Vegetables (Not The Kind You Eat) In School

A few weeks ago I was out having drinks with my friend Angela. Our eldest children attend the same elementary school (hers is in third grade, mine is in second) and she asked me – because I am such a pain in the ass mom and don’t allow my kids to watch television during the week – if I knew the students were being shown movies during indoor recess (which happens during inclement weather).

“Movies?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

She said she was at the orientation the previous year and the principal admitted that when the weather was just too bad for the kids to go outside (which is rare – the teachers will even send the kids outside in February around here), they put on a movie in the gym. “It’s not ideal,” the principal said to the parents, “but we do it sometimes.”

Lily, who acts like an addict and views the television as crack when its on, came home a week or two later and told me about a movie they watched at school that day.

“What was the name of it?” I asked her, pretending it was the coolest thing in the world that she was shown a film when they should be exercising or using their brain instead.

“Air Buddies,” she said. (She meant Air Bud.)

For the record, I looked up Air Bud on my favorite movie Web site, kidsinmind.com and it says the following:

1. The movie is rated PG. (I'm already annoyed.)

2. There is a kiss. (Because I love showing my 7-year-old how to make out.)

3. There are two mild obscenities (I don’t know what they are, but click here to see I don’t really give a rat’s ass about profanity but do about content.)

Stop rolling your eyes at me and hear me out. Regardless of the type of movies you allow your kids to see, I can't see the reasoning behind showing films (especially those with a parental guidance rating) at school. (Besides, shouldn't we as parents have a say as to the type of flicks our kids are seeing?) Plus, we are talking about a learning institution. We pay (with our tax dollars) for our children to be well educated. I mean, come on – I would home school if I thought I could just plop my kids down in front of a TV all day.

I sent an e-mail to the principal asking if we could meet to discuss the topic. I’ll let you know what he says.

As always, feel free to comment. (I can take it.)

Photo by H Berends, courtesy of stock.xchng

What If?

When Lily was 4 years old, I tried to play a game with her to teach her about strangers. (Click here to read more on that egregious experiment.) I also tried to explain how to call 9-1-1. (Again, bad idea. Click above to see how stupid I was.)

Lately, however, I’ve been reading a lot about playing the “What If?” game with my girls. The idea is to pick a time when kids are off guard; while you’re driving in the car, when you’re taking a walk, whenever, and ask them questions about difficult subjects. Moms I know who have older kids tell me this is the most effective way to get their kids’ attention. I believe them.

So yesterday I decided to play the game with Aimee first, then Lily. To my utter surprise (and delight – hey, I finally parented correctly!) they both answered appropriately.

Here’s a recap:

Aimee and I were outside raking leaves (which, in my backyard with 17 very old trees and 9 billion leaves, can take weeks to finish) and I said, “Hey, Aimee, we’re going to play the ‘what if’ game.”

Aimee, thrilled because Mommy is finally going to play with her, said, “What is it, Mommy?”

Me: “Ready? Here goes: What if Mom and Dad were outside working in the yard and you and Lily were inside having a snack and one of you started to choke. What would you do?”

Aimee: “Run outside and tell Mommy.”

Me: “Good answer!”

(Aimee began to beam with pride.)

Me: “Okay, what if you were home with a babysitter or Nana or Anna and something happened to them and they couldn’t get up or talk or anything.”

Aimee: “Like what?”

Me: “Let’s say they fell down the steps and hurt themselves. What would you do?”

Aimee, thinking for a minute: “Call Mommy.”

Me: “Hmm. Okay. What’s Mommy’s number?”

Aimee: “I don’t know.”

Me: “Tricky. So if you can’t call Mommy and you need to get help, who do you call?”

Aimee: “9-1-1.”

Me: “Right! So how do you do that?”

She described how she would get the phone, hit the “talk” button and dial.

I pretended I was the 9-1-1 dispatcher and asked her emergency.

“My babysitter is hurt,” she said.

I asked where she lived and she recited our address perfectly.

“Great job!” I said.

I went over the same questions with Lily later on that evening at dinner. She, too, got the answers right. They liked playing the game so much they made me come up with more questions. So I asked what would happen if they were at someone’s house and a sibling or parent tried to touch their privates.

They both giggled and said they would tell them not to.

“No!” I shouted, smiling. They jumped.

“Mommy, you scared us!” they said.

“Exactly,” I said. “See how when you shout the word ‘no,’ you scare the person? Well, that’s the point. Whenever someone does something you don’t want, shout at them.”

I went on to say it’s okay to make mistakes and reiterated how no matter what, they will never get in trouble if they make a mistake about these things. “No one is perfect, and if anyone ever does anything to you that you don’t want, I will never be upset with you.”

"I like this game," Lily said.

"Me, too!" Aimee said.

That makes three of us.

