The Writing Mamas Daily Blog

Everybody Into the Pool

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 05:10:00 +0000

I went for a three-day summer jaunt to Calistoga this past week. But instead of lounging in a mud bath and being massaged, I spent my time in the pool with two eight-year-olds, my daughter, Miranda, and her good friend, Marlena.

My sister, Kathy, rounded out our little family. It wasn’t a true nuclear family, more of an extended one, auntie, mommy, daughter, and friend. But we had a good time watching movies in the room, eating cupcakes for breakfast, not setting eyes on a vegetable or anything green. I even conveniently forgot everything on my “must-do” list.

It was as close to a wild weekend as I get traveling with my daughter. My sister, Kathy, is a firm believer in being in the moment. This means whatever the girls want, they get. Our bedtime routine includes eating huge bowls of vanilla and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in bed while watching a “Harry Potter,” movie.

“But,” the guilty mother part of me says, “what about brushing your teeth?” To which the rest of my family looks bored, yawns and goes to sleep, at midnight.

This should mean a wake-up call of say, 10 a.m.? Instead, the girls bounce out of bed at 7 and I, slinging the entire contents of the hotel coffee maker down in one gulp say, “Sure, you can watch another Harry Potter movie.”

Kathy and I are sitting on the bed in our little room, listening to the growing boredom in front of the TV.

“This is too scary.”

“Then close your eyes.”

“I don’t want to close my eyes.”

“I want to watch the movie.”

That’s when a brilliant idea comes to mind, “Let’s go swimming!” I say, emptying the contents of the second pot of coffee. Kathy smiles at me and says “I’ll take the next shift.” She slumps down and goes to sleep.

The girls and I get dressed and walk out to the pool. That’s when I realize this hotel was going to be a bit, well, problematic.

You see, at first we had stayed at the kid-friendly one but it filled up. So we moved to another hotel with a covered pool. No worries about sunscreen here. But the two hot tubs in addition to the large pool should have given me a clue. More adults, fewer children. And with more adults, well, more worry on my part. Are the girls bothering them? Will I have to keep saying, “Don’t splash, kids.”

Miranda and Marlena ran to the pool. They jumped into the deep end. The splash, wave and giggles caused heads to turn in the hot tubs. One gentleman took a big gulp of his wine. Another woman pursed her lips and shook her head. A different lady shook out her “People” magazine with Michael Jackson on the cover, furrowed her brow and pulled the reading material so it covered her face.

I wondered as I dumped the towels on an empty table and followed the girls in, if these people had ever been children. Did they remember the fun of jumping into a pool on a hot day? Did they play “Ring around the Rosy?” in the shallow end?

Or was it my fault that their silence had been shattered by the laughter and energy of youth?

I walked over to the cooler hot tub where the woman resolutely kept her face glued to the magazine. I could see the girls easily while I stood in the tub. Their play made me smile. I remembered something Barbara Kingsolver wrote in “High Tide in Tucson,” her book of essays.

"The way we treat children - all of them, not just our own, and especially those in great need - defines the shape of the world we'll wake up in tomorrow." I wondered as I watched the man drinking at 10 in the morning and the woman devouring information on Michael Jackson, how they had been treated as children. I contemplated if they had played and no one had paid attention. I questioned why the splash and shriek of joy was harsh upon their ears.

I made my decision and climbed out of the adult hot tub and jumped into the deep end of the kids’ pool. I joined in “Ring Around the Rosy” and as I saw my child and her friend smile, I reveled in my delight in joining them, and I remembered why I love these getaway days.

By Georgie Craig

My Pretty Pony Cry

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 07:01:00 +0000

Driving home after an all-around blasé late afternoon, I find myself sneaking glances in the rear-view mirror whenever possible.

Behind me sits my three-year strapped in her car seat, her face morphing into what I can only call grade B variations of preschool drama. First, a stern look to the right. Then head pivoted to the left. At my next glance: her eyes are shifted upward with her mouth forced into a comical downturn frown. Next: a furrowed brow, yet placid mouth. And on. Each gesture clearly not bringing on the desired result, affirmed by the eerie silence from my usual chatterbox.

There’s been a dark cloud lurking across her little face all day, just waiting for any storm clouds to gather. And now preceded with a soft “hick!” sound a flurry releases in a warbled “I never had a purpu Pretty Pony!” followed by “Ooooh-hoooo-hooooo” soft wails.

“A what?” I respond, “You’ve never owned a purple Pretty Pony toy? And so you’re going to start crying?” I can’t help but call her on this illogic, but for my daughter my questions only serve as odd affirmation of this apparent injustice, and launch her into louder wails.

Of all the things to cry about…then it hits me. Why not? Why not just let it out and wail for the lack of some random plastic horse with a chroma-colored mane in your life? If that’s all you have to lament about, let loose!

And she does.

Starvation, deprivation, annihilation … it’s a wonder that daily crisis don’t send us all into a tailspin. All day we have the choice to tune into world events or tune out best we can, all the while juggling life in a global economic crisis. Gloom and doom: how can it not seep under your skin, infesting your membranes with fear and worry.

Day after day.

And, yet, we persevere as parents and continue to rally, until in my case, a random commercial shows say, a grandparent embracing her grandchild and whoosh, my tear ducts overflow. If I’m truly lucky I’ll get in some boo-hooing.

Yes, nothing tops a good cry.

Letting emotions out: how better to strengthen reserves so you can persevere during the true testaments to the psyche? And in a life of joy and sorrow there will be many, many testaments.

Now have yourself a Pretty Pony Cry.

By Maija Threlkeld

A Mother FINALLY Gets to Rock Out

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 06:54:00 +0000

Just back from a concert. A ROCK CONCERT!!!! The first one since my daughter was born nearly eight years ago.

This is sad.

I wanted to be happy.

So I invited a bunch of friends to hear The Motels and Berlin at the Marin County Fair. It was my daughter's first concert. She spent the nearly 1 1/2 hour Motels' set draped across me as we sat on chairs under a big tent asking if it would soon end. I still managed to sing along to "Only the Lonely," and danced and wiggled underneath my splayed daughter.

Look when a mother has to rock, she's gotta rock. I was still doing my mother thing, but also my own thing.

I needed it.

Then we took the kids for rides and games at the fair. We returned to our already laid out blankets outside the seating area as I knew sitting still wouldn't work with the children. I arranged the patchwork of blankets so our sight lines were perfect, and we were in front. Berlin came on and I never stopped dancing and singing. It was like the ghosts of the '80s swarmed and invaded me. I was a possessed, crazed, long in need of a night of fun mother.

