The Best Songs of 2012

In my opinion, 2012 was a pretty decent year, music-wise. That's one great thing about the charts not having as much sway in this era of downloading a song here and a song there: so many different genres can shine. The single is hotter than ever. Which means, of course, that full albums seem like an afterthought sometimes. You don't get many "concept albums" these days.

Here is my list of 2012's top eleven songs (because I couldn't narrow it down to ten). I've included links to all the videos or, in cases where the videos are awful, live performances.

I'm curious to hear what you all think. Do you agree? Which awesome songs did I forget?

11. "Starships" by Nicki Minaj
As a rule, I'm not a fan of Nicki Minaj's, but this song is so catchy and tight. And I can't deny her talent...or her bravery. I love how she pretty much seems certifiably insane, appears to do whatever the hell she wants, and can make a so-so song (hello, Justin Bieber) way better just by rapping a few lines. I can't wait to watch her special kind of crazy on American Idol. Check out the video for an eyeful of her INSANE bod.

10. "Kill the D.J." by Green Day
The last Green Day song I loved was from American Idiot--which came out in the Aughts, for goodness sake. Green Day is one of the few popular bands still putting out concept albums, but unfortunately for them, the concepts have been lame. I haven't heard much from their latest trilogy (UNO!, DOS!, and TRE!), but if this song is any indication of their new direction, I'm diggin' it.

9. "The Keepers" by Santigold 
The weirdest thing about this song (and there are a LOT of weird things about it) is that it sounds like the 80s song "Send Me an Angel" by Real Life in the beginning. It's actually a very 80s-ish song throughout, which isn't what I expected. Because Santigold has been lumped into the "Urban Female Artist" category, I assumed she was a rapper. My bad. This song is surprising on so many levels. And check out the cool "Family of the Corn" video.

8.  "212" by Azealia Banks (warning: it's explicit!)
I'm a little obsessed with Azealia Banks. This song sounds like a few different tunes wrapped into one, and Ms. Banks sings in four distinct voices throughout. And while the song definitely stands on its own, it's Ms. Banks' magnetic personality--which shines so brightly in the video (those braids! that smile!)--that makes this spectacular. As Simon Cowell would say, she has serious IT factor. Oh, and it's really dirty.

7. "Change" by Churchill
My current favorite song--it's catchy, catchy, catchy! I love vocalist Bethany Kelly's sweet voice; she looks about sixteen and is too cute. You can feel her pain when she sings: You've got the story all made up inside your head./You write me out of it and use your words instead./You hold me just out of reach, but you keep me pounding the beat,/to take all the soul you can get. Oh, honey, I've been there.

6. "Simple Song" by The Shins
Oh, the irony. This song is anything but simple. Well, the composition isn't terribly complicated but the lyrics belie a deeper (painful) story. And the video, about siblings fighting over their recently-deceased father's inheritance, is funny, complex, and disturbing. James Mercer is one bizarre dude.

5. "Hold On" by the Alabama Shakes
The first ten times I heard this song, I thought it was a guy singing. Then I saw the video and was all, What?! Whoa, that woman can wail. And she's surprisingly young--like early-20s young. But Brittany Howard sings as if she has been to hell and back again. She sings like a woman who has lived a long, hard life. Which is sad. And awesome.

4. "I'm Shakin'" by Jack White
I'm not sure if this should even be on the list because it's not new and Jack White didn't actually write it. The song was written in the 1950s by a doo-wop and R&B songwriter named Rudy Toombs, and it has been recorded twice before: first by R&B singer Little Willie John in 1960 and then by rockabilly/punk band The Blasters in 1981. But the bottom line is it's a great song. And Jack White sets it on fire and takes it to a whole new level of awesome. The video is a typically stylized Jack White affair--with a palette that's all light blue and charcoal for a change.

3. "Never Go Back" by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals
I love this song for so many reasons: the killer intro reminds me of vintage Pat Benetar, Grace Potter's voice is sublime, and the lyrics are everything you've ever wanted to say to that jerk ex-boyfriend who played with your mind and wasted your time. When Grace wails, Oh no, oh no! I'm never going back there no more the pain, defiance, and strength in her voice is like nothing I've heard before. And it doesn't hurt that she happens to be one sexy mama.

