Lisa Smith Molinari

Archive for the ‘parenting’ Category

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Feel it in your rear

In Humor, parenting on May 20, 2012 at 10:09 am

“God help us all,” is often muttered in response to news that a teenager has begun driving. Other responses include, “Run for your lives!” “Hit the dirt!” and phrases implying apocalyptic events.

We all universally recognize that teenagers don’t know much about life, and that placing one in control of a one-ton combustion engine with the intent that he propel it over concrete at high speeds, is really stupid when you think about it. Nevertheless, our laws provide that 16-year-olds can drive, so we put our parental instinct aside and allow them to do it.

My son has his learner’s permit, and until I rode in the passenger’s seat while my sloppy, brace-faced teenage son lurched our minivan along the open road, I had no empathy for my parents. Now, I feel their pain.

It was June 4, 1984, my birthday, and I was twirling the barrel of my curling iron through my bangs for maximum height. I heard my mother’s voice calling from outside our brick ranch, “Sweet pea! Come out here a second!”

I tsked loudly, rolled my eyes, and ignored.

“Honeybunch? C’mon, it’ll only take a sec!” she continued, eventually appearing at my bedroom door. In classic teenage style I sassed and whined at my mother, annoyed by what I saw as her rude interference with a crucial task in my routine – curling my bangs.

Eventually, I succumbed to her pleas, but not without attitude. I appeared outside, slump-shouldered and eye-rolling, where the cause of her interruption was revealed: on our lawn sat a pale blue 1974 Volkswagen Beetle tied up in an enormous yellow bow.

I offered no apology for my embarrassing behavior. Instead I screamed and ran to claim the gift, which I assumed I wholeheartedly deserved.

That day, I had to deliver pizzas for our Varsity Letter Club fundraiser. My father thought this was the perfect opportunity to use my new Bug. There was one problem that my father cast aside as a minor detail – I didn’t how to drive a stick.

My hair properly coiffed, I jumped excitedly into the driver’s seat and awaited my father’s instructions.

A gruff, ex-college football player, he was not accustomed to being delicate. He operated on pure instinct, street smarts, and gut feelings. I, on the other hand, had no innate abilities, instead relying on conscious analysis to learn. My father didn’t use maps, instructions or cookbooks. I relied heavily on them. He was not articulate, using facial expression and volume to communicate. I spoke in great detail to explain my thoughts. So, when it came time for me to learn how to drive a stick, we were not exactly a good match.

After several stalls, I eventually got my new Bug onto the road. I made every first-timer mistake: revving the engine, sputtering and stalling, rolling back after stopping on an incline, riding the clutch, and constant lurching. Each time, my father bellowed, “Easy, easy! No, not now! There, there! Now! Shift! The clutch, the clutch!” I could not process the words he was blasting in my ear and continued to grind, lurch and stall.

Being the typical hormonal teenage girl, I soon began to cry as my father’s frustration mounted. “Feel it in your rear! That’s how you know when to shift!” No matter how hard I tried, I could not feel anything in my rear or anywhere else for that matter.

I was able to hide my tears at the first few pizza deliveries, but after more yelling and a near catastrophic stall downhill from a barreling coal truck on Route 286, I was soon a blubbering, red-eyed, snotty mess.

“[Sniff, snort] Hello Ma’am, I, I, I, [sniff, rubbing nose with sleeve] believe you ordered two [hiccup] pepperoni pizzas?” I managed to say after ringing doorbells. “Oh, Sweetie, sure! Do you want me to order more? Would you like to come inside and sit for a while?” my customers would offer upon seeing my pitiful condition.

I somehow managed to deliver all the pizzas without anyone calling child protective services, but was devastated at my complete failure to “feel it in my rear.” It was not until I drove alone on the road in front of our house that I was able to think for myself. Without anyone to tell me what to do, I quickly learned to drive a stick like a pro.

I never really felt anything in my rear as a teenage driver; however, I can now say that riding in the car when my son is driving could be described as a huge pain in the butt. Perhaps that is what my father was referring to. Regardless, my childhood experience taught me to hold my tongue when my teenage son is driving so he can think. Parental instinct may urge me to scream, “Holy Mother of God!” and grab for the emergency brake, but I’ll sit quietly and allow him to figure it out for himself.

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365 days and counting

In Humor, parenting on April 30, 2012 at 9:50 am

“You think you got it bad now,” other moms cautioned when my kids were young, “just wait ‘til they’re teenagers.”

Like the weird sisters of Macbeth, they’d give each other knowing glances and chuckle, as they watched me nearly amputate a foot while trying get my screaming toddler’s stroller onto the escalator at the mall.

I thought those moms were too old and summarily dismissed their annoying prophecies. Besides, back in the “olden days” kids played outside unsupervised all day while their mothers lounged around in crinolined skirts, smoking cigarettes, polishing silver, and watching “I Love Lucy.”