I noticed a number of us in the audience.

A kid accidently kicked over my glass of wine. I didn't mind because I was kicking up a storm myself. Mimi and I even danced together to a couple of songs.

Then the evening ended with a fabulous fireworks display. All the mothers agreed -- we have to do this way more often and while we love our kids, next time, we're going to leave them home.

Still, it was sweet to share this rock concert, her first, with my daughter.

It was my past mingled with my present. What a gift.

By Dawn Yun

Oh, Shit. An Eco-Friendly Bag that Can Not Be Reused

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 07:01:00 +0000

When I used to think about shit in a bag, I would envision some evil teen schoolmate running away from a hated neighbor’s door, with the bag engulfed in flames on the door mat. Obvious signs of boredom in the sleepy desert town that I grew up in.

Now I have a different vision.

My husband and I were driving home from a day of trying to get our five- and six-year old boys proficient in skiing and most of the trip had been shockingly uneventful.

Then as we neared Sacramento, the traffic slowed, expectedly during rush hour and we were sandwiched among the many people trying to get home. Then, arousing me from a daydream about a hot shower and sleep in my own bed, I heard an angelic voice from the second row in the van:

“I have to go potty.”

“Pee or poo,” I said.

“Poo. I have to go potty. I have to go potty.”

The increasing urgency of pitch in his voice was not a good sign. It had been just one hour prior that we had to make a specific stop in the middle of nowhere to do just that. I had given quick wave to the pizza parlor owner as I hurriedly trounced my pajama-clad boys to the bathroom.

“You are standing. Didn’t you say you had to poo?”

“No. I’m all done.”

“Are you sure? Why don’t you try again?”

“No,” he said.”

I was catapulted back to the present traffic jam by his clearly less angelic tone. Like a contractor who had just counted zero from ten on the biggest demolition project of his life:

“It’s gonna blow!”

My husband is behind the wheel, howling and saying through choked laughter:

“I’m sorry. I know he’s in pain…”

The considerably more panicked voice from the second row:

“Hurry, hurry. It’s gonna blow.”

Looking around, I see a GPS screen, an umbrella, three empty single-serve chocolate milk containers, a pen and a package of saltines. Oh Lord, not even a cup from a fast-food break.

My husband says in a MacGyver tone:

“Dump the bag of food and use it.”

Mind you, this is my re-usable eco-friendly near-canvas bag. I picture removing my shoe as a receptacle and decide all other choices are grim. The bag it is.

“Stand up, unbuckle, get your pants down.”

I am breaking laws that I hadn’t even realized existed and have no idea how I am going to make up for the dichotomy of imploring to my children that they are NEVER to unbuckle their seatbelt in a moving vehicle.

“Get over here, bend over and go.”

My husband is trying to move to the side of the road, but nobody is letting our car in. I am trying to position the bag to not get any waste on me while contorting from the front passenger seat. I look up at my other son in the seat next to his squatting brother, and see both fingers shoved up his nose. He says:

“I’d gonna vomid.”

“Don’t you dare!” from the driver’s seat, still striving for the highway exit, so close in distance but so far away in time.

Wiped and strapped safely back in his seat, the smell permeated the van. I had to try as hard as I could to not think about the shit in the bag next to my foot. Someone should have told me years ago that these were job requirements of a mom. And as for Dad, I made him throw the bag away at the next pizza place when we were finally yet untimely able to exit.

“Windows down. I don’t care if it’s raining.”

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

Holding Tight

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 17:00:00 +0000

“When Mommy’s old and shrively will you carry me too?” I ask my four-year old son hoisting him onto my side while walking into Whole Foods Market.

“Oh don’t ask me that anymore!” he snaps back annoyed, before instructing firmly: “When you’re OLD and shrively I will, but not while I’m a kid.”

I chuckle to myself at the response. I remember the first time his solid frame led me to ask that question. His face took a contemplative look before he eagerly offered “Yes!” with a jubilant smile. I think he too envisioned the “big and strong man” he hopes to become.

He and I are running errands together having left his two sisters home with Dad. It’s a rare excursion out for just the two of us. When he requested that I carry him I was tempted to lecture about how he’s a big boy and can walk. Maneuvering a clunky metal shopping cart one-handed is just never appealing. I look at him from the corner of my eye, “Are you tired?”

“No,” he rubs his cheek against mine. “I just want you to carry me.” He leans his head in the crook of my neck before opting to keep his cheek pressed against mine as we continue on our way.

Together we meander down the aisles discussing what vegetables he hates, what apples to buy his sisters and what’s still on the list, all the while our heads leaning together, cheek-to-cheek. While we wait our turn in the meat department, I remind myself to take a moment to take in this moment. I feel William’s warm breath as he asks about the various meats, a butter-soft cheek pressed close and little arms resting on my shoulders. Tomorrow he may opt to never be carried but for now I have my little boy.

On the ride home he calls over the Jack Johnson music, “Mommy, I’m going to die the same time as you.” I repeat what I heard for clarification and he simply offers, “Yes.” I look back in the rear-view mirror and catch a glimpse of his content, smiling face looking out the window.

The next night while turning out the light I assure that I’ll come back and snuggle once he’s asleep. “Do other boys have their Mommies come back and snuggle?”

The question catches me off guard. Already feeling the pressure of peers? Just yesterday it seemed that he asked me to stay and snuggle. Wait, it was yesterday, so, “Yes,” I readily and assuredly reply.

“And ugh, I don’t need these things here anymore. Just give them to Grace!” he offers while flinging two stuffed animals off of his bed. I find myself actually feeling a pang of sadness for these once loved stuffed creatures, coveted Henry the bear and Telly the cat whose roles have suddenly shifted from loved ones to just things. But I take my cue and assure William that his little sister Grace will take good care of Henry and Telly.

For all that I love to watch my children stretch and grow I hold tight to these moments of a soft cheek pressed close and little hands reaching out. Life in this stage is a rhythm of holding tight to memories and continually letting go so my children can stretch and grow. And somewhere in this rhythm I will continue to find my groove by taking my cue from them.

By Maija Threlkeld

The Man in the Mirror

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

First there was shock, then came the thought, "Who will take care of his children?"

That was what went through my head when I heard that Michael Jackson had died.

