it wash over me as we move further down this path called life.

That night when Chase arrived home from his drum lesson, I recounted the conversation I had with the other Mom and pulled a fake hissy fit about being the last to know. He smiled sheepishly, admitting that the news was indeed about a week old (although I think he mercifully shaved off some time so that I wouldn’t feel as badly.)  And he agreed to get me the information first next time,before quickly launching into a lecture about the injustice and subsequent perils of going out for water ice without him. It seems we both have some work to do about keeping each other in the loop.   And, we still need each other – at least for a little while longer.

This coming Wednesday I am honored and privileged to be co-presenting three back-to-back sessions on the topic of blogging at Dimensions in Living 2013. Impressive  sounding, yes? Indeed, it is.  But I know what you are wondering:  What, pray tell, is this Dimensions in Living of which I speak?

A.  An in-depth workshop on creativity and mindfulness?

B.  An exclusive forum of individuals seeking to embrace the spirit of carpe diem?

C.  A mind over matter symposium to change your life by changing your perspective?

Well, dear MoB readers, the answer would be D – none of the above.  Despite its moniker, Dimensions in Living is none of these new wave, new age events.   In fact, it is far nearer and dearer to your hearts than you could have ever imagined.   Dimensions in Living is Career Day.  At our local middle school.  Where Chase is a seventh grader.

At some point along the way, some important person  thought that calling this annual mash up of parents coming to school to talk about what we do “Career Day” was too limiting… or too broad…  or too offensive…  or  too suggestive…  or too clear.

I’m hoping it was the latter.  Because for the life of me, I can’t find any fault with “Career Day.” So I have to believe someone wanted a fancy upgrade that would be unique to our school district.  If that’s the case, then the re-branding of the Career Day has been a resounding success.  Only the people in our small town who share DNA with a middle school student knows what Dimensions in Living means.  And it isn’t the first name change initiated to confuse parents like me.

Did you know that there is no longer a class called Home Economics?  It is now called Family Consumer Sciences.  (The cool kids say FamConSci.)  There is no Home Room.  My son goes to his Connections class. Wood Shop is Tech Education.  English is Language Arts.  The PTA is now Home & School.  And simply uttering the words Junior High School is a dead giveaway that you are in your mid 40s.  Its all Middle School all the time. Word.  Uh, or words…

I am certain there is good reason behind all these name changes other than to make us parents feel more old, less hip.  Perhaps fancier is better and raises all of us up to a higher ground.  If that is the case, then why stop at Career Day?  Why not rename EVERYTHING to better reflect the intricacies and complexities that are embedded in the world of K-12 education?  Where should we start?

Math = Numeric Neuro-Synthesis

Detention= Post Academic Custody

Snow Day= Precipitative Interlude

Gym Class= Metabolic Acceleration Hour

Homework= Nightly Parental Seminars

Recess = Atmospheric Exposure Occasions

Hall Pass = Trespassing Waiver

History = Hindsights

Teacher = UberMentor

Lunch Lady = Culinarian for the Masses

Library = Google

I could go on but I have to turn my attention to my presentation for Dimensions in Living.  The stakes are indeed as high as the name of the event suggests.  Should I misstep or misspeak the dimensions of my son’s middle school life could be irreparably altered for the worse.  Thankfully, he offered some sage and timeless advice:

Pavlovian Motivation?  Nah – just candy, me thinks.  Some things will always speak for themselves.

As the mother of only brothers, I rarely ever find myself in the hip young women’s clothing stores.  I stroll by Forever 21, Free People, Limited Too on my way to the Vans store  at the mall without ever giving more than a passing glance as to what might be inside these outlets. I really don’t  need or want to know.  I have all my friends who are mothers of tween and teenage daughters to share the gory details of shopping expeditions inside these jungles of pubescent apparel and angst.  The fact that I have never had to re-enter these stores once I had children made me feel quite lucky indeed.  Until this past week – when I needed something hip to wear for a party.

