My Christmas shopping exploded when I met my husband.  I’m the third of eight children and our family gift traditions were simple.

My husband had only his father, his brother and his brother’s girlfriend.  But their tradition was (and remains) to buy each other five or six gifts.  And then there were “gifties” for the close friends that are his extended family. 

And my husband-to-be never started shopping before December 20^th.  His routine was going to a big mall, feeling so totally overwhelmed and freaked out that he became paralyzed and went home nearly empty handed.  The real shopping happened between noon and six on Christmas Eve.  I played along the first year and hated it, but somehow felt it was my role to support his holiday routine.  He loved having me with him.  

I introduced the idea of a shopping list during our second year together.  He thought this was terrific.  I’d list the names and pencil in gifts as the shopping progressed.  We even brainstormed a few ideas before we hit the mall.  When we wrapped up the buying on Christmas Eve, he said this was the smoothest year ever. 

I was exhausted.

Once we had a son, I knew things had to change. I was determined not to do all of his shopping and more determined not to be at the mall on the weekend before Christmas.  I scheduled my mother to come for a full day of babysitting in early December.  Although this felt like shopping on Labor Day to my husband, he complied and we did the lion’s share of our shopping and had a nice lunch and dinner out.  Kind of a combined date night/shopping extravaganza.  During our newlywed years, this new holiday tradition was one we embraced.

This routine worked for several years and then evolved into an annoyance.  My husband felt I was taking over by scheduling when he had to shop.  He didn’t feel like he had enough say in what we bought or where we shopped.  He didn’t feel like going on the day my mother appeared.  He’d rather wait until the right mood hit.  He claimed I had not even told him that my mother was coming.  (What I say and what my husband hears and remembers is another story. I absolutely adore him but he is a man.)

I have shopped early and alone the past few years.  I am happy.  I am done well before December 20^th.  I am more relaxed and enjoy holiday parties without a shopping list running in my brain.  I don’t shop for my husband’s brother or for myself.  When my husband begins panicking on December 22^nd over what he needs to accomplish before December 24^th, it’s his problem.  He kinda likes the new me and kinda doesn’t.  

He likes that he does not have to do as much since I  shop for our son, our nieces and nephews and our friends.  He doesn’t like that he has no say in my gift selections.  He recognizes that the train has left the station and he is a passenger, not the conductor.  He finds great and creative gifts for me, bought at trendy, hip neighborhood boutiques where I can never justify shopping but love getting gifts from. 

It’s mostly all good.

Don’t get me started on getting the Christmas lights up on the house.  It’s the one decorating function I refuse to do.  It’s all about compromise, right?

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: Christmas Shopping, husband, Marianne Lonsdale, Wife

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The young girls in holiday finery caught my eye as I stepped off the escalator onto the BART platform at the Civic Center station in San Francisco. 

They sat on one of the round marbled benches, maybe seven and nine-years old, carrying on a lively conversation with their wooden nutcrackers.  Their mother, in a black and silver lace blouse, was standing and looking up at the electronic schedule display.  I smiled and was about to ask how they had enjoyed the ballet when a lump swelled and my throat closed. 

My body had reacted before my memory caught up. 

The memory of standing with my mother on the steps of the War Memorial Opera House.  I was six, my sister, Cathy, was nine and big brother, Jimmy, was ten.  Mom was bent down, holding my coat collar, telling me to obey Jimmy and Cathy.  No squirming around and no talking during the performance.  She would meet us right back on the steps when the ballet was over.

The performance was magical! 

The beauty and glitter of the ballerinas, the enchanting music.  My memories are swirling collages of many colors, silver and gold sparkling, and wishing I were the star in my own ballet slippers, on point. 

The most glamorous event of my young life.

My mother barely scraped together the money for our tickets.  She could not afford to buy one for herself and she had my other two brothers at home to care for.  She was thirty years old with five children, making ends meet on a firefighter’s salary.  But the magic of the Nutcracker was a necessity she would not let her older children miss.