No wonder their kids turned out to be horrible teens. I firmly believed that whatever stage of parenting I was experiencing was the worst one, and no one was going to convince me otherwise.

This month, my eldest child turned 17, and it occurred to me that only one year of his childhood remains. I’m not sure if I should celebrate or burst into tears.

The first time I held my son in my arms, I felt an awesome sense of love and purpose. In an instant, my own needs shifted from my top priority to a distant second, and the funny thing is, I couldn’t have been happier about it. I can’t take credit; it was merely a consequence of animal instinct, and like any mama bear, squirrel, or flamingo, focus on my own survival automatically switched to the endurance of my offspring.

Although it is initially a joy to put our children’s needs ahead of our own, over time the task of parenting gets bothersome, frustrating and let’s face it, downright terrifying.

Nowhere does this fact of life become clearer than in parenting teens. I hate to admit it, but those cackling witches at the mall were right as rain.

When my son turned 13, his head didn’t spin, his eyes didn’t roll, and foul expletives didn’t burst forth from his mouth. No, he was the same kid he’d always been. When he turned 14 we saw subtle changes – his first shave, a deepening voice, reluctance to accept affection. How cute, we thought.

We drifted contentedly into our son’s teen years, comfortably secure that our teenager would never be a problem, because we were good parents and had raised him right.

But soon after the candles on our son’s Rubik’s Cube-shaped 15th birthday cake were extinguished, a new period of parenting ensued, which might best be described as “Armageddon.”

Suddenly, the bathroom door was permanently locked. Our son stopped making eye contact. A foul smell hung like a green fog in his bedroom. He snickered secretly into the phone behind his barricaded bedroom door. When we managed to come face to face with him, he was always asleep.

In what seemed like an instant, the sweet boy we had known all these years turned into a smelly undisciplined stranger who, apparently, hated our guts.

At night we lay in bed, our minds racing with anger, frustration, guilt, and panicked thoughts of our son’s future. Desperate, we listened to other parents of teens, and found out that the hell we were experiencing was actually quite common.

Apparently, just as new hairs sprout from a teen’s body, a budding new attitude develops in the teen brain. The once dependent, reverent child suddenly thinks:

“There’s nothing that I don’t already know. I will now run my own life. I find you totally embarrassing, and reserve the right to roll my eyes in pure disgust whenever I see fit. I will, however, continue to associate with you so that you can buy me a car, electronics, clothing of my choice, pizza for me and my friends, and a place to sleep until two in the afternoon. Oh, and don’t forget to save upwards of $100 K to send me off to college so that I can reenact ‘Animal House’ at your expense.”

With one year left before my son leaves the nest, you’d think I’d be chilling champagne and making plans to fumigate his room. But ironically, I’m melancholy and must resist the urge to become one of the witches, warning young moms to appreciate the days when their biggest problem is getting the stroller onto the escalator at the mall.

Instead, I’ll remind myself that every day of parenting a child is precious, and I’ll savor the next 365. And counting.

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Bracing for Bankruptcy

In Humor, parenting on March 25, 2012 at 1:30 pm

I’ve done just about anything you can think of while sitting in our orthodontist’s waiting room. I’ve balance my checkbook. I’ve applied concealer to the dark circles under my eyes. I’ve watched “Toy Story” eight times. I’ve torn recipes out of magazines when no one was watching. I’ve discovered an old cough drop in the bottom of my purse, picked the lint off it, and eaten it.

With three kids in braces, I spend half my life in the orthodontist’s waiting room, and unfortunately, half our combined income too.

You’d think the orthodontist would have the decency to pluck a few bills from his mountain of insane profits to provide me with a reclining lounge chair or neck pillow for my waiting room naps. Alternatively, a nice cappuccino bar and mini-fridge with ice cold cans of Diet Coke would provide me with caffeine, obviating the need for naps. A desk and free Wi-Fi would enable me to do more multi-tasking than cleaning out my purse and catching up on women’s magazines. I mean, that’s the least he could do, considering.

Considering that my kids’ teeth never really looked all that crooked to begin with, but somehow, they ALL need full orthodontic treatment to include preparatory extractions, palate expanders, bands, brackets, adjustments, headgear and retainers.

My intuition told me there was a wide-spread conspiracy between our dentist, oral surgeon, orthodontist and insurance company to swindle me out of as much money as possible. But they knew that all they had to do was use big words, show me some murky x-rays, and put the fear of God in me that my kids’ mouths would soon become veritable train wrecks of snaggleteeth. They knew I would cave, and that’s exactly what I did.

Has it always been this way? I don’t think so.

Today, braces are a fashion accessory, as cool as a cell phone in kid’s jeans pocket or a Vera Bradley lunchbox. Conversely, when I was a kid, the general attitude toward any additional hardware such as orthodontics, glasses, orthopedic shoes, and back braces, was that they were instant fodder for ruthless bullying, and as such, should be avoided if at all possible.