Suddenly I found myself woefully insecure about my right to cross back over the threshold into a world I left over 15 years ago.   Still, I had to try.  And after all, I’m kind of a cool Mom.  I know who Jay-Z is.  I knew all the United Colors of Benetton once.   Surely that gives me a fighting chance.

My establishment of choice was none other than Urban Outfitters.   I always had good luck there back in college!  Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so bad.  But, just in case my field trip to the Fountain of Youth might be a little chilly, I went alone.  It was a wise move.

For my first foray back, I kept my expectations reasonable.  All I wanted to buy was a nice, flowy top to wear with a pair of jeans.  Upon entering the store, I was thrilled to be faced with a sea of such garments, hung on various racks in the women’s section.  This was going to be fun!   I dove in.

Rack Number One had an array of gauzy shirts that were colorful, loose-fitting and ….entirely transparent.  Not to be deterred (I KNOW how this works), I looked further back behind the invisible garments o find the matching cami’s that would obviously go under them.  Some clever cross selling trickery indeed!   But apparently the good folks at Urban Outfitters don’t want my $19.99 for a cami because there were none to be found.  They would prefer I wear my best bra underneath.  How empowering that would be if I had a best bra!   Moving on…

Rack Number Two offered an even wider selection of colors and patterns featuring the trendy “peek-a-boo” shoulder.   Ah, now were talking!  I used to rock this look back in the 1990s.  But somehow between then and now the “peek” doubled in size, making the “boo” truly frightening.  No longer does one get a tiny, lingering hint of a bit of bare shoulder.  Nope – you get a full frontal of the ENTIRE arm – flab and all.  Scary.

Rack Number Three was truly promising.  There I was treated to a number of adorable shirts that you couldn’t see through and were stitched together from top to bottom.  They were long enough that they covered my tummy and at least half of my tush.  Respectable, I thought as I cheerfully gathered up two or three of these shirts to bring back to the dressing room.  Wondering what the brand name was on these gems, I glanced at the sign on the rack which told me in no uncertain terms that these amazing shirts were actually dresses.  And then the sign snickered.  I swear it did.  Back went the “dresses” and I moved on to a final option.

Rack Number Four lacked the flowy, Bohemian look I was going for, but I was encouraged by the sign which clearly confirmed that I was indeed looking at “shirts.” They were pretty, cotton simple tees that perhaps I could dress up with a scarf or jewelry.  I looked towards the accessory area to see what might be over there and was surprised by the distance I had traveled since the beginning of my quest.   Why were the accessories now on the other side of the store?  I’ll tell you why.   I was in the Men’s section.

At this point I surrendered to the cold, hard fact that I had no business shopping in this store – or any other store that blasts Jay-Z.  I am old and no longer hip.  Dejected, I shuffled over to the gift section and picked up a fake mullet, Zombie magnetic poetry and some bacon flavored lollipops for the boys.  At least the trip wasn’t a total loss.  The silliness of the gifts cheered me and as I left the store, I meditated on the fact I may not be able to pull off 22 anymore, but I do a pretty good 44!  Not every Mom would go for that fake mullet – or have the guts to shop at a store meant for women half her age.

I gave myself a ton of credit for trying.  Perhaps I would refresh an old look in my closet for the party this week – or have a personal shopper at Nordstrom’s bring me items that compliment my figure and insult my wallet.  Yeah baby.  I will NEVER have to come into this store to shop for clothes again.  My anonymous voyage was now OVER .  And at least no one was there to bear witness to my lessons learned.

I turned to walk out and into the bright sunshine of the afternoon with my head high and my confidence renewed.  Onward!  At which point I walked smack into the window adjacent to the actual door.  I looked around sheepishly, thought briefly of the security guards whooping it up when they review the tape, and swallowed that last bite of humble pie.  Gulp.