I still have the playbill tucked away with other childhood treasures. 

Thank you, Mom. 

Merry Christmas.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: Christmas, Marianne Lonsdale, Nutcracker

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I feel like I’ve had the following conversation with my husband a zillion times.

The situation: We are meeting at 1 p.m. on Thursday at our son’s school for a parent teacher conference.  I need to BART from my job in San Francisco to the school in Oakland.  My husband works out of our home in Oakland.          

The conversation begins on Tuesday: 

Me:  I’ll have to meet you at school on Thursday, the day of the conference.  I’ll probably just make it in time.  It’s going to be a tough day for me to take time off work.

My husband: OK.

The conversation continues on Thursday: 

Me: Tomorrow is the parent teacher conference.  I’ll meet you at school.  I won’t have time to come home first.

Husband: OK, I’ll meet you there.

I think the conversation wraps up Friday morning.  My husband is still in bed when I leave for work. I kiss his cheek.

Me: I’ll see you at school at 1.

Husband: OK.

Around 10:30, I check voice mail messages. My husband’s voice:  Uh, so I guess you’ll come home first and then we’ll go to school together? Is that what we’re doing?

Aaagh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

By Marianne Lonsdale

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My son Nick, a fifth grader, had procrastinated completing his history assignment all week. Now, on a warm Saturday afternoon, he was stuck at the dining room table, reading several pages on World War I.

“Mom, why is war legal?” he asked. His face had that scrunched up puzzled look he gets when he thinks adults make up the stupidest rules.

“What do you mean?”

“Why can people kill other people and it’s legal?”

“Great question,” I responded. “The President and Congress declare a war and that makes it legal.”

“Can anyone go kill people then?” he probed. “Like could you go and shoot somebody?”

“No, you have to be in the military. In the Army, the Marines, the Navy or the Air Force,” I explained. His questions were a bit disorienting, and I was intrigued by how foreign the idea of sanctioned killing was to my boy.

“Mom, this is so weird,” he starts. “Get this - President Woodrow Wilson got the United States into the war – he declared war on Germany. But then he received the Nobel Peace Prize for bringing peace to Europe. Does that make sense?

Nope, I could not explain that. Nick’s fresh perspective made me question some of the rules of war that I take as just the way it is. And I loved his critical thinking and questioning. Good job Mom and Dad. Good job school. I’ve got a peacenik in training.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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My husband, our eleven-year old son, Nick, and I sit in straight-backed chairs, around a rectangular table. The funeral director sits at the head, explaining the decisions we need to make to take care of the remains of my husband’s father.

My son’s beloved Grandpa.

Nick sits across from me. His eyes downcast. His hands are on the table, moving from closed fists to open palms, over and over again. His hands pop into five- point stars and then ball up. I’ve never seen him do this before. A kind of restless meditation.

I want to hug Nick. I want to walk around the table and put my arms around him. I restrain myself from lifting my arms up and offering them to my son. I wait for him to raise his eyes, to look to me for comfort.

He does not.

Nick sobbed last night when his father told him of his grandfather’s death. He tried to do homework, but his tears would not stop flowing. He clung to me at bedtime.

Today, he’s reentered the stoic world of the boy code. I know he’ll need me. I push my chair back a few feet, making sure I have room for him to sit on my lap.

My boy is only two inches shorter than me and weighs nearly 100 pounds. I wait for him to cuddle on my lap. I want to motion to him, but wait. Finally, he looks at me. I point to my lap, touching my thigh twice, nodding my head, signaling to him that it’s OK to do this. He shakes his head, returning his eyes to the table.

We are together, and we are separate in our grief.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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Ah, spring is budding and the thoughts of eleven- year old boys turn to. . . well, to their dicks.

“How was school today?” I ask my son.

“Good,” Nick says.

“Did you have art class today?” I probe, trying to get a few more words out of him.

“Yeah.”

Another one word answer. Okay, I’m forgetting to ask open-ended questions that require more than yes, no and yeah.