I had the unfortunate experience of having braces while in the 5th grade in 1978. My orthodontist didn’t have to use his powers of persuasion to convince my parents to pay. To the contrary, my parents were begging on bended knee to please, for the love of God, do something about my teeth, which were spread so far apart, my brother had started referring to me as “The Rake.”

Unlike today’s trendy braces with their inconspicuously glued brackets, colorful bands and thin sparkling wire, every tooth in my 11-year-old head was cemented with gun-metal grey steel bands welded with cumbersome brackets connected by thick wire. I went from looking like “The Rake” to resembling the villain “Jaws” from 007’s The Spy Who Loved Me.

And of course there was the dreaded headgear. I remember picking the red-bandana patterned neck strap from a bin at the orthodontist’s office, which was a wholly inadequate consolation prize for the utter humiliation I felt when wearing the slobber-producing device in public.

There was no question about it – the only reason I suffered the embarrassment of braces in the 1970s was because my teeth were seriously screwed up and my parents were only too happy to pay for someone to fix them.

Nowadays, not only are the professionals trying to sell you on the latest orthodontic procedure to correct the most minor flaws, even the kids pressure you to sign on the dotted line just so they can pick bands to match their school colors. They won’t listen to reason. You can’t convince them by pointing out that Jay Leno would be nowhere today without his characteristic under bite, and Jewel would be slinging burgers at McD’s if she didn’t have that fang poking straight out of her face.

So here I sit, in the orthodontist’s waiting room, picking stuff out from under my fingernails, while somewhere across town, money is automatically being withdrawn from our dwindling checking account to pad the overstuffed coffers of our orthodontist.

And as we careen ever so slowly toward financial ruin in the name of orthodontic perfection and middle school fashion sense, I comfort myself with the knowledge that, with all this waiting room time, my purse has never been more organized.

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Here we go again

In blogging, parenting on March 8, 2012 at 1:39 pm

Last year, my readers were instrumental in voting my blog the #1 Top Military Family Blog of 2011 on Circle of Moms website (see, “We’re Number One”  May 2011.) They faithfully voted day after day, week after week, until my blog was on the top of the list and I won the whole freaking thing. I was truly touched.

Since the hubbub over that contest, some have asked me, “Hey Lisa, what did they give you for winning?”  For those of you out there who are fellow bloggers, you already know the answer to that question, but many non-bloggers do not, and I’m always afraid to disappoint them with my answer. The fact is, online magazines and websites who run contests like these do not award trophies, medals, ribbons, cash, crowns, sashes, or even an Applebee’s gift card. There are no ticker tape parades, no banquets with chicken cordon bleu, no bouquet of foil balloons, no giant stuffed animal.

No, the reward for winning these contests is solely in the free marketing benefit of being listed on their websites. Whoopdeedoo, you might be saying to yourself, but actually, I need the free marketing a heck of a lot more than I need a French Dip Slider from Applebee’s or a life sized plush gorilla like the one at the Pingpong Fishbowl Stand at the County Fair.

No, the publicity I got for being on the Circle of Moms’ list did not land me any book deals. King Features has not offered to syndicate my column across North America. No Hollywood producers have requested the rights to my life story for a mini-series starring Drew Barrymore (the goofy one in “Never Been Kissed” not the Covergirl model.) But the Circle of Moms contest last year really helped me attract new readers and subscribers, and even a few freelance deals, so it was worth all the shameless trolling for votes after all (see, “I kinda suck, but will you vote for me anyway?” May 2011.)

This year, Circle of Moms has announced new contest categories, one of which is “The Top 25 Funny Mom Blogs.” If you have read my stuff and are inclined to help a struggling stay-at-home-mom to make it in the world as a humor columnist, click the pink circle above and throw me a bone. Your votes (you can vote up to once a day until March 21st) will not win me a lifetime subscription to the Jelly of the Month Club, and Ed McMahon will never show up at my door with a giant check, but it will publicize my blog to the six million users of Circle of Moms website and might help me break into the big leagues one day.

Thanks again everyone!

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WANTED: Mom Manager

In housewives, parenting on January 30, 2012 at 2:15 pm

I was late for the meeting. Again.

With an armful of crumpled papers, I pulled my calendar from its tack on the wall, and rushed down the hall. Sheepishly, I found a seat at the table, spread my papers out around me, and began with as much authority as I could muster:

“This meeting is called to order at, let’s see, twelve minutes after nine. If you don’t mind, I would prefer that these weekly organizational sessions start promptly at the top of the hour. Now, without any further delay, let’s get right down to business.”