It went down smoothly as I walked into the parking lot, my eyes fixed firmly on the horizon and the warm glow of a familiar and comforting sign in the distance…

I took my first post- Boston bombing train trip last week.   All of my heightened defenses that had slowly and painfully softened over the last decade had returned as I stood on the Wilmington platform waiting for Amtrak 111 to Washington D.C. to arrive.  I had miscalculated, purchasing a business class ticket during rush hour.  Business class is the first passenger car on the train.  And any terrorist with a brain would target THAT car because of its potential to derail the entire line of cars behind it.  And morning rush hour?  That was also probably in the terrorist handbook when targeting commuters, giving their attacks a much better opportunity to impact as many people as possible AND hurt the stock market opening.  To top it all off, there was a very suspicious fellow waiting about five feet away for the same train.

The public safety jingle reverberated in my head as I imagined the conversation that would take place between me and the transit cop meandering about at the other end of the platform.

Well of course it doesn’t   Nothing normal feels right to me these days.  Or probably to any of you.  The train arrived.  I sighed and boarded, right behind Backpack Dude.  An hour and 35 minutes later, we arrived in Washington, on time and unharmed.

 *****

Lately I have been pondering the question:  Is the world is ACTUALLY more dangerous than when I was a little girl, or are we  just much more informed, and therefore more paranoid, about the daily atrocities that await us?

Back in 1975, when I was just shy of seven years old, a girl about my age was kidnapped from a busy road and subsequently murdered in my town.  The killer was never found.  I remember her name – Gretchen Harrington – because of all the conversations that took place in our neighborhood and schools.  It was first time I had heard the word “kidnap” and “rape.”  And when I understood that there was a man out there who took little girls away, I wouldn’t go upstairs in my home by myself without a parent for weeks.

My mother assured me I was safe.  I seem to recall her becoming exasperated at some point after yet another one of my refusals to head up to my room.  I had nothing to worry about.  Mom was right and, I am certain, steadfast in her convictions.  The chance of the Boogie Man being under my bed in the suburban haven where we lived was extremely low.   And eventually I believed her.

Years later, when Chase didn’t feel comfortable ascending the steps to his bedroom, I used the same calm words my Mom used with me.  You. Are. Safe.  And I said them despite the fact that I knew all the details of the Elizabeth Smart case and that yes – the Boogie Man can come to your home.

I chose to embrace the odds.

Because not going with the odds is a grim alternative.  It is all we can do as parents to keep ourselves from locking our children in the house, curling into the fetal position, and forsaking the precious time we were given on this earth, agonizing over the chance of unthinkable horrors.  I just wish the odds were getting better.  They are not.

The world IS more dangerous today than when we were kids.  We are scared of backpacks…  and shoes on planes … and U.S. mail … and guns that are being used on school children and movie goers.  On Friday, my oldest friend was mauled by an escaped dog in her neighborhood.  Our fears are warranted.  These things happened – many for the first time during our generation.

But knowledge of these atrocities – while tortuous – do make us safer and help us beat the odds.   Back in 1975, Gretchen Harrington’s abduction didn’t halt my happy 7 year old solo frolics around our neighborhood.   The “isolated incident” didn’t scare my parents enough change the way we lived, which I find remarkable.  If this took place today, we would have quarantined our kids from walking anywhere alone until the maniac was caught.

But today, 7 year olds don’t walk anywhere by themselves anyway.

In fact, our 15 and 13 year olds are generally under our surveillance at all times.  Is that because the world is more dangerous or we just know more about the dangers that are out there and make far more cautious choices?

Both.

The bigger question is how do we manage it all?  The line between vigilance and insanity is a thin one indeed.  To keep my balance, I hold fast to the odds and cross my fingers.  I say “yes” to opportunities for independence for my sons — and myself — and “no” when my spidey sense tickles my spine.  We travel on planes, trains and automobiles, my sons surf the Internet, we walk headlong into crowds — all the while knowing that someday it could be our turn.   And, so far, that has gotten us through.