“We learned how to do macramé,” Nick offers.

“Cool,” I respond, knowing I sound anything but. “Everybody used to do macramé. Plant holders, wall hangings, all kinds of stuff. Did you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s easy.“ His eyes are on his dinner plate. He pushes broccoli around with his fork. “Gabe made a penis.” His eyes do not rise to mine.

“A penis?” I’m surprised, as much by Gabe’s boldness as his choice. “Was it obvious? Could you tell?”

“Totally,” Nick says. “All the kids were talking about it.”

“Could the teacher tell?” I ask. I’m cracking up. I can’t hide my humor.

“I don’t know. She didn’t say anything.”

We’re both laughing. I’m pretty astonished by Gabe’s ingenuity and by my son’s willingness to tell me.

I have dinner at Gabe’s house a few weeks later. His mother is one of my closest friends. She and I are sipping wine and planning a summer vacation together.

“Did you hear about Gabe’s macramé project?” I ask.

“Yes,” Peggy says. “He loved that project. You know how he usually hates art. Every year I get calls from the teacher saying he just sits there. Won’t participate.”

She rises from her chair and steps toward the adjacent family room. “I hung his project on the wall,” she says. “Let me show you.”

Peggy slides the pocket door back and reaches up to the wall. “Gabe, I’m going to show Nick’s mom your macramé project.”

“Okay Mom.” Do I hear hesitancy in Gabe’s voice?

Peggy carries the twine piece into the dining room and holds it with pride.

Sure enough, it’s a penis. Two orange balls on either side of a wide column at the top. Fringe across the top – could it be -- pubic hair? The column narrows to a tip adorned with three colorful beads.

“Peggy,” I say, unable to hold back any longer. “It’s a penis.”

She steps back, takes a fresh look. Her eyes widen, her mouth opens. “Oh my God, you’re right.”

We are filled with silent laughter, not wanting to embarrass Gabe in the next room. We double over, covering our mouths with our hands to keep the guffaws inside.

It strikes me that our funniest moments as parents, our most touching ones, are those that we can’t plan for or predict.

Ah, I love the story of the macramé penis. It’s a keeper.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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In first grade, my son, Nick, claimed St. Patrick’s Day as his holiday to share with his classmates. Other parents came to talk about Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanza, Chinese New Year, Easter. But Nick was the only one with a claim on St. Patrick’s Day.

For four years, from first to fourth grades, Nick and I made a presentation to his class on March 17th. We followed the same format each year: food, oral presentation and an Irish jig. Nick had developed a new family and school tradition.

The two of us would rise early to bake loaves of Irish soda bread, using Nick’s great-grandmother’s recipe. Each year we’d argue over the modifications Nick wanted to make – no caraway seeds in all four loaves, no raisins in two of the four. At 6 a.m., I just wanted to follow the recipe. I was too lazy to divide the batter into two bowls. But Nick knows what he wants and what the kids would want and he melted my resistance each year like the butter we brushed on top of the loaves.

We varied our oral presentation each year – once reading a picture book, another year finding information on leprechauns and their relations, such as brownies and fairies. The importance of wearing green, even to bed the night before, as a preventive measure against getting pinched was stressed each year.

But the annual highlight, the piece de resistance, was Nick and a friend performing an Irish jig. Nick was not versed in jigs but somehow felt qualified to choreograph and direct himself and a friend. Several rehearsals were held at our home. The same song was used each year, an Irish tune that picks up in speed as the song prances along, forcing Nick and his willing partner to move faster and faster and faster.

Each year I’d wonder if kids would tease my boy for his dancing, for his quirky interest or roll their eyes when he’d once again dance to the same tune. But the kids loved the tradition and vied to be his dancing partner. In third grade, I was stunned when Spencer, a very cool rock-and-roller-in-training, asked to be his partner. I would never have guessed that Spencer would be caught dead dancing a jig. And in fourth grade, Austin, the class toughie and jock, relished being picked.