“The van still needs new brakes, and if you wait much longer, you’ll be paying for rotors too. Hayden has Driver’s Ed on Tuesday at 4:30, but you must somehow get Anna to her orthodontist appointment at 4:45. The checkbook hasn’t been balanced in three months, which might explain why you bounced a check last week,” I continued.

“Francis is on his last pair of clean underwear today, so please put a load of hot whites in at your earliest convenience. Dinghy is due for his monthly flea treatment. You must write two articles this week. The repairman is coming on Thursday between eight and two to fix the washing machine. And you need to get serious about that diet. Now, how do you plan to get all that done?” I finished, and took a slurp of coffee.

Crickets.

No one responded, because no one was there. I was having my weekly meeting with myself, and as usual, I had no idea how to answer my own demands.

I scribbled a “To Do” list, marked a few things on the calendar, and then went about my day, determined to get it all done this time.

But deep inside, I knew the inevitable pattern of my life would repeat itself again. My week would start out OK, productive even. But soon, something would crop up to throw me off track – a school project, a sick kid, writer’s block. One item on my To Do list would collide into the next, and the ensuing pile up would become overwhelming, causing a strange contradictory reaction in whereby I would completely shut down and get nothing done.

By Thursday, my husband would come home from work to find no dinner, the kids run amuck, and me, dazed and unshowered, draped over my computer chair where I have been surfing vintage Tupperware on e-Bay for the last three hours.

Recently, I decided I’d had enough, and set about figuring out: what fundamental flaw in my character has made it so difficult for me to keep up with my responsibilities as a housewife and mother?

After some thought, and half a box of Cheese Nips, I realized that I have always been a follower, not a leader. An Indian, not a Chief. A Workerbee, not the Queen.

I’m not lazy. I’m not incompetent. I’m not disorganized. I just need a supervisor, a boss, a Manager to watch over me and keep me on track.

Ahh, how different things would be with a Manager to offer clear direction and guidance. Of course, I would subject myself to periodic evaluation and take whatever criticism my Manager might propose.

“Ms. Molinari,” my Manager might say, “While it is clear that you are no stranger to hard work, there is room for improvement in the areas of task prioritization, self motivation and personal hygiene. It is my recommendation that you avoid distractions from your daily priorities such as TJ Maxx, free samples in the grocery store, and mid-day reruns of ‘Mob Wives.’ Also, it would be highly advisable that you start showering every morning.”

But I have to face reality. Unless I find someone willing to be compensated in laundry services and meatloaf, I can’t afford a Manager. I am the Manager, and I have to take responsibility, darn it.

Even if it feels like I’m constantly being dragged through life behind my dirty white minivan, I’ll continue this never-ending game of catch up until my job is done. I’ll try to avoid getting tangled in the minutiae – the e-mails, the dust bunnies, the bills, the burnt dinners, the dark roots – and focus on the big picture: Keeping my family happy and healthy.

The value of our shares may fluctuate day by day, but long-term analysis indicates that this family is on an upward trend. Our employees may complain from time to time, but all in all they report excellent job satisfaction. Management lacks efficiency when it comes to goal attainment, but she is dedicated, sincere, and works overtime and on weekends without pay.

Final recommendation: Despite its flaws, this family business is thriving, so there is no immediate need for a change in management.

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The Carpool Blues

In Humor, parenting on January 23, 2012 at 9:34 am

I get up early in the mornin’, round about six-o-clock. Bleary-eyed and yawnin’, I gather up the flock. Pack three chillins in the van, and drive around the block. At the neighbor’s crib, two more are added to my stock.

Coffee cup in hand, I head for open road. My minivan creaks under such a heavy load. Been doin’ this so long, I fear I might explode. Can’t blame nobody, for seeds that I have sowed.

Put my kids in magnet schools, fancy and elite. Top-notch educations, teachers can’t be beat. Academic level so high, no one can compete. Then why, one might ask, am I so downbeat?

Soon after enrollment, much to my surprise, the County pulled a bait and switch, before my very eyes. “We ain’t got no money!” one could hear them cry. They told us, “Suck it up — learn to improvise.”

Though our magnet schools were distant in location, the County in its wisdom, canceled transportation. No yellow school buses from the Board of Education. Parents formed carpools, to cope with their frustration.

So here I sit every morning, radio a-blarin’. In my rear view mirror, I see the kids a-starin’. The price of gas and traffic jams, has tempers a-flarin’. Bite my tongue so young ears won’t hear me a-swearin’.

The drive to school each mornin’, is pretty much the same. It starts out kinda quiet, not enough sleep to blame. Getting up so early each day seems a crying shame. Without a break on weekends, I might just go insane.

Where to tune the radio dial, no one can agree. The girls like the latest hits on Radio Disney. The boys think pop music is so bourgeoisie. They prefer the screeching sounds of alternative rock melodies.

My oldest son doesn’t chime in, because he’s fast asleep. In five months of car-pooling, he’s hardly uttered a peep. With eyes closed and head back, he might be counting sheep. Into his open mouth, a bug or two might leap.