Perpetuating The Lie

The other day I was at a toy store (one where I practically pay the rent because I’m there so often buying birthday gifts) when I overheard the salesclerk talking to a woman. She was pointing to a cute, fuzzy elf that was sitting on the counter.

“It’s supposed to be a magical elf, but we just tell the kids that this one doesn’t work,” she said.

She explained that parents could tell children the elf is supernatural – it listens to kids’ Christmas wishes and, while they are sleeping, flies off to tell Santa. (Don't even get me started about how it's not even Halloween yet and they were discussing toys for Christmas.)

At the risk of sounding very much like a killjoy, I have something untoward to say about the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. These make-believe gift givers are great fun for kids, but do you remember the massive amount of disappointment when you first discovered they didn’t exist? (My dear husband enjoys watching me squirm by adding God to the list, but that’s another discussion.)

Here’s my longwinded point: we insist our children tell us the truth, yet we lie to them all the time. Isn't there something wrong about that?

People always say to me, “Oh, come on! Santa’s not a lie!”

Really? So, what is he?

At the same time, like most parents I love seeing the fantasy play out. I enjoy hearing their excitement when they see the gifts that were mysteriously left and I also have fun celebrating a holiday filled with imagination.

Lately, however, my girls have been getting wise (several months ago Aimee, who is 4, she said, “Mom, it doesn’t make sense. How does Santa get down that chimney if he’s so fat?”). And this year on several occasions the kids have flat out asked me, “Is Santa [or the Tooth Fairy] real?”

My response: “Hey! Is it raining outside?”

I don’t like to lie to my girls because I feel I’m being a hypocrite. But aren't the holidays even more special and fun if there is a make-believe aspect to it?

My friend Jill and I had this discussion a while back. Her son, now 8, lost a tooth and she forgot to put a dollar under his pillow. (Have mercy on Jill; she’s pregnant with twins, and these are her fourth and fifth babies. Feel bad now for giving her grief? Good.)

He had crawled into bed with her the night before and so she said to her son, “Wait! Did you check under my pillow? Because maybe he realized you were in there with me.” (She had remembered her error and placed a dollar under the pillow earlier in the day.)

He ran up the steps, got the money and said, “Thanks for the dollar, Mom.”

So much for keeping up the fantasy.

The other problem I have with these made-up genies is they are totally unfair. I get so annoyed when I have to explain why Santa gave some children five gifts when he gave mine only one each. ("Because Santa hates you.") Or why the Tooth Fairy gives gifts to the siblings of some even if they haven't lost a tooth (yes, a woman I know actually does that. Can you imagine? Click here to read more about my bitter response to some Tooth Fairy practices.)

I can’t remember when I first discovered Santa didn’t exist, but I do know the holiday lost its charm very shortly thereafter. (Because we were Muslim we stopped celebrating Christmas when I was about 12 years old; my parents only celebrated so I would feel a part of the community and since Muslims believe in Jesus, the holiday didn’t conflict with any religious ideology. I began the tradition again when my eldest child was 3 years old.)

So tell me, people, how do you feel about these figments of our imagination, and what will you tell you kids when they find out you’re a big, fat liar?

Image by Alcide Nikopol, courtesy of stock.xchng

Bad Mood Continues!

Hey, check it out: I'm still crabby!

And while I’m on this kick, I thought I’d bore you with more irksome facts about my children. (Lucky you!)

My eldest, Lily, has this incredibly irritating habit of walking exactly five paces behind me. When we are in the mall, or in a crowded area, I am constantly whipping my head back to make sure she is still with us. The endless back and forth motion makes my neck get a cramp and, subsequently, makes her a pain in my ass.

“Lily, walk next to me,” I say, pointing to an empty spot near my hip in case she is too daft to figure it out. She will increase her speed for a few more steps and, without fail, drop back in single file.

What are we? In Japan?

Aimee, who dutifully (for once) keeps up with me and often times holds my hand as we walk has also developed this horrible habit. I’d notice they were lagging behind so I would slow down for them could catch up. But like one of those bad movies where the person in front says, “Walk this way,” and the person behind does exactly what the guy in front is doing, my kids slow their pace, too.

Time for that guttural scream again.

As if walking slowly weren’t bad enough, Lily also has the inability to move quickly. Oh, she’ll out run any kid in a race if she wants, but ask me what happens when I say, “Hurry up! We’re late!”

You really want to know?

She. Moves. Ever. So. Slowly. With. Just. Enough. Speed. To. Make. Me. Think. She. Is. Quickening. Her. Pace. But. It’s. Still. Too. Goddamn. Slow.

Is it really a mystery as to why I am so cranky all the time?