I immediately thought of the woman who bore his first two children and hoped it would not be her. She was paid to be a surrogate, gave up her rights and from what I've read about her would rather raise horses than those kids.

According to several news reports she said something that she certainly did not have to share. Not now during such a painful time for his children. She said that Michael was not their biological parent.

He was their father. They knew him as Dad. Fortunately, the children are with his mother and his family. Hopefully their nanny, who has helped raise them for most of their lives, will continue in that role.

There is something else about the death of Michael Jackson that has bothered me. My own guilt and judgement about him in life and the almost saintly quality I've given him now that he is gone.

Death does that. Bad memories often give away to good, and they are what remain.

His skin was widely believed to be bleached. Now journalists are saying he really did have vitiligo, which splotched his skin and turned it pale. He also suffered from lupus, a harsh anti-immune disease. Perhaps that is why he wore surgical masks and allegedly took a number of drugs. That and years of strenuous performing left him in pain.

One thing I never believed was the molestation charges. The dentist who said Jackson abused his son, actually used a truth serum on his own child during a root canal. Can you imagine? Why did Jackson pay up? He said it just wasn't worth it. Haven't we all felt like that about one thing or another? OK, maybe not to the out-of-tune scale of $25 million. But understandable.

And then like a modern Jean Valjean in Les Miserable there was the district attorney who was going to bring Michael down regardless of the facts. The infamous molestation trial. Michael in his pajamas. So many, including myself, thought he was faking it. But I have spoken to people who have been on trial or have had family members who have been and all said they were on medication for much of their ordeals. So, apparently, quite understandably now, was Michael. A weak case. One that should never have been brought, Michael won, but he lost so very much. The financial and emotional strain cost him his career, his credibility and he became the equivalent of a cartoon character. A freak. Someone not of this world.

He was none of those things. He was a devoted father. A loving son. A caring brother. A man who, literally, thrilled millions and helped create the music video genre of MTV.

Michael Jackson is an object lesson in glass houses and to look at our own reflections before casting stones. Only then might we put down those rocks, and cast aside our harsh words and too easy judgements.

Michael Jackson is now in the same category as Elvis. His father said he would be bigger in death than he was in life. He left a legacy far larger than that. He had three children, just twelve, eleven and seven. Far too young to be orphaned. They are what is most important about Michael Jackson. He was their parent. He was their father. He was his children's dad.

By Dawn Yun

Sucker Punched

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 16:08:00 +0000

The three of us sat idly chatting while observing our young children practice their strokes during swim team practice. A pleasant enough afternoon safely protected from the sun’s harsh rays under the cool shade of a large patio umbrella.

A mild, uneventful afternoon watching our children.

Conversation meandered from good nutrition for our children to school volunteer activities, which led to my sharing the juggle of combining my work with the children’s schedules.

Somewhere in the midst of suggestions about daycare and nannies I asked one of the mothers, a former teacher, if she was considering going back to teaching sometime down the road.

She turned to me and replied confidently, “No, I enjoy being a Mom.”

I didn’t know how to answer.

My three-year old, dressed as Belle from Beauty and the Beast, snuggled against me before scampering off to find a friend, her yellow gown billowing about her. The “princess phase” is in full tilt at our home and I can readily recite the soundtrack from the Princess and the Pauper movie.

The kids and I laughed on the way home from picking up their third grade sister about Grace’s interest in all things girly. Grace delights in the attention.

Gazing across the pool I watch my six-year old’s determined arms as he swims toward his instructor. He knows that I’m rooting for him. Strong arms! Strong legs! When he gets out of the pool inevitably he’ll race to me, hugging his wet body against me, eager to share how much better he’s swimming.

I think to my third grader’s determination to complete her homework first thing after school. She’s right now busy at work on a book of illustrated poems, inspired by Shel Silverstein, whose work I shared with her class.

They are my love.

I enjoy our life.

I enjoy being their Mom.

But why should I have to justify that?

I breathe in the still air and offer as evenly as I can, “I enjoy being a Mom, too. I also enjoy my work and am glad to have it.”

No more said but inside the wind’s still knocked out of me.

By Maija Threlkeld

Stop-Light Memories of Soccer Games Past

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 08:31:00 +0000

I was waiting at the intersection for the signal to turn green. Suddenly, I heard sequels of laughter from the car next to me. I turned and saw a Volvo station wagon full of girls in soccer uniforms. They were about eleven or twelve chattering among themselves. The mom driving was oblivious to the noise coming from the back seat of her car.

At first I was relieved it wasn’t me behind that steering wheel. I couldn’t imagine driving one more carpool to one more soccer game. For years I drove my two girls and their teammates to games all over the San Francisco Bay Area. I spent many a weekend at tournaments, but one of the perks of endless hours of sitting through those games was comparing notes with the other moms about the whereabouts of our daughters.

As our girls entered their teen years and boys and drugs circled their lives, we grew closer as a community of moms. We began to rely on those weekend morning soccer games to review events from the night before.

I’ll never forget the first time my oldest daughter snuck out of the house. It was a Friday night and I had come into her room around two a.m. to turn off the light. Much to my surprise the bedroom window was wide open and pillows were stuffed under the covers on the beds where she and a girlfriend were supposed to be sleeping. Two recycle bins were stacked on top of each other beneath the window. They were the stairs for the “escape.” I should have been furious but I had to laugh at the absurdity of their scheme. I felt like I was in a “B” movie. Fortunately, I lived in a safe, small town where I knew most of the families with school-age kids. On this occasion she and her friend had snuck out the night before a Saturday soccer game. My solace was in knowing I’d get the details the next morning comparing notes with the other moms.

Sure enough, it turned out that several of our daughters had snuck out and met up at a local park. Some of the girls had said they were spending the night at a friend’s house. Some, like my daughter, just jumped out the window. By the time we sorted out who said what to whom, we were laughing.

We discovered this was the best way to parent our teenage girls: throw out a big net and make sure all the girls were safely in it. We devised an appropriate consequence for their actions. We made a pact: each parent would ground her daughter for the same amount of time. No girl could then complain she had the “worst mom in the world” because as a community of moms, we had agreed on the punishment for all of them. We later discovered the girls weren’t upset by their fates. They were safe and they knew it. Much to our relief we had a system for finding them when they were “lost.”

The light turned green and the Volvo with the soccer girls sped ahead. I wished the mom good luck. I didn’t miss the car-pooling, but I did miss the camaraderie among the moms which developed, not because our daughters were “good girls” playing soccer, but because they were bad girls testing limits to be themselves.