After twenty miles, and at least a dozen red lights, we arrive at the school, the sun now burning bright. I bid them all adieu, as they scramble from my sight. And breathe a sigh of relief — we made it to school all right.

The “Slam!” of the van’s door, heralds the end of child domination. Reaching for the dashboard knobs, I switch the radio station. I tune in the news to distract me from my degradation. Sipping the dregs of tepid coffee, I grope for relaxation.

In thirty minutes, I am home, and go about my day. Sweep the floors, walk the dog, what’s for dinner today? In no time flat it seems, the hours have slipped away. Must pick the kids up from school, there’s no time for delay.

Back in the van and on the road, negative thoughts pervade. Am I just a chauffeur who never will get paid? The rest of the day, am I just a lowly scullery maid? I distract myself with news again, to avoid a violent tirade.

Like tiny escaped prisoners, the kids burst out of school. In the van I hear their chatter about who is super cool. I ask about their homework, and if they’ve learned the Golden Rule. But soon they are too tired to speak, and they begin to drool.

Pulling in the driveway, they look like walking dead. Zombies stumble from my van, toward the humble homestead. They wander in search of snacks, and a place to lay their heads. After homework, activities, dinner and play, it’s time to go to bed.

Five months down, five more to go, not sure if I can make it. I worry that I’ll lose my mind if I’m forced to take it. But these kids are mine, it’s a fact, and nothing will forsake it. And so I must continue on, even if I fake it.

I’ll avoid the pitfalls of despair, like gambling and booze. I’ll try to remember that parenting is something that we choose. I’ll face the fact that, sometimes in life, one must pay the dues. And suffer the trials and tribulations of The Carpool Blues.

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A Christmas Carol, Redux

In family, Humor, Memories, modern culture, parenting on December 5, 2011 at 2:03 pm

Thanksgiving was over, to begin with.

For some reason, my sports watch alarm went off at midnight, waking me from a strange dream, in which I was unable to run from a monster, molded from leftover stuffing and mashed potatoes with gravy dripping from its outstretched arms, due to the weight of my own enormous thighs.

I started to drift off again, when a form suddenly appeared at the foot of my bed. She wore a floor-length polyester red and green plaid skirt, a white ruffled blouse with huge tab collar, a crocheted vest, and a Christmas tree pin.

“Hi, like, I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past, and I’m here to take you on, like, a pretty decent trip back to the 1970s,” the apparition said while twirling a segment of her long hair. No sooner did I grasp the ghost’s braided macramé belt than we were whisked on metal roller skates to the home of my youth.

It was about two weeks before Christmas 1974, and my mother was preparing her shopping list while my brother and I decorated the Christmas tree with silver tinsel, careful not to rest the tiny plastic strips on the bubble lights, which might burn the house down if we were not careful.

My mother’s list included the names of our little family, along with aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. She had saved enough in her Christmas account to buy fruitcake, tea towels, Avon perfume, Barbis, Tonka trucks, and decorative tins of ribbon candies.

Although my brother and I loved to go downtown to see shops decorated with lights and mechanical elves, we begged to stay home so we would not miss the new Rankin Bass special, “The Year Without a Santa Clause,” which our console television might pick up if the antennae were turned just right.

My mother agreed to put off shopping one more day. Instead, she wrote out her twelve Christmas cards and served us cocoa in Santa mugs with cookies, which we were disappointed to find contained prunes, raisins, molasses, mincemeat, anise, or some other objectionable ingredient. Nevertheless, we lay contentedly on the green shag rug listening to a Burl Ives record, gazing up at our tree and its Styrofoam egg carton star.

I reached out, trying in vain to re-experience my youth, but was wrenched from my trance when a bubble light scorched my arm. “Ouch!” I exclaimed, and was abruptly heaped upon my own bed, surrounded by nothing but the dark night and a faint tapping sound.

There, seated on my bed, I saw the second apparition, her thumbs poking away at an iPhone. She glanced at me and said, “Hey, how’s it going. I’m the Ghost of Christmas Present, but hold on a sec, I have to answer this.”

Finally, the specter finished texting and proclaimed, “Alrighty, touch my yoga pants and let’s do this thing, because I’ve got carpool duty in a couple hours.” I grabbed her spandex waistband and was transported to scenes of unimaginable Christmas chaos.

First, we saw the three-page Christmas list I made right after Halloween, which included gifts for the school lunch ladies, Anna’s ukulele instructor, the seven neighbors we like and the three we don’t but can’t leave off the list for fear of inciting neighborhood drama.

Next, we joined a stampede of Black Friday shoppers, all poised to pepper spray each other over the last X Box 360 at Walmart. The Spirit took me to Starbucks, where we paid $5 for a Mocha Peppermint Chai Tea and $300 for gift cards for the kids’ teachers. Then we dashed home to type, print and mail out 150 copies of the annual family Christmas letter, replete with exaggerated superlatives about the kids and the daily activities of our dog.