Whenever I get annoyed with the glacial speed at which my kids move I think back to when I lived in Cairo, Egypt. The momentum there is beyond slow - it’s downright sluggish. Yet, for some reason, no one living there gets upset. If there is a long line (which there usually is), people always wait patiently. One never hears, “Can’t you open up another register?” or “Hey, we are in a hurry, here!” People just deal with the (incredibly taxing) system.

I remember coming back to the United States after living in Egypt for six years and standing in line at the post office in Manhattan. There was a very long line and people were getting visibly angry while they waited. Some huffed, some puffed and one threatened to blow the house down. I, however, didn’t even notice the wait because I was so used to an inefficient, bureaucratic process.

Then I became a mother.

Oh. My. God. I cannot find inner peace while waiting any longer. I have so many more schedules to manage, so many deadlines to meet that waiting is a luxury I cannot afford. And my kids seem to sense this and feed upon it hungrily.

Sigh. (Again.)

Photo by kamil kantarcıoğlu, courtesy of stock.xchng

Snap!

I’m crabby. I admit it. And most days I can handle being grumpy. Don’t ask my husband about this, though. He’ll probably just lie and say I am confrontational. (What? You don't believe me? Go ahead then, ask him!) But there are things Aimee says to me that dance on my last nerve, beg me to forget all the parenting skills I’ve learned and overwhelm me with the urge to beat her silly.

(I need to be fair here for a second first. Lily, who was almost 5 years old when I first started this blog, has given me my fair share of grief, too. I just didn’t write about it then because I was too damn tired all the time. So if you think I’m not an equal opportunity bad mother, you’re wrong.)

The main problem is Aimee refuses to accept any directive or statement at face value. There must be something more, she thinks, so she asks questions. She never asks just one question; she always asks a million. And yes, having a curious child is a blessing, blah, blah, blah. At this point she better win the academic achievement of a lifetime when she’s an adult because she is beyond what one would call “inquisitive.”

The term I would use is annoying.

I walked into the playroom yesterday afternoon and found – for the gazillionth time – crayons, markers and pencils all over the bed. (We have an extra bed downstairs and the kids like having it there because they can rest at quiet time or just hang out and read on it.) I’ve made it clear (again, on several occasions) that writing tools need to be used on the table because I don’t to clean ground-up, waxy color from the bedspread or carpet

“Aimee, come clean these crayons up,” I said.

She walked downstairs, took one look at the mess, smiled at me and said, “Just the crayons? Or the markers and pencils, too?”

I looked at her, frustrated by her answer. She knew she was supposed to put everything away but just likes to push my buttons.

“Are you new here?” I asked.

“No,” she said, her smile disappearing.

“Then you know the answer, right?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Clean them all up.”

(This is when I went into another room, closed the door and let out a loud, guttural cry out of aggravation.)

Her question was not a big offense; I realize that. But when these types of questions come at a person all goddamn day long, it gets… well, exasperating. Why can’t she just do as most other kids do and say, “Okay, Mom,”?

Is that too much to ask?

You know how when you have a child and you meet others who don’t and they look at you as if you’re crazy when something your child does makes you respond in a harsh tone? (If you don’t, you have no right reading this blog. Go away.) I feel that way right now. I don’t know many folks who have a child like Aimee. And if they do, they are working parents who are spared the constant chatter, incessant inquiries. Imagine trying to write this post, for instance, and telling your child you need five minutes to finish. Thirty seconds later she comes up and tells you something innocently, such as, “Look, I made this drawing for you, Mommy.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” you say. “What’s wrong with that?”

Sweet? Really? I am trying to finish a thought! I cannot even do that uninterrupted!

Like I said, I’m cranky. And when I combine my foul mood with her insouciance, the result is a very worn out Mommy.

Sigh.

Photo courtesy of stock.xchng

There's Always Someone Crazier Out There

So here’s a question: if your children don’t get along, should you keep them completely isolated from each other – forever?

What a stupid question, right? Except that one couple decided to do just that with their 8-year-old daughter and 5-year-old son. Their daughter doesn’t like the son (oh, and by the way, she also has a 12-year-old brother), so the couple’s solution was to hire a nanny for the younger boy and allow the grandmother to take care of the daughter during the week.

When I heard about these people I couldn’t contain myself. (I love an opportunity to judge someone.) And this particular couple was rich with bad decisions. Not only did they hire a nanny for just the young boy, they also instructed her to keep him awake all day until they got home at 7:30 p.m. Considering he’s 5 years old, most of you will probably wonder what is wrong with that directive. Ready? The boy goes to sleep anywhere between 11 p.m. and 11:30 p.m., and wakes up at 5:30 a.m. so he can talk to his mother before she goes to work in the morning. The boy’s mother actually said to the nanny, “When you put him down for a nap he doesn’t go to bed until after midnight.”

Breathe, people, breathe. Because I am far from finished with the story.