2. "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men
This strange Icelandic group is hard to define, so I won't try. I do love vocalist and guitarist Nanna Bryndis Hilmarsdottir's (?!) sweet voice, which is little girl-ish and angelic at the same time. And the back and forth between Nanna and co-vocalist Ragnar "Raggi" Porhallsson is beautiful and unusual in popular music these days. This is straight out a fabulous song--gotta love the HEY! shouts throughout--and the video is probably the best of the year.

1. "Somebody I Used to Know" by Gotye
I know, I know. You are SO SICK of this song--the regular, stripped-down version, the dance version, and the dub club one. I didn't want to put this in the number one spot, either, but I had to. Sure, it's been over-played, but that doesn't change the fact that it's fantastic--and took the world by storm. I love the way it starts so quietly and you really have to pay attention to hear the lyrics--which isn't something most pop songs do. And the lyrics happen to be great ones about a terrible, gut-wrenching breakup. Sure, Kimbra steals the show with her haunting solo, but it's strange Gotye (real name Wouter "Wally" De Backer) who wrote the song and deserves credit.

Are We Failing Our Boys?

I keep hitting the refresh button on the CNN homepage, hoping to read something that will help make sense of today's tragedy. But, really, what could possibly explain away 20 innocent kids killed? Nothing. But still, I look.

Because here's the thing: whenever I hear some awful story--say of a mother drowning her own children--I need to try to figure it out. Usually, it comes down to simple insanity. It's not as if I can relate to a mother who listens to and obeys the voices in her head instructing her to kill her kids because the world is a horrible place, the kids are cursed, and they'll be happier in heaven. But I can understand how mental illness can take over a person and make them do crazy things that they, in their deranged state, think will help.

You know what I'm saying?

Insanity that's directed inward or toward family I can...not understand, exactly...but I guess wrap my brain around how things could possibly get twisted that way in someone's head. Young women more often take their anger, hatred, angst, even mental imbalance, out on themselves (or their families). Eating disorders, body dysmorphia, cutting, suicide attempts: troubled women hate themselves first and foremost. Of course, this is horrible...but it sure beats shooting up a school.

Young women don't open fire on packed movie theaters or mow down classrooms of defenseless children. Yes, there have been women serial killers (only a few), but as far as I know, there have been ZERO female mass murderers. Correct me if I'm wrong.

What I will never, ever, ever understand in any way, shape, or form is how the insanity ends up turning outward in such a cold, impersonal way--like it too often does with disturbed young men. Adam Lanza didn't know those kids. And his mother wasn't even there; he'd already killed her. Why go outside the family?

So this is what I keep coming back to when I think about today: how have we so completely failed in the raising of our boys?

Because there's no way this is all nature, or hormones, or brain chemistry, or any of that crap. No way. A little bit, maybe. Yes, young men are more volatile and aggressive by nature than women. But how do they get to the point where they are walking into an elementary school outfitted like they are going into battle? How does a (I'm guessing) sad, lonely, angry, alienated 10-year-old boy turn into a murderous 20-year-old man? How can 10 years (or even 20) be enough time for things to go so horribly wrong?

How do these young men get this way? How many people had to have failed them as they navigated their way through childhood and adolescence for them to end up this way?

Every psychiatrist out there needs to put aside what they are working on to figure this out: what is the awful combination of factors that turns a young man into a ticking time bomb? Nothing seems more important right now.

Sure, there are other things we can do:

- YES, we need better gun control. I'd be happy if firearms were outlawed 100%, including hunting rifles and the like. BUT...a particularly motivated individual would always be able get his hands on one (or four)--or another equally destructive weapon--regardless of the law.

- YES, we need to be better educated about how to spot the signs that someone is about to blow. Because you know Adam Lanza gave off warning signs. Hey, maybe someone was even paying enough attention to notice. BUT...somewhere along the way, that someone--or, more likely, many "someones"--failed him.

Are these things maybe too little too late, though? Shouldn't we be starting at the beginning? How about we figure out what we are doing to create these unhinged killing machines in the first place and STOP DOING IT? Something is so, so broken here. But can we even figure out which part it is that needs fixing?