But now we’re in fifth grade and childish things are being put away. Nick’s not doing any jigs and seems bored with the topic. He’s even scratched me bringing in Irish soda bread. I’ll still be up early mixing the dough so I can sneak some of the warm bread into his lunch, listening to the Irish song whose name I don’t know but call “Nick’s Song,” and peeking at his beautiful, sleeping face. I knew the day would come. What I didn’t know was that the jig being up would be a rite of passage for my green-eyed boy.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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My memory is lost.

Between Mom Brain and menopause, I lose chunks of memory for minutes or hours. I’ve gotten used to it. I don’t get flustered if I can’t remember my next-door neighbor’s name – I know that her name will return to my memory at a later date. My son does not like my memory lapses. I rushed to BART from work one afternoon, did a short leap from the platform to the train, and then remembered I’d forgotten my purse at the office.

I hopped out as the train doors were closing. Hustled back to the office, took a later train and called my husband to tell him to pick up Nick. I told my silly story about the forgotten purse while we ate dinner. I was laughing and I looked across the table to my son. Nick was crying.

“It’s not funny, Mommy,” he says. He was pissed. “You need to stop forgetting everything.”

I realized that to Nick I appear out of control. The Mommy he depends on to keep his world spinning, to keep order for him, could not even remember her purse. Ah, I thought. This is the start of him finding out I’m not omnipotent. Not perfect. And also the start of me realizing that maybe he doesn’t need to know everything about me.

Maybe I just give too much information sometimes.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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I’m sure I’m not the first to compare having a puppy to having a new baby. But I’ve never had a puppy before and the similarities are striking. I must say that I found my baby easier to manage. But that baby, my son, Nick, is eleven now. Perhaps my memory has faded.

Kashi, our four-month old Bichon Frisee, needs constant attention. He wants to cuddle, he wants to bite, he wants to pee and poop whenever and wherever he wants. He has me on a strict schedule. We head outside every forty-five minutes and I wait, oh so hopefully, that he’ll do his business on the street and not on my new carpet.

When I walk with him through the nearby shopping district, we spark the same attention I used to get with my baby boy. I was fortunate enough to join a mothers’ club and now it seems I’ve joined a dog lovers’ club. Almost everyone we pass stops to admire my puppy.

“Is it a boy or a girl?”

“He’s so cute.”

“How old is he?”

“What kind of dog is he?”

“You’re so lucky.”

Most of the time I feel lucky. I’m much more frustrated with the puppy than I ever was with my son, Nick. I felt like Nick got me, that he knew he’d be well taken care of. The puppy is still not certain of what end is up (pun intended) and pays me little heed. On the other hand, the puppy sleeps through the night and for that I am grateful.

And then there are the products. Who knew? Moist treats, dry food, Greenies, kennels, pee pads, leashes, collars, play toys. I’ve resisted my son’s begging for dog clothes.

Instead of a nanny, Kashi has a personal trainer who comes weekly. The trainer lets us know exactly what we’re doing wrong. All fault lies with us, not the child. Oh, excuse me, the puppy.

My quiet mornings are gone. My cherished hour before my husband and son arise. My time to myself with a cup of coffee and a newspaper, my writing time. I rise now to a whimpering puppy that needs to be taken outside within two minutes in order to avoid peeing on the floor. I sit with my coffee, the puppy by my side, nipping my toes with his sharp pointy teeth.

The similarities to having an infant continue. My husband and I had dinner with ten friends last Saturday night. The puppy was the main conversation. One woman shot me a look of disdain when I admitted I had no photos of Kashi with me to share.

And why does my voice automatically change to baby talk when I hold Kashi? “I wuv you liddle boy,” just floats out of my mouth. “Mommy take care of you.”

So what’s the payoff? I do love the little guy and I’m his mom. No matter what, I take care of him. Then there’s the joy this puppy brings to my son. The look of happiness, of completeness that lights Nick up. And he’s a good boy, taking equal responsibility for toilet training and walking our little white fluff ball. Our only child now has a constant comrade.