***

As I stood in the queue for the 138 return train from Washington D.C., my eyes fell on the man in front of me.  Same cap.  Same backpack.  It was Backpack Dude from my morning train.  My paranoia took a back seat to the funny coincidence and I smiled at him, remarking that we had the same travel schedule.  It turns out my would-be train bomber commutes every other week from Allentown to spend a day at his D.C. office.  He loves D.C. and enjoys the train ride.  As we began to walk towards the business class car, his sneakered feet moved far more quickly than my heels.  He moved ahead of me, but not before turning back and smiling:

“Have a good night,” he said, “Be safe.”

I smiled back knowing that evening, the odds were in my favor.

Before I had children, I made certain vows to myself about what kind of parent I would be.  This exercise stretched as far back as my teenage years when I knew for certain that I had the wherewithal to be an absolutely perfect mother.  Given my vast personal experience at having parents – and long clinical rotations of observing other kid’s parents – I had derived the secret formula that  would someday compel my unborn children to thank the heavens above that they wound up with me.  In each iteration of this formula – and it did shift around a bit based on my daily run-ins with these grow-ups – there was one constant, one tried and true silver bullet that never lost its number one rank in the Perfect Parent criteria list:

I would never ever ever ever embarrass my children.

Remarkably, I held onto this ideal for quite some time.  And let me tell you, it is really super easy not to embarrass your children when you don’t have any.  I was, in fact the perfect parent, at my wedding, in those early years of marriage, and during both my pregnancies.  I remained true to my promise well through both boy’s infancies (blobs don’t get embarrassed), toddler hoods (Mommy does no wrong), and grade school years (I will take full credit for this one, but it was work.)

And then something changed.

As the center of the boys’ universes shifted away from me towards themselves and their friends, my universe began to return back to a place where I mattered just as much (maybe even sometimes more) than those sweet little boys to whom I gave life.  Translated:  Suddenly, my singing show tunes in the mini-van at the top of my lungs with the windows rolled down completely mortified my sons.  And I didn’t care.

I employed a bit of dramatic license above.  I did not roll the windows COMPLETELY down.  But I have, in fact,  given up on being the perfect parent in this regard.  And in the spirit of embracing my imperfections, I am taking this opportunity to share with you some of the best (and easiest) ways to humiliate the fruit of you loins. (Note:  Referring to them as the “fruit of your loins” is always a winner — as is blogging about them on a weekly basis, but those are almost too obvious.)  Here are 5 more ways to embarrass your children by doing nothing else but living your life:

Sideshow Mom:   Singing your favorite show tunes is almost too easy.  You can embarrass your child by belting out a few bars even when there isn’t another human being around for miles.  But for some variety, try a popular song that your child loves… when you’re driving their friends around in the car. (I do a GREAT Mumford and Sons).  And.. for an added kick – get the words wrong.  If singing isn’t your thing, just dance.  Preferably alone..  In a department store. Or at a track meet.  When Bizarre Love Triangle serendipitously comes on over the sound system.  (OMG!!! I love this SONG!!!)

One of the Gang:  Insert yourself into their world… preferably physically.  It is amazing how embarrassing your simple presence can be.  For instance, when your kids have friends over and are hanging out in the basement, bring down some food.  Then, linger for let’s say… uh… ten seconds.  Ask if everyone is okay and if they need anything.  Watch as your child implores you with his eyes to high tail it upstairs.   If you are feeling saucy, ignore the silent plea and take a few steps further into the room as if you might join the crowd.  It’s quite a powerful feeling.

Complaint Department:  Being served food in a restaurant that is sub-par or inedible is a golden opportunity to humiliate your offspring.  Don’t forsake it.  The simple act of politely telling your sever that that your dish is rancid or your wine tastes like vinegar is enough to send any teenager under the table for the rest of the night.  As they slink further down in their seat, turn to them and, in front of the server, say “WHAT??? Why are you embarrassed?”