I don't know. But it just takes one look into my son's sweet, innocent, trusting face for me to know that we have to try. We need to help our precious boys.

In Heaven with the Class of '87

Almost a week has passed since my 25th High School Reunion. I knew I was going to have to write about it eventually, but the problem is that many a handful of my old classmates read this blog so I can't exactly talk dirt about people. (Not that I was actually planning on doing that. Me? Talk behind someone's back? You should be ashamed for even suggesting such a thing!)

And even if I don't name names, it might still be obvious about whom I'm writing. Which would just be mean. And that's not what the night was all about: it was a fun evening of dancing, drinking, good conversation, and laughs. The jocks, cheerleaders, burnouts, drama nerds, and band geeks all put aside their teenaged differences and partied.

Partying like it's 1987

No, I did not spend my night sizing people up and passing judgement. Okay, that's a lie. I definitely sized up; no judging, though. But just like my reunion manicure that's starting to chip and peel, I need to strip off the pretty surface layer and look at the naked truth hiding underneath.

So, without getting specific...

For starters, why do the women (on the whole) look fabulous, while the men--again, in general, because there were a handful of guys who've aged wonderfully--seem to have given up? Half of them look like they are vying for Stanley's or Kevin's job at Dunder-Mifflin. There was baldness. Pastiness. Doughiness. Hey, you can't help going gray or losing your hair, I get it. But you can help getting fat and out of shape. Again, no judgement--it's your lives, do what you want--but DUDES, you were so cute back in high school! It's just a bummer.

The women were much better groomed, way more stylish (though there were some bleh suburban looks as well), and just healthier-looking overall. In fact, my main concern with the women is just how darned perfect--too perfect--some of them seem. No, I didn't see any evidence of plastic surgery. But what is up with the sweet girls who have become Stepford Wives? I definitely had a couple of conversations where I was searching in vain for a pulse. With most people, I could get a glimpse of the six- or ten- or sixteen-year-old I once knew but with one or two of these ladies, it was like, "HELLO IN THERE?" Where did the adorable, spunky girls I once knew go? It was weird. But at least they looked great.

The Only Political Post I Will Probably Ever Write

I'm not all that political. I mean, I dabbled in my youth, as many of us do. But then life got in the way. When your day is spent changing diapers, singing lullabies, and getting spit up on, you care a little less who the president is.

This election, however, has gotten me a bit riled up again.

Yes, I am pretty liberal; however, I can understand some conservatives' positions. I agree there's a lot of government waste, though I don't believe the solution is scrapping the programs altogether. I also agree that the--what is it, 50%?--inheritance tax seems like unfair double-dipping.

BUT...I truly believe that universal healthcare is important, and that it will end up paying for itself in the long run. I'm of a let's-get-the-heck-out-of-the-middle-east-and-then-maybe-we'll-have-some-money-left-to-take-care-of-our-own mentality. Do I want to leave the poor Afghani civilians whose country we've helped destroy high and dry? Not really, but it's not as if there's a lack of needy people right here.

My main issue, however--the one that means I'll be a democrat forever--is reproductive rights. There are a million other issues that are more pertinent to this election--oh, the economy, the war(s), jobs, healthcare, education--but as long as republicans make reproductive rights an issue, I can't put it second.

I am totally, 100% pro-choice. Does that mean I'm callously pro-abortion? Of course not. I cry when my cat kills a moth. Trust me, I respect life. (Which is also why I'm pro-gun control.) I understand and respect people who could never, ever have an abortion. I am fortunate never to have had to make that decision. But I know women who have--and it's never something they've taken lightly.

That's what bothers me most with the pro-lifers. They talk about how women getting abortions don't think about or understand the consequences. They want to force women to get ultrasounds beforehand, to undergo counseling, lectures, and waiting periods. It's all so insulting.

I'm sure there are some people who don't think it through; in most cases, I bet they're young girls who aren't mature enough to process the situation fully. Yet conservatives would want a young, naive girl to go through with the pregnancy. And then what? She's going to give the baby up to a childless and loving couple for adoption? More often than not, this poor girl is going to take one look at the infant she just went through hell to birth, fall in love, and want to keep it.