Then, we ate, and ate, and ate. Everything from gallons of hot dip to platters of cookies packed with peanut butter chips, candy chunks, marshmallows and M&Ms. We washed it all down with cartons of egg nog which, according to the sell-by date, would still be edible come Valentine’s Day.

Finally, the Ghost dropped me in front of our HDTV virtual fireplace glowing beside our artificial tree with its economical LED lights. Exhausted, I pleaded, “Have mercy! Haunt me no more!”

Just then, a figure approached from the shadows. “Are you the Ghost of Christmases yet to come?!” I yelped in fear. The apparition only nodded and handed me a small high tech device. With a swipe, I activated a life-sized holographic Christmas tree. A second click started microwaving a frozen Christmas Tofurkey dinner with all the vegan fixins. In mere nanoseconds, I sent personalized Christmas video messages to friends of friends of friends on Facebook.

But then, the Spirit pointed a long finger at the futuristic device. On the screen appeared countless images of people sitting alone in the dark clicking buttons on Christmas. “Oh, no Spirit!” I cried, “I will heed these lessons and honor Christmas in my heart!”

I awoke in my own bed, and rushed excitedly down the stairs, shouting to my daughter, “Turn off that virtual fireplace before you dot another i, Lillian Molinari!” To my husband I demanded, “Off with you to the Winn Dixie for the fattest turkey in the freezer case!” I ripped up my three-page shopping list, put on my Sinatra holiday CD, and resolved to keep Christmas well.

The Spirits taught me that Christmastime needs balance. I shouldn’t go overboard and complicate the holiday with obligation, commercialism, and stress. I should spend less time at the stores or in front of the computer, and more time with family and friends. I must never allow the gifts, food, and decorations to overshadow the real reason for the season.

And lest I forget, God Bless Us, Every One!

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The Flakey Layers of Motherhood

In Humor, Middle-Age, modern culture, parenting, self-image, social scene on November 21, 2011 at 12:33 pm

I was running late, as usual.

While checking my outfit in the window’s reflection, I smashed my frizzy bangs down with the palm of my hand.

I heard chatter inside and opened the door to find a dozen or so of my neighborhood acquaintances seated around a large table holding the usual brunch fare.

At the hostess’s urging, I poured myself a cup of joe, slipped into a chair, and motioned across the table for one neighbor to slice me a piece of what looked like a dense blueberry Bundt. I grabbed a slice of quiche too, hoping no one would notice.

“The elementary school’s gifted program is just not adequate to meet Timmy’s needs,” explained one mother as she nibbled a pumpkin muffin.

Another mom, spandexed legs crossed, asked, “Does anyone want to go to Spin class with me after this?”

“I already did P90X this morning,” another answered, “but I’ll go running tomorrow if anyone is up for it.”

A nearby splinter group was discussing the fall soccer finals.  “Coach told Joseph that he should play up an age bracket next year because he’s not being challenged,” one woman said between bites of cantaloupe.  “Megan did that last year, so this year she’s trying out for the travel team,” another countered.

While the tête-à-têtes continued, I inconspicuously slid another piece of quiche onto my plate.

“Would you like a little fruit with that second piece, Lisa?” the hostess shouted loudly across the table so that everyone in the vicinity could hear.

“Oh, yes, that would be great.” I lied in humiliation, and forked a slice of pineapple off the platter.

An hour later, my second cup of coffee had gone cold, and my waistband felt tight.  Using some cockamamie excuse like expecting an urgent call from an editor, I thanked the hostess and left.

Relieved to be removed from the social pressures of this circle of thirty-something elementary and middle school moms, I hurried back home to the unconditional love and understanding of my matted mixed-breed dog.

The next day, I was invited to another coffee, this time hosted by one of the high school football team moms.  We were new to the team and this new social group of forty-something high school moms. Despite my uneasiness with the previous day’s event, I accepted the invitation.

I was relieved when the football mom welcomed me at the door without giving me the usual “once over.” She led me past unpretentious family photos and piles of boxes to her dining room, crammed full of cackling women, food and warm sunlight.

The buffet was heaped with homemade cinnamon rolls slathered with sugary glaze, dense coffee cake packed with meaty nuts, flakey croissants with jam, smoky ham and egg casserole, juice and coffee.

I grabbed a cinnamon roll and found a seat as the chatter raged on.  The roll was to die for (literally, with all that delicious sugar and fat) so I got up to snag another one.

Before digging the delectable dough from the dish, I paused a moment to think of an excuse to give for my gluttony, but I noticed that no one here really cared. In fact, indulgence seemed to be encouraged.