Okay, I admit it; I’m not a dog person. But I’m a Nick person, from head-to-toe, from heart-to-heart.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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My son loves to hear me sing lullabies.

“Sing to me, Mommy,” his sleepy voice pleads as I sit on his bed, stroking his head. I start my trio of songs, almost carrying a tune.

My singing voice is horrible. I can’t hear when I’m off key. I love music so I don’t think I’m tone deaf, but something’s missing in how I hear the notes. What comes out of my mouth does not at all match what I hear in my head. But Nick loves my lullabies.

Nick loves me.

My husband never heard me sing before we had Nick. I don’t sing along in the car, not even in the shower. But right after Nick was born, I started singing aloud to him. He’d be snug in my arms, nursing, and I’d sing.

I felt my mother singing through me when the Irish standard, "Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral," came out of my mouth. My shyness, my embarrassment about my voice, doesn’t matter if it’s what Nick needs. I’ll do whatever I need to take care of my boy, to make him feel safe and secure.

Nick has helped me find so many spaces in myself that I thought were closed or I didn’t know existed. My boy has helped me find my voice and my joy.

I hope my unconditional love of him will help him grow as much as his love nourishes me.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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My family fills four long tables in the gym of Saint Veronica’s. My six brothers, my sister, our spouses and children, my mother and father - we’re all here. Catie, my 15-year-old niece, had a gran mal seizure this morning and is barely conscious. She occupies a wheelchair, her head drooping forward, at the top of our row of tables. Catie and her 6-year-old sister, Annie, are disabled by Battens, a degenerative disease which is terminal by the late teens.

Two women in our home town somehow heard about the horrible disease and organized a spaghetti dinner as a fundraiser for Battens Disease research. Servers bring steaming bowls of spaghetti, two for each table, one with red sauce and one with pesto. Garlic bread, loaded with butter and paprika are already on the table, along with antipasto platters of celery, carrots and olives. The gym is packed. The dinner has sold out.

But the people keep coming. My brother Joe is like The Godfather, with men lining up to see him. All these men that I remember as boys keep streaming in. Boys that are men that love my easy-going brother, who played baseball with him, went to high school with him. Cops who were on the South San Francisco police department with him. They line up in front of Joe, each spending a few minutes saying how sorry they are. Doing that manly teasing thing. Lots of conversations start with, “Remember that time?”

I can’t take it. I offer to take the kids outside to the schoolyard to run off some energy. The dinner has raised $11,000. A drop in the bucket. I think of my son’s wealthy private school that raises $100,000 each year at their annual auction to provide more to children who already have so much. What can I do? I’m not doing enough. Near strangers are throwing dinners and I do nothing.

Corky, my sister-in-law, speaks after dinner. She explains the disease and talks about what life is like for Catie and Annie. She wraps up by talking about her other children.

“I’ve spoken a lot about my daughters, Catie and Annie. I need to also talk about my other four children – Tony, Kelly, Kerry, and Amy. These four children are my heroes. These four are in the trenches every day, taking care of their sisters, giving a life of service. I need to thank these heroes.”

Korky is my hero.

This dinner is another sorry ass memory for our collection of Batten memories. Will we end up treasuring these memories or hating them?

My Marianne Lonsdale

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I walk through the school yard, heading back to my car, ready to roll into work.

Small groups of moms stand around the play area, chatting and drinking coffee from commuter mugs. My insecurities kick in and I wonder what group wants me.

Where do I fit?

There are the moms of older kids, who know everything about the school and how my kid will behave since they’ve been through it already. Sometimes they like to talk to me, to give me advice. I play dumb and grateful.

There are the soccer moms, probably rearranging car pools for the fourth time this week. My son doesn’t play soccer so that group is not for me.

I also don’t fit in with the moms with money – I didn’t even know that “development” was another word for fundraising before my son started school.

Sometimes I feel like I’m back in high school. It doesn’t help that I’m not good at broaching groups. I don’t know how to break in. If I nudge my way into the group and listen, am I invading personal space?