So now there's a 16-year-old girl trying to raise a baby. She probably drops out of school, maybe goes on welfare, maybe doesn't have the maturity necessary to be a good mother. Very possibly the child suffers for it. This costs the country way more than an abortion would.

Yes, I understand that it's a potentially viable life (but not yet--life means being able to survive on one's own). But abortion has been legal for decades, and restrictions are only going to cause problems. It's going to mean delays that result in later-term abortions. If one state passes parental-notification laws, for example? Well, then 14-year-old girls are going to spend time trying to hitch a ride to another, more lenient state, instead of getting it taken care of early in the pregnancy.

Yes, I'm sure there are women who get abortions cavalierly. And that is awful. But in most cases, I'll bet not carrying the baby to term ends up better than the alternative.

All I have to do is think back to my high school years. The notion of getting pregnant scared the hell out of me. Good thing I was a good girl and didn't allow for that chance. Fear kept me on the straight and narrow. But Reagan was president at the time, and the notion of restrictions--like parental notification--becoming law seemed possible. I remember thinking that if I got pregnant and had to tell my parents before being allowed an abortion, I would either run away from home or kill myself.

Melodramatic? Sure...but I was a teenaged girl. Teenaged girls are not known for their straight thinking. Hence why they shouldn't be mothers. Hence why they usually don't give their unplanned babies (that they can't take care of) up for adoption.

And don't even get me started on cases of rape, incest, or mother's health.

I'm sure I'm not the only girl who ever felt that way. Is that what we want? Restrictions aren't the answer. Education is the answer. Teen pregnancy and abortion are already down: we are on the right track. Better access to birth control--along with promoting abstinence (I agree that abstinence is ideal)--is the way to keep on that right track.

Also, can someone please explain to me why condoms are OTC and inexpensive but birth control pills are prescription-only and a fortune? Leave it to the boys? The only demographic less sensible than teenage girls is teenage boys. Great plan, U.S.A.

Please remember to vote, everyone.

What I Learned from The Rolling Stones

"Sympathy for the Devil" came on the radio the other day and, while singing along, I got to thinking about the role music--rock 'n' roll specifically--has played in my education.

Yes, you read that right: my education.

Because it was through listening (on beloved WBCN, no doubt) to the Stones' 1968 masterpiece back when I was in high school that I learned about the Russian Revolution of the early 20th century.

I stuck around St. Petersburg 
When I saw it was a time for a change.
Killed the tsar and his ministers.
Anastasia screamed in vain.

Who was this Anastasia person? Up to that point, my public-school education had neglected to cover the Russian Revolution. So I looked it up (using the Google of the 80s: our trusty set of Encyclopedia Britannicas) and read the tragic story of pretty, young--and murdered--Anastasia. Thanks for that one, Mick and Keith.

My education-through-music started way back in the 1970s, when I was just a kid. One of the first things I remember learning from rock 'n' roll were the indispensable "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover." I made sure to store Paul Simon's helpful tips in my head for future reference.

I really started learning in fourth grade, with the release of Grease. Oh, how I loved that movie! I had the Grease backpack, photo-novel, and, of course, the awesome double album. I wore that record out. Learned a lot from it, too. One of my favorite tunes, "Look at Me, I'm Sandra Dee" was belted out by Stockard Channing:

Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee,
Lousy with virginity.
Won't go to bed 'til I'm legally wed.
I can't, I'm Sandra Dee!

I remember going to my mother for clarification: "Mom? What does 'virginity' mean?"

And if I recall correctly, she explained it to me.

Yeah, Grease pretty much taught me about sex.

When I was 12 years old, my obsession with Rick Springfield got me to look up the meaning of "moot" after I heard it in "Jessie's Girl." How many tweens do you know who can use moot correctly in a sentence? Exactly.

The list goes on and on:

- The Beatles' "Helter Skelter," which I heard for the first time in the early 80s, sent me running for the encyclopedia so I could study Charles Manson and all his evilness. I especially loved it that one of his acolytes was a suburban Armenian girl named Linda Kasabian. So cool.