In a thick Brooklyn accent, our hostess repeated the advice she had recently given her college kid, “Never drink those sugary college drinks that make you sick, just nurse a nice scotch and water like I do.” The mom beside her doubled over with hooting laughter, setting off a chain reaction with the others.

Moments later, chuckles erupted as another mom described her embarrassment over seeing her son’s most recent soccer injury.  “He came home and said, ‘Mom, I got kicked down there…can you please take a look at it?’ One glance and I knew this was something his father needed to handle!”

I was laughing out loud with a mouthful of croissant at one woman’s comical description of her recent hormonal changes, when the mom across from me started demonstrating a facial exercise for double chins. Contorting our jaws so that we all looked like bullfrogs, we found ourselves laughing hysterically again.

As the politically incorrect, inappropriate, and self-deprecating humor raged on, I lost track of time and finally went home well into the afternoon.

Why I was so comfortable at one coffee and so tense at the other? After a little thought, I realized that the elementary/middle school moms still have strict expectations of themselves and their children. They are trying to mold their children and themselves into what they want to be, and their topics of conversation – academic and athletic ability, diet and exercise, fashion trends — reflect these lofty aspirations.

Conversely, the high school moms have been there, done that, and have a laundry basket full of smelly t-shirts to prove it. As they approach menopause, their kids approach adulthood. These moms have learned that the struggle for perfection is futile, because their children’s personalities are pretty much set.

Finally, as a high school mom, I can leave competitive social pressures behind, grab a second slice of coffee cake, and have a good laugh about the reality of raising kids. I didn’t just gain five pounds from attending the two coffees, I gained the new realization that, in a weird sort of way, it’s good to be old.

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Brotherly Love and Other Forms of Abuse

In family, Humor, Memories, parenting on November 13, 2011 at 9:35 pm

First, we hear giggling. Then a sharp squeal. The creak of the mattress springs, a bump on the wall, a muffled “Ouch,” then more giggling.

“Girls! Knock it off!” my husband yells from his recliner. There is a moment of silence, and then the ruckus starts all over again.

I am not sure why we are conditioned to feel utter agitation when we hear our kids roughhousing. It may be that, even though they are merely having fun with each other, we know from experience that those innocent giggles, if allowed to continue, are usually followed by alarming noises that require immediate parental intervention.

Here’s the scenario: After about five minutes of giggling between siblings, an invisible line is crossed. The play becomes rougher, and inevitably, skin is pinched, hair is pulled, heads are bonked, or some other pain is inflicted. Screaming or crying ensues, followed shortly thereafter by a very loud argument, usually accompanied by slapping, kicking and biting.

That is when parents have to get up from the comfort of their lounge furniture and intervene, which is annoying, especially when “Survivor” is on. So, rather than wait for this series of irritating events, we try to stop sibling interactions while they are still in the giggling phase.

As a child, I never understood how siblings can be the best of friends and the worst of enemies at the same time. I remember watching my best friend from high school and her older sister viciously beat each other with hangers. Back then, I thought they must’ve hated each other’s guts, but now, with girls of my own, I understand that the violent hanger beating was all part of sisterly love.

The age difference between my brother and I was too big for us to be playmates, so we never engaged in the “giggling phase” of sibling roughhousing. Essentially, my very existence annoyed my brother for some reason, so he would inflict pain on me purely for his own personal pleasure.

When my brother was idle, he transformed into the predator, and I was his prey. He would launch sneak attacks like Cato in “The Pink Panther,” jumping out from dark corners to place me in a headlock. After receiving a book on judo one Christmas, I often found myself being flipped over his knee on my way to my bedroom. At restaurants, my brother’s preferred method of attack was spitballs, and at church, he would pinch the sensitive area above my knee with his thumb and forefinger if he did not decimate me first at church bulletin tic-tac-toe.

I would always cry, whine or otherwise alert my parents to the attack, and they would ground my brother for a period of time commensurate with the injury. The punishment only served to fuel my brother’s motivation to torment me, and this pattern went on and on for years.

I can only recall one occasion when I got the upper hand, and it didn’t last for long. One lazy day after school, I was stretched out on my parent’s bed, with my head resting on one bent arm while the other hand slowly smoothed the day’s knots out of my long hair with a pink plastic hairbrush.

As I gazed half-awake into the nearby television, which was playing reruns of “My Three Sons,” I had no idea that my brother was silently crawling commando-style into the room on his stomach.

Just as Uncle Charlie was about to give dating advice to Chip, my brother popped up from the floor between my face and the television and blurted, “BOO!”

Taken completely by surprise, animal instinct took over, and I watched in slow motion as my hand whipped the pink plastic hairbrush in the direction of my brother’s face. Next thing I knew, he had both hands over his nose.

I crouched on the bed in a defensive posture as my brother looked into his hands and saw blood. His eyes glared at me with the pure fire of utter vengeance. He leaped onto the bed, and kneeling over me, raised one hand into the air in a tight fist, with the middle knuckle protruding slightly for maximum point of impact pain.