By Marilee Stark

Music of a Different Sort for a Mother's and Baby's Ears

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 07:33:00 +0000

We were all tired.

My four-year old was exhausted from a day of heavy play at Stinson Beach; my eleven-month old was pooped from missing his morning nap so that a friend could drive both our kids to the beach, and my husband and I were tired because we’d just run the Dipsea Race from Mill Valley to Stinson before playing three hours worth of Frisbee, sand castle building, and chase-the-crawling baby.

Both kids fell asleep the minute we got in the car to drive home, but I knew that my son needed more than the thirty-five minutes of sleep that the drive afforded. So I unloaded my husband and daughter at our house and kept driving sleeping Asa round and round the town of Larkspur.

I’d hoped I could pull over into a nice, shady parking spot, leave the car running, and sleep while he snoozed, but the minute we stopped moving, he’d wake up. My butt and quads and hamstring were all tight and achy and I desperately needed to get out of the sitting position, but even more than that, I needed Asa to get more sleep so he could make it through the rest of the day without crumbling.

So on I drove.

I was too tired to venture north or south; I knew that getting stuck in any kind of traffic would put me over the edge. Instead, I made myself intimately familiar with the back streets of Larkspur while listening to the Playboy channel on our new satellite radio.

Who knew there was such a thing as a Playboy channel? Who knew you could really say cunt, jizz, and tea bagging on the radio? Who knew I’d be driving my baby son around listening to callers complaining about their erectile dysfunction/ distaste for oral sex/ anxiety about a wife’s gift of a threesome?

I stumbled on the station while exploring the essentially disappointing selection that our newly purchased Sirius Satellite offered. And you know what? It beats the monotony of Alice 97.3 or the tired children’s mix of Baby Beluga, Get Your Jammies On, Slippery Fish, that’s for damn sure.

For a tired mother whose libido could stand a boost, listening to people talk about sex for an hour while cruising the suburbs probably isn’t such a bad thing. I just need to remember to change the channel before my daughter gets in the car; otherwise I’m going to have a lot of tricky questions to answer.

By Eliza Harding Turner

Gluten-Free Writing

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

The great thing about writing is that you get to take life's challenges, and turn them into opportunities for assignments!

My article "Gluten Free Dining in the Bay Area" in June's Parents’ Press newspaper is an example of this. Having a three-year-old son who is gluten free, I've become a reluctant expert on where to dine without wheat. But I also learned a lot about Celiac disease as I researched this article, so it added to my conversation today with my son's doctor at his physical.

So now we get to decide if we want an official Celiac diagnosis, which would mean putting him back on gluten, having a blood test, and possibly an endoscopy, and if in fact he does have Celiac disease, or is just gluten intolerant, we would just end up back where we are now- avoiding gluten. I'm not sure if it's worth all that, but we'll see.

For now, I'm just grateful for all the food options we have that are gluten free.

By Kristy Lund

Top Ten Reasons to Clean Your Refrigerator

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

10. Rewards sloth—the longer you put off grocery shopping, the easier it is to clean!

9. No moral quandaries about whether discards are suitable for Goodwill.

8. Potential for discovering medical breakthrough growing on leftovers.

7. Possibility for weight loss if growth on leftovers results in food poisoning instead of Nobel Prize for Medicine.

6. As productive procrastination goes, it is more gratifying than cleaning your sock drawer.

5. Discover container of leftover chocolate sauce, rear bottom shelf. Yum.

4. Uncover tonight’s Mystery Dinner to augment Found Dessert (see #5).

3. Unlike most household chores, does not need to be repeated for a really long time.

2. Out with the old! (May generalize to closets, hairstyles, and boxes of adorable infant clothes that no longer fit your middle schooler.)

1. Make way for the new!!! (OK, it’s a cliché, but applicable to untried recipes, a better wardrobe, and material for write ‘em fast blogs.)

By Lorrie Goldin

A Favorite Aunt Visits Her Favorite Niece

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 19:52:00 +0000

My best friend, Amy, is visiting.

This coincided perfectly with my daughter, Mimi, seven, getting out of school. The two have been inseparable. It's such a joy to listen and watch them interact. Amy doesn't have children so she takes her responsibility of being a godmother and Mimi's favorite "aunt" very seriously.

That means some hard core silliness, tickles, playing with stuffed animals, and chasing each other. Mimi will affectionately lay her head on Amy's chest, while her aunt holds her close.

The loud moments are as precious as the quiet ones.

Amy has been my closest friend since we were both eleven. To see her being as tight with my daughter as she is with me makes me enormously happy.

Mimi has it all figured out. Amy, her husband, "Uncle Vinnie," Maggie, her cat and Mimi's other "aunt," and godmother, Cal, and her family (husband and dog) will move to California so we can all be together all the time.

Amy can't move. She likes where she lives in Washington state, she has clients and her husband has a job. Cal would love to move to California but circumstances at the moment dictate it will likely be a few years before that becomes a reality.

I wish both lived here, too.

While Amy remains I revel in the pristine love between her and my daughter, as she delights in everything Mimi says and does. I observe this close-up and at a distance. Mimi is so easy to love. She's a sweet girl, with a kind heart, a fun disposition, and a fast mind.

Of course, I do enjoy that while Amy plays with Mimi I get a bit of a respite from parenting. But it is only momentarily as Mimi comes bounding over to share the love, which I love.

Mimi is my greatest gift. My absolute joy. She makes me smile.

While children can sometimes be pains in the ass -- be honest! -- the vast majority of the time they are our greatest source of pleasure.

There are only has a few more days left with Amy. Mimi will treasure each one. When we take her to the airport on Saturday, my daughter will cry. The memories she will have, that all three of us will hold, shall last forever.

By Dawn Yun

When It Comes to Accumulating Things, Less Really is More

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

Why is it that every day my daughter expects something new? From a stuffie (stuffed animal) to clothes to a piece of candy.

It is the something/anything syndrome.

I am trying to teach her that we are in a recession. Her pronunciation of it is difficult enough. Though it is the explanation that counts.

Money. Have to save. People are losing their jobs. No Daddy still has his work. Yes, Mommy is still bringing in money, too, however small it may be.

Mimi does get it. The problem is that she still wants it -- something/anything.

No, has become a very big word in my vocabulary: as have -- be appreciative, be grateful for what you have, not for what you don't, maybe for your birthday.

Confession: I want things, too. The worst the recession gets, the more I want, even though I've never needed less.