- The 1982 song "Key Largo" (by some dude I've never heard of named Bertie Higgins) went like this: "We had it all, just like Bogie and Bacall. Starring in our old late, late show. Sailing away to Key Largo." My parents explained to me who Bogie and Bacall were. Up until that point, the only classic films I'd seen were The Wizard of Oz and The Sound of Music.

- "Escape (The Pina Colada Song)" taught me that some grown-ups--even married ones!--placed and answered personal ads. And that some people's idea of having fun on the dunes at the Cape had nothing to do with building sandcastles.

- From "Run, Joey, Run" I learned that, in some families, violence was the norm.

- "Another Brick in the Wall" taught me that it was way better to be an American girl growing up in the 70s than and English schoolboy during wartime.

Plus hundreds more, I'm sure....

What about you? What have you learned from rock 'n' roll?

Mommy the Heathen

My son just started first grade. This means CCD has officially begun.

And I gotta admit--I'm a little worried about it. Here's the problem: I'm not religious. Like at all. I'm not Catholic and I don't believe in many of the church's stances or teachings. Don't get me wrong. I like the idea of providing our kids with religious education. I got very little of that when I was young, and though I don't exactly regret it, there were definitely times in my life when I wondered if maybe I'd missed out on something. I like the idea of introducing our kids to religion and allowing them to make their own decisions about what to believe.

If it was up to me, my kids probably wouldn't attend church. But it's important to my Catholic husband, so every Sunday, he packs up the crayons, coloring books, and emergency snacks and walks them over. And I go for a run or hit the gym. It's a pretty good deal, and I'm not complaining.

I admire my husband's dedication. He's been taking the kids to church ever since they were babies. Because of him, our kids view going as a given--it's just something they do every Sunday, no arguments.

But now that CCD has begun, I'm starting to fear the dogma a little. After the first day, my son showed me the worksheets he completed in his shiny, new, full-color workbooks. One of the sheets asked kids to circle the things they could do to help take care of God's world. "I can turn off the water," I can plant trees and flowers," stuff like that. Sweet.

But then there was the worksheet about The Creation:

Which of these are you most thankful that God created? Circle your choices: 

People               Plants              Animals  

Um...none of the above? My son, of course, circled all three.

Uh-oh. See, I don't believe in that. At all. I mean, the case for evolution is pretty slam dunk.

So what do I do if/when my son starts asking questions? He's a smart kid with an inquisitive mind, who happens to love science. It might not happen in first grade, but it will happen. And then what? I can only tell him what I believe to be true...which just happens to not be what the Catholic church teaches. Or do I say, "Ask your father when he gets home"? Not my style.

People I've spoken to about this have told me that they had no problem believing both things--evolution and the creation story--when they were little. Okay, fine. But if my son starts talking about how God created the bunny rabbits, the birds, and the stars in the sky, there's no way I'm gonna just sit there and listen.

When my son mentions the sun going down, I make sure to remind him that the sun doesn't actually go down, but rather it's the earth spinning that makes it look that way. If necessary, I draw pictures to illustrate. I am a rationalist. That's just how I roll, people.

So I'm not going to react differently just because the situation involves religion. But nor do I want to completely contradict what he's being taught in CCD. It's going to be a really difficult balancing act, and I'm not looking forward to it.

Has anyone had a similar experience? If so, how have you handled it?

In Defense of Beards

No, I'm not referring to ladies who pretend to be gay men's wives....

I'm talking about that most hipster-ish of all the hipster accoutrements currently taking over much of Brooklyn and maybe even (still) pockets of Manhattan.

Beards have gotten a bad rap over the past couple of years. Yes, hipsters abuse the privilege of being able to grow facial hair, but hey, you gotta hate the playa, not the game. Beards--in and of themselves--should be appreciated, not reviled.

Personally? I love 'em. So imagine my surprise and joy when I opened the Times last weekend and gazed upon the face of one of the finest (and by finest I mean hottest) actors of my generation--Jake Gyllenhaal--covered in lovely scruff. Ooo-la-la!

My appreciation of facial hair certainly hasn't always been the norm. Throughout my tween and even teen years, the celebrities I idolized were the stylish, coifed, boyish ones (Shaun Cassidy, John Taylor of Duran Duran, C. Thomas Powell, Matthew Broderick). Unthreatening, vanilla...in some cases, even feminine. 