Just to give you the clear picture of how his family operates, the nanny only takes care of the boy during the week - she feeds him, takes him to and from school, shuttles him to his play dates and activities and is, basically, his primary caregiver. He rarely sees his sister because their grandmother picks the girl up from school, feeds her dinner and often times has her sleep over at the grandmother's house. The nanny said the girl spends a large part of the weekend at her granny's home as well.

I heard about this boy from my friend J who had him over for a play date with her middle son. She asked the boy to stay for lunch and asked the nanny if he would eat cold cuts. The woman said yes, but asked J to put the meat in a sandwich.

“Of course,” said J.

“No, he won’t eat the bread,” the nanny said. “He doesn’t like to touch the meat so he uses the bread to hold the meat. When he’s done you can just throw the bread away.”

Huh?

My head is reeling right now because I have so many judgmental and awful things to say. I’m angry, too, because there are a lot of people out there who deserve to have kids and can’t, and these people – who clearly have no idea how to be parents – had not one but three kids. The children are not being taught how share, how to deal with others, how to love one another and how to cope with problems.

As for sleep, the boy (who should get at least between 11 and 12 hours of sleep a night) is getting less sleep than most adults should get. (Click here to read more about sleep and how many hours of sleep your child should get a night.) My friend J told me this boy's behavior is erratic and sometimes aggressive. I’m not surprised at all to hear that. Studies show children who do not get enough sleep have behavioral problems and often mirror kids who have ADHD. They are simply exhausted.

I once heard a friend of mine complain she couldn’t deal with her kids whining and arguing. No parent wants to deal with those annoying characteristics – they’re torture. But the reality is, it’s our job to deal with those problems because children do not know any better. 'Parent' is really just another word for 'teacher.' If we don’t instruct them by saying, “I can’t understand you when you speak like that,” or, “Speak properly and I will listen,” children won't learn they need to quit the wearisome tone and speak in a manner that is acceptable.

Many children will also fight with their brothers or sisters. These sibling arguments are a normal part of being in a family, and thankfully there are incredible resources for parents on how to deal with these issues. (One of my favorite books on this subject, Siblings Without Rivalry, is extremely helpful in establishing harmony between kids, as well as another useful book, Easy To Love, Difficult To Discipline, which teaches parents how to give kids the words they need when dealing with conflict.)

I think parents such as the aforementioned couple are just plain lazy. They don’t want to do the work (and, let’s face it, parenting is hard work sometimes) and they don’t want to deal with disharmony. So they find easy solutions (which, in the long run, will only backfire.) How hard is it to go pick up a book from the library or order one online that will help solve those problems for good?

My reaction to apathetic parents? Suck it up. I cannot stand when moms and dads take the easy way out. To me, slothful parenting is akin to child abuse. They may not be using their hands, but by not teaching they are doing a similarly huge amount of harm.

And it pisses me off.

Am I wrong? Am I right? Post a comment and let me know.

Illustration by Yamamoto Ortiz, courtesy of stock.xchng

Tragic But Rare

Last week 7-year-old Somer Thompson went missing after she stormed away from her siblings walking home from school. Her body was found in a garbage dump near her home and her mother, speaking to the cameras, said to the unknown murderer, “We’re coming for you.”

I am just as upset and horrified by her death as the rest of you. But I am still going to allow Lily to walk to school. Why? Because I’ve done even more research and know I cannot live in fear of something that is extremely unlikely to happen.

Consider this: there were more than 161 sexual offenders who lived within five miles of Somer’s house. In my town, there is one. (The offender had consensual sex with a minor who was 16 years old – not that it makes his crime any less awful but at least he wasn’t kidnapping an elementary school kid.) Do the research yourself - call your local police, ask just how safe it is for your kids to walk to school. (Click here to read the post on what my local policeman told me.)

I visited the Polly Klaas Foundation Web site. (Those who don’t know who Polly Klaas is, please click here to read her tragic story.) Since you may not have to time to click on all the links I’ll put some of the pertinent national kidnapping facts here:

1. Ninety-nine point eight percent of missing children do come home.

2. Nearly 90 percent of missing children have simply misunderstood directions, miscommunicated their plans, are lost, or have run away.

3. Nine percent are kidnapped by a family member in a custody dispute.

4. Three percent are abducted by non-family members, usually during the commission of a crime such as robbery or sexual assault. The kidnapper is often someone the child knows

5. Only about 100 children (a fraction of 1 percent) are kidnapped each year in the stereotypical stranger abductions you hear about in the news.

6. About have of these 100 children come home.

The foundation also has a free safety kit for parents you can order (again, it’s free) directly from the Web site by clicking here. I just ordered mine today, as well as a free Internet safety guide.