My car is perfectly fine. It is a 2001, in decent shape and has only 60,000 miles. Yet, I will have a new car before the end of the year. This week I will test drive the new Prius, in black, and the Honda Insight. I feel as though I have to make up for our family's lack of ecological karma, what with two SUVs polluting the planet. Plus, the inside of the Prius, the way it lights up, I feel like I'm on a space ship ready to take off (though I think the acceleration is probably a tad different).

My latest obsession is the new iPhone. About three months ago I bought an iPhone, even though I instinctively knew that a new one would be out in the summer (despite Apple and AT&T telling me not to count on it). I didn't think I could wait until then so I bought the one they had at the time. Then the iPhone 3GS just came out. It is twice as fast, double the battery life, has a much improved camera and more importantly, video recording capabilities that can be immediately downloaded to YouTube.

Mind you, I've already loaded the new software for my old iPhone onto my current phone and it provides many of the improvements found on the new phone. You can write in landscape mode, it has an audio recorder, you can cut and paste information.

Still, it's not the same. I want the new one.

There is the small matter of the $500 I would have to pay AT&T to get a new phone, even though mine is only three months old. There is no way I am going to do that.

Cheapness wins over function every time when my brain cells are all firing. I will keep my iPhone. Besides, I don't need the new one because I already have a flip camcorder for downloading to UTube, which I rarely use.

Still, every ad for the new iPhone speaks to me. I try not to listen.

Something/anything. Am I really any different than my daughter? I want, want, want, too.

I very much use the mantra of -- less is more. Mimi very much neither uses, believes, nor understands the concept. One day she will. Fewer things that really count, have meaning and memory are what matter. Not the number of them.

On the car, though, that one I feel I do need a change. I want to leave a smaller carbon footprint behind (my husband rolls my eyes at this. I kinda do too. As soon as the words spring off my tongue, I think, 'You are so full of shit. You just want a new car.')

The truth is I could lose pretty much every thing I have and I would be fine. It is a lesson I continually teach my daughter and one I still need to remind myself.

Something/anything? How about nothing? There is something very elegant about it. I think my daughter and me might try it more often.

By Dawn Yun

A Lesson to All Teenagers -- Call Your Mothers

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

Lying. This is a biggie for me, being a child of divorce with abandonment issues.

I can handle most any kid-related screw-up, but lying. The phone didn't ring, allowing me to sleep until five a.m. when I woke with a start. I knew the second my eyes were open that he had not called. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and punched the missed calls log. Nothing. Lifted the receiver on the house phone. No interrupted dial tone indicating a message. He had not called when the concert was over or when he safely arrived at his friend's house. Two checkpoints skipped and it was now five-fifteen and I was full of adrenaline. I called his cell -- straight to voice mail. I called his friend's cell. Same. I called his again. Same.

I got dressed.

"Don't go over there. It's too early, you'll wake everyone up," my husband sleep talks from the bed.

"Uh-huh,” I agree as I pull my hair into a ponytail and start to wash my face.

I called his cell again after I got my shoes on and headed for the back door. Voicemail again.

I'm pissed and a little scared. Mom mode. Odds are he just screwed up. Of course his friend's mom or someone would have called if there were an accident. Or an arrest. Or he'd OD'd. And then there was the possibility that his friend's mom was too distraught over the death of her own son to tell me about mine. Or they hadn't found the body yet after the car went off the bridge. All this ping- ponging through my uncaffeinated brain as I wind up the narrow redwood-lined road to the house where I was going to yank my brat kid from a warm bed to kick his ass.

I didn't knock or ring the bell. I let myself in through the garden gate, and down the steps passed the pool to the first door. I knocked and listened to the birds and noted that the sun hadn't yet come over Blithedale Ridge. My cell rings. My husband, urging me to go get coffee, calm down and wait an hour before I barge in and embarrass our son.

“Good idea,” I say. “OK.”

I knocked again and a sleepy teenager answered. My guy was across the pool in the main house and I asked the boy if he would tell him that his mom was here. When he came to the door he looked worried, and asked what was wrong.

"You didn't call."

"Yeah I did."

"No, you didn't. Get your things and meet me in the car." I thanked the sleepy messenger and walked back up to the street and waited for him.

He didn't waste time, threw his things in the back and got in the passenger seat barefoot and bleary eyed. He insisted that he had called after the show, at eleven, until I showed him my call log on my phone and asked to see his. Nothing since nine p.m. Then he says he was too caught up in the moment, that his phone, keys and jacket were rolled in a ball under the seat where he couldn't reach them.

Excuses.

I am so relieved to have him in the car and that he is whole and alive -- and so fucking pissed at him that I tear up when I say, "You lied. That is the part that disappoints me the most. Why would you feel that you need to lie to me? You had an opportunity to establish a foundation of trust here. It was so easy. All you had to do is call and check in. I want you to go out in the world and be with friends and see music and have fun. I want you to show me that you can do this and make good choices and be safe and check in. I have to ask myself, what would cause you to not check in? You are always so good about this. And then you lie. That's the worst part."

Now, my six-foot, two-inch, one hundred eight-five pound boy is shaking and tearing up and apologizing. "I screwed up. I'm sorry, but I swear I didn't drink or do drugs."

I nod, "Well, fine. But you also swore that you called. So there's that."

I'll never know why he didn't call. I do know he'll at least think about it next time, and hopefully he will get it right. That morning I made him sit with me at the Depot café and have coffee and chat for over an hour while the sun came up. He was clearly uncomfortable and really didn't look too good. I enjoyed that. His leash has been drastically shortened and did he ever make a nice Mother's Day breakfast for me the next morning, complete with coffee just how I like it. He volunteered to unload the dishwasher and asked if he could help me plant tomatoes. He and his brother took me to see “Star Trek.” He accepted his younger brothers’ ribbing about how “mom kicked your ass.”

Sadly, I know I'll do it again.

By Mary Allison Tierney

From the Mouth of Babes Come All Kinds of Words

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

Last week, while clearing away the dinner dishes, my boys, Ethan, five, and Alex, three, began their debate.

Ethan, in an authoritative voice, fired the first shot with, “Storm troopers have cooler weapons than Jedis, you know.”

“No, Jedis are good guys,” answers Alex. He doesn’t even know a light saber from a blaster.

You’re so stupid, Alex. Storm troopers have cooler ships.”

“No, Jedi!” Alex pounded his fist on the table.