Thirty years later and
that pretty face still
makes me swoon.

When I finally grew up enough to look beyond the celebs and began setting my sights on actual boys, my tastes were still of the sweet and unassuming variety.

No, my beard-love did not develop until I was well into my twenties. My appreciation of male hirsuteness in general began during the Grunge Era with the lovely, long locks many dudes sported during that glorious period. Ahhhh, those were the days: ponytails, flannel shirts, Converse, skateboards, and Alice in Chains.

But, as they say, all good things must com to en end. Kurt Cobain shot himself, Layne Staley OD'd and his stinky body wasn't found for days, and Eddie Vedder and Chris Cornell chopped off their waves. The dark days of the Boy Band Era had arrived. 

Suddenly there was male-pattern-frosted-tips-syndrome sprouting up everywhere, and you couldn't turn on the TV without seeing dudes dancing In (perfect) Sync with one another.

I'm sure I would've LOVED these guys if I'd been 15 when they hit it big, but as I was approaching the big 3-0, the little boy thing just wasn't working for me anymore. The older I got, the more I appreciated a more masculine visage.

Lucky for me I lived in Manhattan instead of L.A. because the frosted hair look never really played out in NYC (except maybe on Wall Street, a neighborhood and demographic I avoided like the plague).

Then Jack White--bless his warped little soul--came on to the scene, and all that polished nonsense disappeared as quickly as BB Mack's career. (Note: I kinda, sorta met BB Mack once.) 

A few years later, Jon Hamm--one of the hottest of the hirsute horde--began gracing our TV screens with his studliness. Manly Men were back.

And so were beards.

That was, what, five years ago? So far, they aren't showing any signs of fading away. I think what I love about beards is how they bring focus to the eyes--by far, my favorite facial feature. And, of course, they are very masculine...and they are a little intimidating sometimes, which can be fun.

It's like the 70's are back, but instead of stopping half-way there with mustaches (Tom Selleck, Burt Reynolds), dudes are finally going all out.

Maybe in the next year or two mutton chops will come back into style for the first time since 1860. 

Hey, a girl can dream.

One Terrible Night (At Least I Hope It's Just One)

I had one of the scariest nights of my life last night.

Granted, I've had it easy so far. I've been lucky enough not to have experienced anything too traumatic in my life: My kids' births went pretty smoothly, we haven't had to rush them to the emergency room for any reason, we haven't had any house fires or break-ins. I know people with sick kids for whom every night is a potential nightmare.

Last night was nothing close to what some parents go through. But nonetheless, it scared me senseless.

At bedtime, our six-year-old had a mild fever, which was no big deal except that he doesn't run a fever very often. When it does, it usually means he's sick for real (unlike our daughter who often gets fevers for no apparent reason and with no other symptoms). But I wasn't too concerned.

An hour later, my husband and I were watching the excellent new Bob Marley documentary on VH1 when we heard screaming.

At first I thought it was coming from the TV (Jamaica in the 70's was a dangerous place, after all), and then I thought some of the neighborhood's teenaged girls were getting rowdy outside. But then I heard loud stomping and wailing (again, not coming from Bob Marley's Wailers). The commotion was coming from upstairs...and then barreling down down the staircase and through the house.

Our son ran into the family room absolutely shrieking in terror, his eyes wild with fear. My husband and I ran to him and tried to comfort him, figuring it was just a nightmare. But it soon became clear we were dealing with something much more serious.

A good approximation of
what my son looked like

Sitting in a chair in my husband's arms, my son suddenly pointed at the TV (which was paused) and screamed, "AHHHH! LOOK AT IT! MAKE IT STOP! IT'S MOVING SO FAST!"

I met my husband's eyes. Whoa, what was going on?

My son's gaze became fixed on a picture on the wall. "BUT LOOK!! IT'S GOING SO FAST! STOP IT!" he screamed, tears streaming down his stricken face.

By now he'd been awake for five minutes, yet the nightmare still gripped him. Or was it the fever? I took his temperature. It was higher. I gave him some children's Tylenol, figuring his overheated brain was causing the hallucinations.

This had never happened before. I wondered if I should be really worried.