Remember my post about teaching kids to talk to strangers but not go anywhere with them? The Polly Klaas Foundation also has this advice that I also found incredibly helpful:

Dangerous Adult Behaviors

“If any adult or older kid offers you anything without asking me, step way back, yell, “NO!”, run away,
and tell.” (This applies to candy, pets, treats, job offers, photographs, rides on motorcycles, etc.)

“If any adult or older kid asks for your help without asking me first, step way back, yell “NO!”, run away
and tell.” (This applies to mailing a letter, picking something up for an injured person, approaching a
car to give directions, doing yard work, looking for a lost puppy, etc.)

“If any adult or old kid asks you to keep a secret, step way back, yell “NO!”, run away, and tell.”

If any adult or older kid touches your private parts (parts covered by a swim suit) or asks you to touch
your private parts or somebody else’s, step way back, yell “NO!”, run away and tell.”

Also, the site recommends reassuring your children you will not be upset or angry if they make a mistake. This is all part of the learning process.

According to the Free-Range Kids Web site, about 2,000 children die each year as passengers in a car. In fact, it is the number one cause of death in children over the age of 1. Does that mean you aren’t going to drive your kids to soccer practice, the movies or anywhere for that matter? Of course not. Most parents know chances are they will get around town safely. I feel the same way about Lily going to and from school. Yes, I'm still worried about her and yes I do say a small prayer that she will always be safe. Even so, I can see her confidence grow. The best part about being a mom is witnessing those developments first hand. I'm so glad I'm not going to take that away from her.

Photo by merve toprak, courtesy of stock.xchng

My Day by Mom

There are usually a few, small indicators of how a person’s day is going to pan out. If my day is not going to go well, I get slapped in the face with them.

Yesterday, I woke up to Aimee and Lily, giggling and talking very loudly to each other in the downstairs bathroom. I glanced at the clock: it read 6:42 a.m.

Strike one.

I got up, got ready and poured myself a cup of coffee. As I went to take my first sip, I spotted a large, white spider floating at the top (take that, eight-legged creature who dared sneak into my cup). I contemplated drinking around the unfortunate fellow, but decided it best to pour it out and start all over. (Spider cooties and all.)

Strike Two.

Aimee, who hasn’t been sleeping enough lately (which puzzles me, because this is the child who always slept in and took daily naps up until about a week ago, three weeks shy of her fifth birthday), called me a “meaniac” (her word, not mine) in the afternoon, told me she hated me and then tried to punch me in the breast (the one with the bandages on it). Twice.

Strike Three.

I wish I could stop there but I must be just hilarious to torture. I practically heard God guffaw when I answered the door to the appliance repairman. Yesterday, when I tried to put a load in the dryer it sounded as if I had dumped a bucket of gravel into it. I immediately shut the dryer off and called my husband, since he is the only one who has done laundry in the past week.

“What was the last load you did?” I asked him.

“Um, sheets, I think,” he said. “Why?”

I told him about the loud, crunchy noise coming out of the dryer.

“I have no idea why it’s doing that,” he said. “Call someone.” (Someone. His answer explains briefly why I handle everything in the home.)

Because waiting for four hours for “someone” to appear at my door is exactly how I love spending my day, naturally. The overwhelming need to clean the 17 piles of clothes on the floor won me over, however, and I finally dialed the number of a company I had used before. The first time they came out was when our refrigerator was freaking out. When the guy showed up he said, “Someone left the door open.”

“Aimee!” I muttered to myself.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. I thought for a moment. “Wait, really? Is that it?”

He pulled out a frozen chunk between the refrigerator and the freezer and said, “Yep. See here? The air can’t flow. Just defrost it for a day and it will be fine.”

“Are you serious?” I asked. He nodded.

I wrote a check for a man to tell me something I probably could have figured out by myself.

This time when I mentioned the problem over the phone I got wise. “Ever hear of that sound before?” I asked.

“Yes,” the man on the other end said. “Could be a loose ball bearing.”

Made sense to me. I made an appointment.

“He’ll be there between eleven and three,” the man told me.

“Great,” I said.

I’ve stopped counting strikes.

When the repairman showed up this time he turned on the dryer and – as would be expected in a story like this – the goddamn machine sounded perfectly normal. Not a peep or squeak out of the ordinary. I wanted to kick it right then and there.

“No, really,” I said, watching a sympathetic look appear on his face. “I’m not crazy. It sounded like there was a ton of rocks in there.”

He looked at me long enough to make it clear I was a moron.

“How about if we put some clothes in there?” I asked. I grabbed a few soggy pants and threw them inside. Again, nothing. Again, the look flashed upon his face. To appease me, he pulled back the dryer and pulled off the lint pipe. Out dropped a small keychain, the kind that is like a string of beads with a hook. He picked it up and handed it to me. It was so tiny, so insignificant I refused to accept that this two-inch piece of teeny metal balls was the culprit.