If I laugh too loudly at some not so funny remark, or add my own comments, am I interrupting?

I somehow missed the life lesson about how to properly infiltrate a group. I find it easiest most days to be the working mom, too busy to stop.

I smile and keep walking, trying to project purpose, somewhere to go.

I nod hellos, sometimes tap lightly on a mom’s arm or pat a back. Maybe by middle school, I’ll find my place in the school yard.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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I pity the poor kids -- and mine is one -- who do not relish group activities.

We’ve come to think that happy participation in groups is normal and required behavior. By the time most kids are toddlers, their everyday happiness depends on how they navigate in groups – daycare, Gymboree, music classes.

I remember leaving my howling three-year old son in a gymnastics class. I hovered in the hallway, dialing my husband on my cell phone for advice. Should I leave him? We decided he needed to learn to be on his own. If we didn’t start now, wouldn’t it just be tougher on him later?

My son is now a confident, gregarious and well-liked nine-year old. Teachers have called him a peacemaker in the classroom and on the playground. But he freezes if I try to leave him with a group of more than four kids.

One-on-one situations are no problem. Three to four kids is festive and exciting. Any more and he stays glued to me. We’ve walked out of birthday parties when he flat out refused to join in with a group of smiling classmates during gymnastic tumbles and turns.

And after a three-day weekend or spring break, returning to his classroom brings tears to his eyes. Teachers have physically restrained him so that I could dash for the car.

I thought he would outgrow this anxiety, but now I accept that this is part of who he is. We accept this in adults. It’s okay to say, “I just don’t like big parties” or “I do better in small groups,” but our current social structures don’t allow this trait in kids.

In fact, it’s no longer considered a trait – it’s considered a limitation.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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My first miscarriage seemed to go on forever.

First, the spotting, and then the ultrasound to confirm the loss. Next, the wait for my body to expel whatever was left in me. The cramps, the blood. And finally, a D&C was still needed to finish the job.

I had no idea that miscarriages could drag out over several days.

My therapist recommended that I plant a bush or shrub to mark the end, to add closure. I didn’t feel like I needed any more markers. But in an effort to try to move on, I planted a green shrub in a shady corner of my front lawn. The lack of light did not make this a prime spot for growth. Next to the plant, a scraggly acacia already struggled to produce small blossoms each spring.

That fricking plant flourished. I flashed an evil eye at the green mass when I came home from a doctor’s visit confirming my second loss.

After the third miscarriage, I had to transplant the damn thing because it was strangling the acacia. I really wanted to toss it, but could not bring myself to kill it.

Eighteen months later, I got pregnant. I’d given up. I was forty. My doctor had told me I was considered barren. I wasn’t tracking my cycles, wasn’t taking Clomid, wasn’t pushing Progesterone suppositories up there every month, wasn’t taking pregnancy tests that I knew would be negative.

That darn plant died in the fourth month of my pregnancy. As life surged in me, it drained from that plant. The plant drooped, turned brown and was dead. After three years of irritatingly lush growth, it had died.

Strange but true.

I have no explanation, but somehow found it comforting. I took the plant’s demise as one more sign that this pregnancy was meant to be (and it was!).

By Marianne Lonsdale

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I spent most of my life thinking I was not creative. When others would talk about their artistic endeavors, I’d joke, “I don’t have a creative bone in my body.”

Creativity was not valued in my youth. Making good grades, completing household chores and babysitting my five younger brothers were important.

Most everything else was deemed frivolous.

Then along came my one and only son, Nick. His birth sparked a creative lust. I needed to express more than my breast milk. Creating this beautiful little boy made me feel like I could create other things.

For the first few years of his life, I scrap booked. I delighted in my pages of cute layouts, decorated with stickers and fancy paper borders. I was mostly arranging pre-cut fabricated materials, but it was more artsy than anything I’d ever done.