WHAM! His knuckle hit the center of my thigh, causing an immediate Charley horse and excruciating pain. I walked with a slight limp for the next couple weeks, but it was worth it, knowing I had finally given my big brother a dose of his own medicine.

 Call it sibling rivalry, brotherly love, or aggravated assault, roughhousing is a normal part of life with siblings. As long as parents don’t encourage mortal combat by supplying their children with books on judo or hard plastic hairbrushes, we can sit back and relax in our lounge furniture secure in the knowledge that what doesn’t kill them only makes them stronger.

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Sorry for the short lapse in posts, folks! We just moved (AGAIN) and are wading among scores of boxes, cable guys and computer geeks to get things set up here in the new Molinari household. Expect upcoming posts related to all aspects of chaos, disorganization, ineptitude, extreme laziness, and overeating, of course.

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The Sandwich Queen

In family, Humor, Middle-Age, parenting, self-image on September 26, 2011 at 1:49 pm

About a million years ago, I had a career. I had a briefcase, an office, a secretary, and a view from the 24th floor. I did research, argued motions, interviewed clients and attended the firm holiday party. My name was on the wall in the lobby.

But then, when I least expected it, something happened.

That something was an incessant, unrelenting thing called life.

Two years after being unexpectedly blindsided by love, I found myself sitting on my Navy husband’s bachelor couch in our dumpy base house, in a state that did not recognize my law license, nursing our new baby while watching Maury Povich interview people who’d been abducted by aliens.

At first it was kind of fun, getting to relive all the times I played house as a kid, except that the babies really filled their diapers and I also had to do the boring stuff like making sandwiches and cleaning toilets. I never really thought it all through, and truly believed that I’d get back to my career at some point.

Fifteen years, seven moves, and two more babies later, I’m still making sandwiches and cleaning toilets, and the opportunity to get my career back simply never came.

In the meantime, I’ve discovered that long term housewifery does not always provide one with the obvious sense of achievement that a career offers. In fact, the daily drudgery of housework and mothering is highly susceptible to being completely taken for granted. We do not get bonuses for sparkling floors, pay raises for fresh laundry, or promotions for perfectly steamed green beans.

So, we veteran housewives must seize our ego boosts where we can get them.

Recently, my son, Hayden, started his sophomore year at his new high school, and I pack his lunch every day as usual. But this time, I decided to bump it up a notch.

My usual routine was to roll up three slices of deli chicken breast and place them onto two slices of whole wheat with a leaf of lettuce and a slice of Swiss cheese. To reward my son for working hard at football practice, I decided to double the meat, adding tender slices of ham and roast beef to the chicken. Two slices of pepper jack and extra lettuce made the sandwich so thick that I had to put it into a quart-sized storage bag.

On our way home from football practice that evening, Hayden, who is firmly entrenched in that infuriating stage of teenagedom characterized by an almost complete lack of normal conversation, said, “Hey Mom, I really liked that sandwich.”

My heart nearly skipped a beat.

Over the next couple weeks, I continued crafting thick, meaty sandwiches, sometimes substituting cheeses, adding spicy slices of pepperoni, or a fresh sub roll. Instead of waiting for accolades, I had taken to eagerly asking him how he liked the sandwich on our ride home from football practice. He would answer in typical teenage brevity, but always communicated his appreciation.

Then one day, Hayden told me that his football buddy commented on how meaty his sandwich was, and that he wished his mom made sandwiches like that. I couldn’t believe my ears and was exhilarated by my new sense of culinary superiority.

Call me pathetic, but the seemingly insignificant compliments gave me a renewed sense of purpose, and a slight spring in my middle-aged step as I packed the lunches each morning.

Sometimes, I’d receive a bonus with my son’s usual mumbled words of praise. Like the day he told me that the school security guard noticed how thick his sandwich was, and ordered Hayden to bring in an extra one for him sometime. And the time his JV football coach called him over during practice and said, “Hey, I heard your mother makes you a big deli sandwich every day for lunch; so when are you going to bring one in for me?”

Sure, it’s true that the closest thing I have to an office has a washer and dryer in it. And yes, it is rather ironic that I used to have a secretary but am now Secretary of the Football Boosters Club. And even though my name is no longer posted in an office lobby, my name is the one my kids utter when they want a tissue, help with their homework, a snack, someone to hear about their day at school, or a hug.

While I may never make Senior Partner of a Law firm as I had planned over 20 years ago, I’ve attained a status I never expected. I’m Head Nurse, Accountant, General Manager, Commander in Chief of the House, and thanks to recent events, The Sandwich Queen. Sure, my scepter may be a toilet bowl brush and my carriage a mini-van, but I don’t mind, because I know I am loved by my people.

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