“Hey!” I interjected, “Next one to fight with his brother eats dessert alone in the dining room!”

Alex turned on me.

“Well, if you put me in the dining room, I’m gonna go postal on you!”

Where do they get this stuff? It should have tipped me off back when Ethan was two and he dropped his ice cream cone.

“GODFUCKINGDAMNIT!” he yelled at the sidewalk.

As parents, we all know that kids are little parrots. So, when Ethan began repeating Daddy’s swears, I threatened to wash Daddy’s mouth out with soap. Now that little Alex is of parroting age, he knows how to remind Kirk, “Watch your language,” because he hears it from me. Swearing has become a thing of the past.

Sometimes, I find that the ugliest things I say get repeated. Last Thanksgiving, with the entire extended family assembled, Ethan announced, “Mommy says we can’t hang out with (relative’s name omitted) because she’s lousy with kids.”

Now, that required some explaining.

Not all of the things my kids repeat are that hideous. I often hear from Alex things like, “You did such a good job with your dinner, Mommy. Now you get some dessert,” or, when I’m on the toilet, I’ll get a reassuring pat on the knee from him.

“I’m so proud that you pooped in the potty, Mommy.” Yeah, like I’d ever be caught wearing a Pull-Up!

Right before the November election, Alex asked Ethan why George Bush gets the thumbs-down, and without missing a beat, Ethan said, “Because he’s a moron.”

Kids say the darndest things, don’t they?

My boys have mastered the parentese, and they’ve also gotten the context. Yesterday, we were putting on our shoes to go to the park. In a rare display of fraternal helpfulness, Ethan assisted Alex with the Velcro on his sneakers. I was tying my laces, musing on Ethan’s maturity, when he asked me, “Do you really know how to tie your own shoes?”

“Yeah,” I said. He sighed and shook his head. “Sometimes I just can’t believe how grown up you are!”

Right back atcha, kiddo.

By Mindy Uhrlaub

Godparents Make the Best Friends and Relatives

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

When it came time to chose godparents for my daughter I gave it careful thought. I wanted her to have two godparents and wanted them to be people she could always turn to as I had a sense -- correct I might add -- that my daughter and I would fight often because we would be so much alike.

We do and we are.

Amy, my best friend since I was eleven, is visiting today. Mimi is camping with her father and brother. I am Jewish. I don't camp. I hotel.

The night of Amy's arrival from Seattle we will have too much wine and laugh.

Come Sunday morning when my family returns, Mimi will jump into Amy's arms and shower her face with kisses. Amy will stare at her with wonder and joy, the same way I look at my daughter every day. I will watch the scene play out exactly as I had envisioned it seven years earlier. I can imagine it seven years from now. And years and years beyond that.

I explained to Amy that her role wasn't just to buy gifts, but to be a second mother to Mimi. To bestow her wisdom to my daughter when she is perplexed and needs an opinion outside of her mother's.

The same with my friend, Cally, who lives in Florida, and is an artist. Art, besides being a rock star and a vet, appear to be Mimi's calling. When Cal calls now they talk intensely about drawing. Aunt Cal offering advice about blending colors and how to show perspective.

My daughter is blessed to have two wonderful godmothers. I am lucky to have them as friends. For we love each other unconditionally.

It helps that both are hysterical, fun, playful, insightful and smart.

They'll always have us. And we will always have them.

By Dawn Yun

Guitar Gaze, Keeps Family Ablaze

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

Ever since I took up the guitar about a year and a half a go I've skipped my mid-life crises because I'm so happy strumming.

Without dreams of fame or fortune just appreciation for making a D minor chord blend with its cousin, A minor. I feel transported.

My guitar is not on display in the living room for show. It's for playing. I practice for fifteen to thirty minutes daily.

At first my family was incredibly supportive. Now I have to give them warnings before I play. The sounds of doors closing sharply throughout the house make their own kind of music.

Lately, I notice that even the cat leaves the house, slipping though a hole in the screen door, to take refuge in the garage, safe from my sounds under holiday wrappings.

While my guitar playing may sound like noise to them, for me the sound couldn't be sweeter. Nor I any happier.

To my family and anyone who hears me playing while passing by, I promise to try and lower the volume. And, I might add, "Rock on!"

By Dawn Yun

Vacation for Mom -- Family Free with Friends Who Are Family

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

School is out for summer!

School is out forever!

Well, no, not really. But it is over for me for the next two and a half days! Woo-woo-hoo-hoo!!!

My husband usually takes the kids camping for approximately eighteen hours. Enough time for me to say, "I have the night to myself." In the wee hours of the a.m. I see them climbing down the front stairs. "And the morning for my family."

I am grateful for the free time however short it may be.

But this is long one. Roughly two days is equivalent to a week for me.

With the family gone, I read, write and lounge.

Tomorrow morning a friend is visiting from Palo Alto. About one p.m. she will leave so I can pick up at the airport my best friend, Amy, in from Seattle who is visiting for a week. Amy called last week to say she had an unexpected opening her her schedule and wondered if she could come and visit.

This was untrue. Unbeknown to me, her mother revealed that Amy's intentions for suddenly coming were, "Dawn's had a lot of deaths the last year. I know it's been hard. I have to come and be with her." A true BFF. Her mother is my second mother (pronounced muth-a). A New York Jewish mother if ever (pronounced ev-a) there was one. I am lucky to have this family in my life since I was eleven.

Amy enjoys her pot. Not my thing. So I've been trying to score some from a friend who lives life firmly on the edges. Her telephone is not accepting voice message, texts or anything that resembles communications. Oh, well. I have two great bottles of wine, an entire evening without children and we can have a gabfest.

This looks to be a wonderful beginning to what I feel certain will be a great summer.

By Dawn YunPublish Post

Once a BFF, Always a BFF

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

My friend Deb called me last October. I hadn’t seen her in about seven years. Our 35^th high school reunion was coming up and she wondered if I’d want to go with her. I was thrilled to hear her voice although I’d been hurt and confused during the past several years, wondering why she’d let our friendship wither. I’d long considered her one of my closest friends, but calls and cards had gone unanswered for a few years before I’d stopped contacting her.

Toughest to digest was that our friendship moved from the slow lane to the exit ramp when she was diagnosed with breast cancer at age forty-four. I so wanted to support her through her treatments but she did not need me. She had her husband, her sisters and other friends who lived closer. I heard enough to know she’d survived, but her not needing or wanting my support forced me to realize our friendship had eroded more than I’d been willing to admit. A few years later, my holiday card was returned with a red stamp of No Forwarding Address. I took this as the final signal that I should let the relationship go.