“No,” I said, thinking this company will forever file our projects under ‘Suckers.’ “That can’t be it,” I repeated.

He shrugged.

“Seriously,” I said. “It sounded like a bucket of rocks was in there.”

“That would do it,” he said.

“This?” I asked, holding the offensive chain.

“Yep.”

Meanwhile the dryer hummed happily as it tossed around the clothes inside.

“I’ll get the checkbook,” I said, dropping my head in shame.

As I wrote I asked what would happen if I heard the noise again.

“The service call is good for thirty days, ma’am,” he said, adding insult to injury for calling me an old hag.

“Okay, thanks,” I said.

In the late afternoon, Aimee’s behavior was out of control. She lost all four tickets by 3:00 p.m. and because I couldn’t take her abuse any longer, I put her to bed at 6:30 p.m. After 10 minutes the room was silent. She slept for 12 hours. (Always a silver lining.)

Game over.

Photo by Jan Willem Geertsma, courtesy of stock.xchng

Cult of Personality

A few weeks ago I was invited to a cosmetics party. The hostess said we would be treated to makeovers while enjoying some good conversation and hot coffee. “What the hell,” I thought. “It’s only a morning out of my week.” I actually thought it could be fun.

I would have rather had my pubic hairs plucked out with a pair of bad tweezers than endure what I did that day.

Before I tell you what happened I want to offer full disclosure: two years ago I, too, was a direct sales agent. I noticed a woman wearing a gorgeous pair of shoes and asked her where she got them. She held up a catalog and said, “From one of these parties. I totally love them and want to order more.”

She explained the company, called Schu La La, operated through parties and functions. I checked out the items, jotted down the name of the person who held the party and called her up. The woman appealed to my inner Imelda Marcos.

“Wait, let me get this straight,” I asked. “I get discounts on shoes, and even free pairs of shoes, and all I have to do is get my friends to hold parties?”

“Yep,” she said.

“Sign me up,” I said.

The job was short-lived because the company, which was a fabulous one to work for, didn’t want its representatives pushing hard for sales. “The shoes should sell themselves,” we were told. “Just explain how well-made they are.” Even though the shoes were – and still are, because these are well-known brands – popular shoes, the sales were only mediocre and the company decided to stop all party sales immediately.

I vowed never to do direct sales again after that. For one, I can’t stand selling things. (I know. So sue me.) Second, I felt like a second-class citizen when I was in these women’s homes. Some of the ladies who held these parties were very high society and if I didn’t have something they wanted they never would have spoken to me in the first place. Third – and I know I might get in trouble for saying this – I wanted a career that I could be proud of for my kids. Dragging large bags of shoes to stranger's homes wasn't it.

Okay, so back to the cosmetics party.

The day before the gathering the sales rep for the company called me. Immediately I got a bad feeling. Couldn’t she just wait to talk to me at the party? I thanked her for her call but told her I was juggling a million projects and said good-bye. The next morning I contemplated blowing off the party but thought my friend would be upset. I decided to just to suck it up and go.

I walked in the door and knew I should have trusted my instincts. Another woman and I were the only people who showed up (and the hostess invited at least 25 other women. My guess is they had already been to one of these parties and learned their lesson).

“Okay, let’s get started,” the overly cheery saleswoman said as I barely put my jacket on the chair.

We were promised some coffee, conversation and fun makeovers. Instead, we became guinea pigs. We were forced to try every single product she had in her bag. “What do you think?” she kept asking.

“Seriously?” I thought. “How the hell should I know?”

She sat us down and made us try creams, lotions, lip balms and every other skin care regimen possible. She also gave us a long, detailed story about the company and its products (and I cared to know all this about as much as I wanted to know when my mailman got a hangnail). I glanced at my watch and realized she had been talking for more than an hour. I explained I had only a few more minutes before I had to pick up my daughter from school. She hurried through her presentation and then pulled me aside to find out which products I wanted to buy.

I have never felt more pressure to purchase something in my life. I did like some of the products and bought the items I thought I could use. I left feeling like a girl who had been kissed and shoved aside. I never got a makeover (not like I cared; I probably would have had to buy even more products) and wondered how I could avoid seeing this woman ever again. (She lives in my town and her kids attend the same elementary school.)

Later that day the hostess dropped by my house. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I had no idea it would be such a hard sell.”

“I know,” I said.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again.

“Don’t be,” I said. “You didn’t know.”

I think these direct sales companies are similar to a countrywide cult. They brainwash their employees into thinking how fabulous the company is. They encourage salespeople to sign up more groupies by offering huge bonuses and incentives. Stay-at-home moms are easy targets, too, because they want to earn money while still being able to be home for the kids. Direct sales is an excellent way for them to do both.