Then I tried a drawing class. This took guts. I could draw the outline of a house and I could draw a fish. I almost walked out of the first class when it hit me that my fellow classmates would see my scribblings. But the teacher was terrific and somehow made that classroom a safe place. I was soon drawing at home, in parks, on vacation. I didn’t care who saw my drawings.

And then I started writing. My real passion. I was afraid that I’d have trouble finding topics, finding my stories. But I don’t have difficulty discovering things to write about: only trouble finding the time to write.

I like that my now ten-year old son is growing up in a home that values time spent on creative projects. That he sees me sometimes (but not often enough) choose a morning of writing over a morning of house cleaning. He thinks his mom is creative. He doesn’t know he’s my inspiration, my first and best creation.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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My family and my brother’s family occupy space and time differently than we did before Battens disease gripped us.

We flow from tears to the mundane and back, over and over again. Stephen King could not have imagined a more horrible disease, one that ravages children’s bodies and minds for years before killing them in their teens.

“I’m grieving Catie’s death already,” my sister-in-law, Cathy, said while she took the boiled potatoes out of the pot last Christmas. She sobs. I hug her. She wipes her eyes with her red and green checkered apron.

The disease has blinded and slowed her oldest daughter, Catie. And her youngest daughter, beautiful Annie, was diagnosed with the monster three months ago.

“Do you think we should mash the potatoes by hand or with the electric mixer?” she asks. “Which is the best way?”

I dance with Catie after dinner. I twirl her and she’s smiling and it’s so, so bittersweet. I sneak to a dark corner to hide my tears. When I return, Catie is yelling at my 9-year old son, convinced that he’s stolen her favorite purple purse.

She’s shoving Nick. He stands glued to the carpet, clueless how to respond.

I take his hand and lead him to the backyard, away from Catie. My hero, my loving sister-in-law, is at Nick’s side, explaining that Catie has tantrums and yells at her sisters all the time. That he should not take it personal.

Cathy and I return to the living room, start picking up the piles of discarded wrapping paper. We flow from laughter to tears and from denial to horror. From raw pain to numbness.

We never reach acceptance.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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When did it become common practice for parents to take turns buying junk food to give kids after playing a sport?

My son has played sports for about three years and I’m still wide-eyed when a mom pulls out cupcakes with frosting towers as soon as the last inning ends.

I’m appalled and feel powerless to change this tradition.

“The snacks are so important,” some perky mom says at the start of each season. “That’s why the kids play, what they look forward to.”

What about health? What about the pleasure of playing? What about the child-obesity crisis?

My concern escalated last spring when my son got snacks not just after baseball games, but also after practice.

Practice ended at 6 p.m. Did he really need a bag of chips and a sugary drink as an appetizer before dinner?

I forbid him to partake which made me the mean mom. I try to come up with something healthy when it’s my turn. Something healthy, yet tasty enough that my son won’t be embarrassed.

For my last attempt, I stuffed baggies with a cheese stick and a handful of wheat thins. Another mom, whose turn it was not, brought doughnuts. Just in case whoever had snacks forgot -- she didn’t want the kids to suffer.

Guess which snack the kids chose?

By Marianne Lonsdale

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We were driving to Target when Nick asked about his disabled cousin Catie. Nick, 8-years old, still too small to sit in the front seat, piped up from the back.

“What’s going to happen to Catie when she grows up?” I’d been wrestling with when to tell him more about Catie. Now, this question from out of the blue. “Will she get a job? Or will someone still have to take care of her?”

“Her mom and dad will always take care of her,” I responded. Should I use this moment? How honest should I be? Nick had seen Battens Disease destroying 15-year old Catie – blinding her, shutting down her brain, turning her muscles to mush. But he didn’t know that kids with Battens don’t survive their teens.

“Honey,” I started. “Kids with Battens don’t live long lives. They don’t usually make it past their teenage years.”

Nick got it. A guttural wail poured from him. A sound unlike any I’d ever heard from my boy. He sobbed, his whole body rocking forward and back.

I pulled over, climbed in the back seat and pulled Nick to me. His body calmed a bit. He slid his hand up my sleeve and rubbed my arm. Leaned his head on my shoulder.