The high school reunion was a blast. Deb spent the weekend at my house. We gabbed for hours. She made no mention of her silence over the years and I’d decided beforehand that I would welcome her back, no questions asked. I honestly don’t think the years of silence were anything personal – probably more to do with living one-hundred miles away, raising two teenagers and finding time with a husband who worked long hours. I can’t say I felt no resentment but mostly I was glad to have her back.

And she is back. She initiated my family’s spending a weekend at her home. We’ve met for lunch. She sent me a lovely bouquet of pink roses when I hit a tough patch at work along with a card saying how happy she is that we’re back in touch.

She also asked me to join her this July in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. We’ll trek twenty-six miles in San Francisco over two days. We met for a twelve-mile training walk last week. We exchanged fundraising tips, sock recommendations and organic snacks. I’ll be there for her on July 11^th and 12^th. We’ll walk together to honor her ten years as a breast cancer survivor and our thirty-eight years of friendship.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Maybe There Should Be Camps for Parents

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

It’s the first week of April and I have not signed my children up for summer camp yet. The squares on my calendar spanning from the middle of June to the end of August – the 10 full weeks that make up summer vacation -- are blank.

I am at once calm and panicked. I am proud not to have succumbed to the pressure to plan our summer schedule half a year in advance. I am terrified that those summer days will blend into weeks and then months of whining boredom.

Like Christmas decorations, the camp brochures seem to arrive earlier each year. Glossy pamphlets began filling my mail box in early February. Sorting the mail tempts me to live not in the moment, but to propel myself months into the future. On a cold, grey, mid-winter afternoon, I give in and anticipate what we’ll be doing the first week in August.

I imagine spontaneously packing up the car with a cooler and towels to head off to the beach looking like some family out of the Lands' End catalog. I picture us taking long bike rides, going on picnics, working a lemonade stand, making hand-cranked ice cream. But experience tells me that after a few days of hanging out with Mom, my kids will crave time with their friends. And their friends won’t be free to join us on an outing to the beach. They will all be in camp.

With resignation, I settle down to register fearing most camps will already be full. I sift through the pile of promotions. The possibilities are endless, overwhelming, and the cost often outrageous. I’ll need a spread sheet and a GPS device just to figure out whether I can promptly deliver two children to two different camps in opposite directions during the correct week – the week their best friends can also attend. (I have been known to show up at last week’s sports camp only to realize that my child is currently attending art camp on the other side of town.)

My 7-year-old daughter and I narrow the choices down to horseback riding, musical theater, cooking, ceramics, and gymnastics. My 11-year-old son considers soccer, kayaking, clay animation, golf, newspaper reporting, and fencing. Suddenly, there are not enough weeks of summer (or dollars in my bank account) to accommodate their preferences let alone squeeze in a family vacation.

I throw up my hands in dismay. I want to go to camp.

By Tina Bournazos

An Unexpected Twist on Parenting

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

You know the scene in the movie when the Mom goes into the kid’s room to give a last good night kiss, and instead they find a faux human made of pillows, and the kid has run off somewhere?

When our daughter was missing from her bed, I did not react as calmly as Donna Reed might have in Father Knows Best. I don’t know who would have known best in the situation I found myself in, but it sure wasn’t me in that moment of discovery.

“OH MY GAWD!!!!” I screamed out for my husband. “HENRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Katie has been a rambunctious teenager. She has come in too late, had too much to drink, too much to smoke and gone too far away from home without asking if she could beforehand.

She has been an honorable student and polite to strangers, but when it comes to getting her to put away her laundry or answering her cell phone when she’s out, she’s been a challenge.

I recognize Katie’s rage because it’s not that different from my own adolescent rants that still emerge from time to time. Her beliefs are interwoven with contradictions but she can always justify them and sometimes what she says is hard to argue with. According to Katie, organized religion is the root of all evil, but she loves to rock out to Jimmy Cliff. (Ganga Man God.) She thinks the police abuse their power in most situations but wonders why the police are never available to help the homeless people. Homeless people should be respected as real and valuable however, her parents (Henry and me) have acted in ways that have not led her to respect us.

The list goes on.

Young people change the world, I know that, and so, when I found the rolled up clothes and pillows under the covers instead of Katie, after my shock I became quite thoughtful.

Maybe it was time for me to change.

Katie has just graduated from high school, it is the summer and I can’t stand fighting anymore. Henry and I did not devise a grand consequence for Katie after we tracked her down by texting all of her friends and eventually got her tucked away in her room.

As we lay in bed at two a.m., wondering how to be better parents to our teenaged daughter, we were exhausted. “Maybe it’s time to let her go a little,” Henry said.

Usually I was the bad cop parent, but at this point, I was too tired to enforce any more strict rules. “Yes,” I agreed. “What we’re doing is obviously not working.”

On Sunday morning after the debacle, we had “the talk.” We took a very different approach.

“Katie,” I said. “We know that you’re a good girl and are sure that most probably you regret the decision you made last night. We have a proposal for you that we’d like to try on an experimental basis. ”

She looked at me suspiciously.

“We would like to lift your curfew.” The surprised smile and delight on her face was large.

“Show us that you can handle it, which means you cannot be unreasonably late every night. Keep in touch with us so we know where you are, and help out around the house more. Show us more respect so we can give you more responsibility.”

Henry was unusually quiet. We usually spoke over each other during these group parenting events, but we both remained calm, and hopeful.

Like I said, this is an experiment, and we will see how it goes one night out at a time. Letting go, separating, leaving home, it is all so uncomfortable and awkward; but it does have to happen eventually.

By Gloria Saltzman

A Friendship Based on Illusion

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

The baby and toddler years will always be amongst my most memorable memories. It wasn’t easy finding a group of women who felt the same exact way I did about mommying.

We shared insecurities, secrets, tips, and truly gave each other what was left of us that we didn’t give to our children.

Then -- something changed.

Maybe when my youngest went to kindergarten. When I began to work again. When I got diagnosed with an unexpected illness.

Suddenly, I could see clearly what I could not observe, or did not want to notice: true friendship.

And one person, who I thought was the most giving of people, upon closer inspection, really was not. Oh, there was so called generosity. Groceries in particular. She always came laden with them. And liked to present me gifts with that I neither needed, sought nor could use.