I can’t say I’ll never attend another direct sales party because there are some products I really want and the gatherings are usually bigger and a fun place to hang out with friends. I now know I need to find out how many other people will attend, and I need to be more selective.

Got a direct sales horror story? Post a comment.

Photo by Martin Walls, courtesy of stock.xchng

Update on Surgery

It's all good, people. Or at least that's what Dr. No Love said. He called me last night (after two unreturned phone calls to his office that day). Our conversation went as follows:

DNL: "Hi, this is Dr. No Love. It just got the results back and it looks good."

Me: "Okay, great. Um-"

DNL: "How are you feeling?" (I think he was reading from a script, he said this so thoughtlessly.)

Me: "Okay. A bit sore, still."

DNL rambled on for a few sentences, quickly telling me how to care for the wound, (things he has said a few times before).

Me: "So, I don't have anything to worry about then?" Because, frankly, telling me it "looks good" does not really give me any peace of mind.

DNL: "It's all benign."

Finally.

Where The Wild Things Are (Really)

About 10 days ago my family and I took a short trip out to farm country to pick pumpkins, go on a hayride and drink some tasty apple cider. The weather was so spectacular (bright blue skies, brisk fall temperatures, and the leaves on the trees turning vivid colors) that we weren’t content to go home after our fun afternoon.

“How about a trip to the Great Swamp?” my husband suggested.

“Excellent!” I said.

One of the best parts about living in New Jersey is the ability to visit sprawling acres and reserved land where nature rules and man is only an observer. The Great Swamp is one such place. We go there often because there are lovely, kid-friendly rambling trails and places to see all sorts of things.

On this particular day an elderly woman was standing at the entrance. As we approached I tried my usual dodge and hurry (because I cannot stand being 'pitched to' when all I want to do is go for a walk), hoping she wouldn't try and sell us something. Then I heard what she said and stopped.

“Would you like to play Bingo?” she asked. I didn’t understand the question because there wasn’t any place to sit, and the Great Swamp is not exactly a senior citizen’s center.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She handed Lily and Aimee a piece of paper. Aimee’s was laminated and had photos of a frog, a mushroom, ducks, leaves, trees and other items she might spot while on a hike. The woman also gave her an erasable pen so she could circle the ones she found. Lily’s was more complicated and didn’t have any photos to match the words.

“Cross off the ones you find,” the woman told Lily, who began reading the list out loud.

These two, silly little lists transformed our normally short, uneventful stroll around a swampland into a fun, two-hour long activity. We took our time looking for frogs, turtles and other wildlife (it was cold that day so the only living creatures we saw were the turtles). We never knew red mushrooms existed until we spotted them that day. The kids had a blast and my husband and I had a great time, too.

That experience made me realize just how simple it is for kids to have fun. We could easily make our own scavenger hunt guide for things to be found in our own backyard. So my plan is to do one and each time my girls get antsy or have friends over I can kick it up a notch and let them become explorers.

I love when serendipitous outings make my life as a mom that much easier.

Photo by Paul Flores, courtesy of stock.xchng

Surgery

Last Wednesday I had surgery to remove something that started as a nuisance and grew into a concern.

For the past three years I have endured yearly mammograms and, because I once found a lump in one of my breasts, ultrasounds to make sure there is nothing more menacing than just cysts in there. (If you believe God punishes people while on earth rather than send them to Hell, mammograms are excellent proof of that theory.) Thanks to those tests, the technicians and radiologists found two strange-looking masses in my left breast. Two years ago, doctors went in with a needle, removed a small portion of the mass and checked it out under the microscope. I couldn’t feel the foreign bits in me then (they were that small), so when the doctor said, “Looks fine. They are benign fibroadenomas,” I shrugged and left, thankful I dodged yet another health bullet.

A few months ago that same breast began to ache. I woke up one morning wondering who lit the fire under my pajamas and felt a large lump where those inconsequential masses once were. That same day I got a notice in the mail that it was time for my annual mammogram and quarterly ultrasound. I made an appointment immediately.

At the doctor’s visit I watched the tech, a lovely woman named Renate (this lady has rubbed my breast more times in two years than someone who isn’t married to me should). She is always somewhat tacit during the exam but this time she was especially quiet. I am now getting skilled at seeing the masses myself when they pop up on the screen and when I saw the one that caused me pain, I almost gasped. It had quadrupled in size.

“Get dressed, but wait here,” she advised me before she left to show the radiologist the films. She was gone for more than 15 minutes, which feels like 24 hours in patient years.

A soft-eyed man with warm, meaty hands came in and introduced himself as the radiologist. “I’m going to strongly suggest you get a biopsy on these,” he said.

“I already had one,” I said.

“Um, yeah, I know,” he said. “But I think you might need to do another one.”