“What’s happening with Catie is one of the worst things you’ll ever have to deal with. Honey, I am so sorry.”

Our day wore on. I told my husband. I e-mailed Nick’s teacher, asking her to let me know if she saw any unusual behavior. Told Nick’s Aunt Cathy that Nick knew her daughter’s disease was terminal.

Nick said no more about Catie until a week later, when I was reading to him at bed time.

“I keep thinking about Catie. At school, at baseball, all the time.”

“I think about it a lot, too,” I said. “It hurts so bad.”

Nick nodded, his mouth trembling.

“You can talk to me or Daddy anytime about it. And Aunt Cathy said you can ask her any questions you have.”

His teary eyes closed. Oh god, I hurt. I miss Catie already. And I ache for Nick. I hate that he’ll lose his cousin, that he’ll attend her funeral. But it is going to happen. This year or next year or the following year.

Damn that disease. Damn, damn, damn.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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My family traveled from Oakland to Sequoia National Park last week. My husband drove. I was the navigator with maps and the 800 number to call for In and Out Burger locations.

My ten-year old, Nick, and his buddy, Josh, sat in the back, zoned out with iPods and video games. We’d instructed them that no electronics would be allowed during our five days in the park. They were getting in their last fix.

The boys were bored the first two days. They thought the General Sherman tree, the biggest tree in the world, would be bigger. The tunnel log was deemed a rip off. And to add insult to injury, the TV in our room didn’t work.

We hiked the 380 steps up Moro Rock on day two. Josh stopped at the half way mark, tired out as well as freaked out at being so high. Thereafter, he’d shoot me an evil eye when I’d outline our next hike.

On day three, a shift in interest started. My son asked if I’d buy him a book to read. He also earned the designation of Junior Ranger by completing a booklet of educational activities. Josh could care less about the Junior Ranger program. But he thrilled at catching trout in Stony Creek and at swimming in an alpine lake. Touring Crystal Caves was creepy enough to count as fun for both boys.

We lucked out at Cascade Meadow on our fourth day. Two rangers stood at the edge of the parking lot, observing two mama bears, one with two cubs and the other with three. We were glued to the scene for the next two hours. The action went from watching playful cubs scamper up trees to violence when one mama bear swatted the cub of the other mama out of a tree at thirty feet. The two mothers faced off with growls. We held our collective breaths, wondering if a fight was coming. Nick and Josh said this drama was way better than the Discovery Channel.

Josh asked to go back to Moro Rock on our last morning. This time he made the entire climb – a hot, sweaty and proud boy. We returned to the car and started our long drive home. Ear plugs came out and the boys switched on their electronics. But they had gained a little more between their ears than when we left Oakland.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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I’ve learned not to discuss the birth of my son with other mothers. It pisses them off. I stay silent while others discuss their pain wracked hours and days of labor. Occasionally, a mom will ask, “How long was your labor?”

“Three and a half hours,” I say meekly.

“You’re kidding!” the mom responds. “I pushed for longer than that! How long did you push?” I’m not quite sure why a flash of anger flares, but it invariably does.

“Twenty minutes,” I respond.

The head shakes. Conversation shifts from me to the rest of the group. My labor doesn’t count, too easy. I don’t have a war story to share.

I used to explain that the pain went from 0 to a 100 in the blink of an eye. I took a warm shower at the hospital and all over body shakes pushed me from standing to flat on my face, hugging the tiles. I vomited and shook and begged for drugs, but the shot arrived too late. I didn’t know it would all be over soon – I assumed I had hours and hours to go. I don’t recite this litany anymore; nobody has any sympathy for me. To be honest, even the nurse in the delivery room looked a bit disgusted that I complained about the contractions.

I get it – I’m quite grateful my labor and delivery was short. I felt great almost immediately after Nick’s birth because my body wasn’t tired out from a long ordeal. But my experience still counts. I still did it. I gave birth.

By Marianne Lonsdale

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