What she had trouble giving -- was herself. I noticed when I talked, she rarely listened. I babysat for her child way out of proportion to her watching mine. Then there were the unkind words that sometimes found their way out of her mouth. They were always so shocking that I was speechless in reply.

One day, after a particularly virulent spiel -- I could no longer ignore my internal voice. It yelled: MOVE ON!

The problem: her daughter and my daughter are great friends and I don’t want that ruined. We also run in similar circles.

This is where being a mother and the wisdom I’ve hopefully gained must come into play. This is not about me. This is not about her. This is about our children.

Still, there is sadness for what once and for what will no longer be.

I’ve always tried to create family from friends. My best friend at 11 is still my best friend today. I laugh as hard now with my college friends as I did with them back when we were in our 20s (a-hem, that being just a year or two ago).

I’ve been fortunate to have lived around the country and have friends in each place where I have resided. And I have incredible mommy friends who will be my sister-friends forever.

I am happy that by putting an end to something that once was beautiful but is now toxic, I am taking care of myself and I will be watchful for my daughter.

I will also be something else – mature, graceful and kind. The qualities I want my children to have.

Still, I am sad to lose a friend or the friend who I thought she was only to realize that person was an illusion.

I'll try to remember the good times, even if there was imagination on my part.

Right now our daughters are BFFs. But watching her constantly angle, setting up play dates, sans my daughter, yet she always seems to want one when she knows my daughter has a play date with another friend, borders on the manipulative and absurd.

I wish things were back to how I thought they once were. But I know now those were only dreams. And we awaken from our dreams.

By Dawn Yun

A Nursing Home Holiday Filled with Family, Memories and Tears

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

My father-in-law, Glyn, moved to a nursing home in early December. We came bearing gifts on Christmas day – my husband, me, our 10-year old son, along with my husband’s brother and his 11-year old daughter.

Glyn sat in the dining room. A first for him as he had been taking all his meals in his room. He ate his prime rib with gusto as we hovered around the table. Conversation was sparse. I had thought that this visit to the nursing home would be sad but it felt okay.

Holding a gift box and tearing the wrapping paper off was difficult for Glyn. My husband helped him open a large box filled with a heavy black jacket. I wondered if he’d ever get the chance to wear it.

“Did you bring the camera?” my husband asked.

“Yes,” I replied, fumbling in my purse and hoping the batteries were charged.

I focused the camera on my husband, our son, his brother, and our niece as they stood behind my seated father-in-law. I felt a rush of anxiety. Should we be taking this picture?

No, no, not here, not the annual family picture in a nursing home. Pictures would stop with last year. No more, no.

The nervous surge receded. I could take the picture. This is where we gathered, where we honored Glyn this year. I pushed the button, capturing the three generations.

“This is the nicest Christmas I’ve had in a long time,” my father-in-law said.

“I’ll bring his presents to his room,” I said and quickly grabbed the jacket and another gift. His room was a short walk down the hall. I barely made it before bursting into tears.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Christmas Memories La La La La

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

It's only summer, but already my mind is on Christmas past.

When the doorbell rings for our tree-trimming party every year, we turn up the volume on Handel’s Messiah, ladle out hot mulled cider, and put our guests to work hanging the ornaments.

I’m the only one invited to the untrimming party. Soon Joni Mitchell’s Blue is blasting from the speakers as I bring up boxes from the garage and get to work dismantling Christmas.

But I’m not blue at all. I love taking apart the wooden train set and stowing away the brightly painted nutcrackers. I scrape melted wax from the mantel and toss withered cedar boughs into the fireplace. Scummy vases once overflowing with holly and white orchids get a good scrubbing.

Then I untrim the tree, from hand-blown glass balls to hand-crafted macaroni angels. It’s like unearthing a time capsule. Here is the rocking horse era, followed by the rise of the snowmen. Family pets are honored by an abundance of dog and cat angels. Crazily misshapen Santas record the preschool years, while “Baby’s First Christmas” bears round out the collection.

My favorite part is tossing the denuded tree off the balcony. Such a satisfying crash! Pine needles blanket the asphalt below, but I don’t sweep them up; the wind and rain will take care of the mess. This act of purposeful sloth thrills me as much as tearing out spent petunias from the garden at the end of the summer. Annuals and Christmas trees are supposed to wither and die, then get tossed. Unlike the perpetual nurturing demanded by children, pets, perennials, and husbands, limited care for ephemeral glory is the only requirement.

After all, it’s the dismantling that brings about the restored order and hope of the new year.

By Lorrie Goldin

School is Almost Out for the Summer!

noreply@blogger.com (Writing Mamas Salon) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 07:01:00 +0000

This simply cannot possibly be true.

It is.

School is almost o-ver!!!!

In my home I'm uncertain who is more excited, my kids or me.

My 16-year old son, who scores so high on his tests but forgets to do his homework, is facing five weeks of hard labor: intense summer school in English and World History.

He has promised us Bs from the summer forward. He will need to if he hopes to get into a decent college.

"You know you're going to be one of those kids left behind and you're way too smart. So just do your homework, please?"

Mimi, my seven-year old, enjoys taunting her older brother that she does not have to go to summer school.

"You're in second grade. There's time. Just wait."

"Jay," I admonish.

The day after Jay gets out of school we are leaving for vacation in Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons. We will fly into Salt Lake City, I'm still unsure why, and then drive into nature.

My husband knows that I do not camp. I hotel. So he has booked some nice lodges.

Then in early August the kids and I will leave for a week to see my family in Connecticut and we'll visit New York City and Boston. I'm taking my kids and niece and nephews to see the play, Hair. They don't know the ending. But the sun will definitely be shining in. It will be their first Broadway play and I'm excited to share it with them.

We'll catch fireflies at dusk and watch them light up Mason jars with their light bulb-like backs and then set them free. During the mornings we'll take long walks down Martha Stewartesque country roads. I'll laugh with my sisters. And probably fight a bit, too. The cousins we'll also laugh. And probably argue as well. This is why my husband stays home. He is not used to the noise. I grew up with it. To me it's just ambient sounds.

In between there is camp for Mimi three days a week and play dates on the other two. I sense this is going to be a beautiful summer. We'll see old friends and hang out with our neighbors.

The opportunity to slow down, reflect and enjoy is that for which I hope. The reality, I know, is more likely my son will forget to do his homework and my daughter will say -- just as she does about school -- that she doesn't want to go to camp.

Still, I look forward to the respite. Even if it's only in my imagination.

By Dawn Yun