Huh. That wasn’t what I was expecting to hear.

I nodded and called the breast surgeon the next day. Of all the doctors one would want handling this kind of case, the arrogant medicine man who is my breast specialist is not the one. He is rushed when he sees me, gets visibly annoyed if I interrupt him to ask a question and always – always – leaves me waiting for more than an hour in the waiting room (and 20 minutes freezing in an airy gown in the examining room).

Dr. No Love explained that since the mass had grown so much and was causing me pain, he wanted to take it out. Then he added, “Just to make sure there isn’t anything else going on in there.”

I nodded and was struck dumb by his last comment. I didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t want to know the answers. "Don't buy trouble," I told myself. I just got up, got dressed and left when he finished the exam. I went home, checked the calendar and called to make an appointment.

This is where things get downright hilarious.

He actually said the surgery would be an easy, quick one. He said most women could even “go to work after a day or two.” He made it seem like I would go in, get put under general anesthesia and wake up refreshed and full of vigor.

And I stupidly believed him.

“You only need to take Wednesday off,” I said to my dear husband, who replied, “Done.”

The few days before the surgery I was a wreck. A stressed out, weepy wreck. I have had plenty of these “routine” surgeries and usually didn’t bat an eye when they scheduled me for an operation. This one felt different, however. Daunting, even. So imagine, when I was just about to go in the operating room and the doctor asked (but didn’t really mean it) if I had any questions and I said, “Will the incision be very big?” He replied (wait for it….), “As big as I need it to be.”

He actually had a smirk on his face when he said that.

Again, I was speechless. (Which, for me, is quite a feat.)

They wheeled me into the room and I went under anesthesia completely freaked out. When I awoke, I was a groggy and teary – no, make that bawling – mess. I was in excruciating pain despite the pain killers they had given me. Dr. No Love showed up and I stupidly apologized for crying. He ignored me and said something about everything looking good but having solid results on Tuesday. I wiped away my tears but could not keep my eyes dry. They just kept coming. He mumbled something about their being “tears of joy,” and I only nodded (which is just about all I can manage to do around that bastard).

The nurse pulled back the curtain and said, “Does this guy belong to you?” She pointed to a man who I recognized as my wonderful, smiling husband. I tried to stop crying so I wouldn’t scare him but couldn’t because he was my comfort. I cried even harder. He kissed me and comforted me. The nurse came in and read the sheet on how to care for my wound. I needed to ice it for two days. I needed to take pain relief. I needed to rest that day and probably the next. There was nothing on the sheet about women going back to work the next day or being just dandy, the way Dr. No Love made it seem. We left about 15 minutes later.

“I'm taking the rest of the week off,” dear husband said to me in the car. “So just go up and rest when we get home, okay?” (He later admitted he took one look at me and realized there was no way I'd be on my feet in a day or two.)

I patted his knee and thanked him. I cried a little more. (Later, we laughed and laughed about someone going back to work. “As if!” we said.)

When I got home I crawled into bed and slept for hours. I awoke when my husband brought me up some soup and crackers. He picked up a note from Aimee that she had slipped under the door. "I love Mom," she wrote. She came in after him and said, “I made that for you, Mommy.”

She kissed me and left the room. She came back with a fuzzy pink blanket. “When I’m sick I like to put this blanket on me,” she said, draping it on my legs. She left again. She came back with a huge stuffed animal. “And when I’m sick I like to have lots of stuffed animals with me,” she said, putting the furry dog next to my head.

Aimee had wet the bed that morning, something she has been doing lately when she is worried or upset. She doesn't voice her concern, but she lets us know she isn't doing well when she wakes up soaking.

“Thanks, baby,” I whispered. I reached out to touch her arm. “Can I have a kiss?” I asked. “No,” she said. “You can have a lot.”

The outpouring of love didn’t stop there. My friend J called several times to check in on me, as did my friend Jill, my mom, my mother-in-law, and my father-in-law. I was weak and tired and couldn’t speak to everyone, but my husband conveyed all their good wishes and I felt blessed that people cared enough to dial the phone. (Jill, who is 8 months pregnant with twins – and these are her fourth and fifth babies, people – dropped off some fabulous homemade salsa and chips and a delicious cake. Jill, we gulped down the salsa and are still enjoying the cake. Thank you!)

And then there were the kind comments from you folks and other friends on Facebook. The wishes of speedy recovery filled my heart and helped immensely.

But the three people who deserve the most praise are my husband and kids. Dear Husband nursed me speedily back to health and cared for me without a word. I always knew I was lucky but if there was ever any doubt about just how fortunate I was, this week’s episode proved I am very, very blessed.

I should hear back from Dr. No Love tomorrow and will let you know the results. I’m sure all will be fine. Thank you so much for keeping me in your thoughts.