Loud Talker:  You may not realize this gem, but anything you have to say that can be overheard by friends or the general public has the potential to redden the cheeks of your child.  Nagging your son about getting his homework done as you stroll by the girls track team is quick, easy, and effective in a number of ways.  If you see one of your kid’s friends in Target, be sure to scream, “Look, hon, there’s Susie – you should go say HI!!!”  And never miss the chance to employ the loud whisper which implies that you are trying to be discreet and therefore are unaccountable for your actions.

Child Advocate:  If your child is having a problem in school with a teacher or coach, gently suggest that perhaps you should send an email or make a phone call to better understand the problem.  It doesn’t matter how constructive you promise to be.  The threat of engaging with another adult in power on the subject of your child is enough to throw any kid into a tizzy.  The only thing worse is proposing a conversation with another parent about problematic friendships.  Somehow, no kid sees the immense good that can come from “talking it through.”  If ever think you hear a distant painful cry of “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” – that is a child reacting to this suggestion from his or her parents.

So to all you teenagers out there who are making the same vows I did at your age, keep dreaming.  By the time your hypothetical children are in middle school, your perspective will have shifted.  The oath to never embarrass your kids will fall a distant second to the importance of standing up for them, communicating important things, eating a good meal, engaging with them on your own terms, and celebrating the goodness of life by singing and dancing when and wherever you want to.

Last year, I was pleasantly surprised when Noah, as an eighth grader, wanted to go out for the track team.  As a former athlete, I carry with me a strong sense of the value that comes with participating in a sport.  But both Noah and Chase have historically chosen to spend most of their extracurricular time with music, save for the occasional rec programs here and there.  So, the interest in track caught me off guard.  But I didn’t let on, telling him how great the idea was, and later that day raising an eyebrow with my husband, citing the fact that Noah doesn’t really like to “hurry up” much less run.  This should be interesting.

Which it was.

After a few practices, it came time to select in which events Noah would compete.  Not knowing where his strengths were as a runner I wondered if he would go longer or shorter distances.  The answer was soon revealed.

He chose hurdles.

Hurdles??  As in, you run and jump and run and jump some more? As in the ONLY event in a middle school track meet where the probability of wiping out is equal to the probability of not wiping out?

Again, I smiled and supported and then side barred my poor husband:  “Are you kidding?  Hurdles?  Do they teach them how do that because it looks really difficult and shouldn’t that be reserved for kids who have been on the track team before and are his legs EVEN LONG ENOUGH to jump over one of those things and…..?!!”

In his infinite wisdom Dave shrugged at me and reassured – which is all I really wanted.  I needed someone to blame when it went horribly wrong and by Dave saying it would be fine, I had my man.

But it turns out, I didn’t need to direct my lethal Jewish guilt trip in any direction.  Noah did great in the hurdles – with respectable times and improved throughout the year.  So when Chase went out for track this year, and yes, also chose hurdles, the Black Diamond Path of Worry had already been trail blazed by his older brother.  If Noah could hurdle, so could Chase.  I looked forward to having two boys on the track team this year – Chase at the middle school; Noah, at the high school – each running hurdles.  A worry free season was upon us! Or so I thought.

Awesome.   My son had moved from the one event where he was most likely to face plant to the one where he was most likely to impale himself.  Side bar!!!

Well, you know the drill.  A smile and shrug from Dave.  The unspoken understanding that any injuries sustained while pole vaulting would be his fault and off Noah flew.

And once again, my worry was misplaced.  Noah figured it out and is now competing in the pole vault as a freshman – as his mother, also a “freshman” in every sense of the word, watches on with bated breath.

My sons rarely surprise me.  From the time they were born and I first distinguished the hungry cry from the tired cry from the ear infection cry, I can pretty much predict their choices, actions and reactions to most anything.  I know what fuels them, scares them, and makes them angry.   I’m certain they could probably say the same about me.

I never would have guessed that either boy would want to be on a school team.  Track was never on the  Child Radar Screens, which I lovingly monitor as they move through life.  And I certainly never pictured them flying over hurdles and bars as I happily sit in the stands, cheering them on with confidence and pride.

Every now and then, it is delightful to wrong.