We brought my son back up to his bedroom, confident that the fever-reducer would do the trick.

Half an hour later, we were in bed reading when we heard something. Mumbling. Talking. Then yelling.

As I ran down the hall, I distinctly heard my son shout something about dinosaurs (which was weird because his dino phase ended over a year ago). When I got to his room he was standing on the bed looking around and shrieking in horror at something only he could see. He didn't seem to recognize me. I tried calming him down with a hug and soothing, reassuring words, but he struggled against me. He desperately wanted to escape from his room and whatever monstrous thing he saw there. He kept looking over his shoulder and clasping his hands over his mouth as he screamed and cried out.

When my husband entered the room, my son looked at him and yelled, "GET AWAY!" Who or what was he seeing in place of his Daddy? My son broke away from me and ran howling down the hall toward our bedroom.

But before he escaped my arms, I'd been able to process the fact that he was no longer burning up. The fever had gone down. So why was he still hallucinating?

In our bedroom, things weren't any better. When my husband tried to hug him, my son recoiled in horror. He let me hug him but would occasionally pull away and look at me, his mouth gaping in a rictus of fear. He'd scream and his hands would fly up to cover his mouth.

Was he possessed like Regan?

In that moment, my racing mind landed on The Exorcist, which I'd stumbled upon a week ago while channel-surfing. It was like my son was possessed.

Nothing we did or said was working to erase his fear. I felt so helpless, and the tears came.

By then all the commotion had woken up our daughter, who stood mutely by while her brother battled invisible demons. She looked almost as frightened as he did.

"Should we take him to the emergency room?" I asked, my voice breaking. The scene in The Exorcist where Regan is in the hospital getting a spinal tap popped into my head: She's strapped down and struggling while the doctor inserts a giant needle into her neck. Oh, no-no-no.

My husband, who seemed to be keeping his head better than me, said no to the hospital and suggested putting our son in the shower to clear his head. By then my son was no longer recoiling from my husband's touch, and he was able to explain a little what was scaring him.

"Does anything hurt?" I asked when he'd clapped his hands over his mouth for the tenth time.

"No," he moaned. "But when I open my mouth it feels like the monsters are going in and up to my brain and making me see crazy things."

Okaaaay.

But the shower helped, his lucidity returned, and we let him sleep with us in the hope it would keep the demons at bay.

It worked; there was a lot of kicking and thrashing but no more screams.

Today, he seems none the worse for wear; I'm not sure how much he remembers. But he feels terrible, is nauseous, and still has a fever.

And that's what scares me. What if tonight's a repeat of last night?

Only Happy When It Rains

I was watching the very mediocre Something Borrowed on cable the other day (flirty, sexy, bitchy Kate Hudson is BFFs with bookish, cute Ginnifer Goodwin; Ginnifer has a secret affair with Kate's equally bookish, hunky fiancé; mayhem ensues), and it totally reminded me of how things were in my 20's with the never-ending, exhausting relationship drama; the worrying about my future; and the confusion, self-doubt, and sadness.

In the flick, Ginnifer and the fiancé are in love, but because he's engaged to Kate, they try to repress their feelings. Poor Ginnifer spends half the movie choking back tears as she watches Kate and her fiancé be all lovey-dovey. She walks down Manhattan streets crying in the rain, mourning the love she let slip away (she and nerd hunk liked each other first but both were too loser-ish to make the first move, so Kate swooped in and charmed the pants off him). 


Arrgghh, I wanted to strangle her! Oh, poor me...fret, fret, fret...I will never have the man of my dreams, I will never be truly happy, boo-hoo, my life sucks. So much pointless angst!


The truth is, I wanted to strangle her because she reminded me of...me. That's what I was like during my 20's--constantly stressing my relationship status and where my life was going. Do I like him more than he likes me? Do I sabotage relationships? Will I ever get married and have kids? Am I pretty/cool/sexy/interesting/smart/successful enough? 


I was so preoccupied worrying about my relationships and fretting that my life wasn't going the way I'd hoped that I couldn't see straight. Oh, sure, I put up a pretty good front. Most people probably couldn't tell I was total head case. 

Looking back, I want to slap myself across the face. What was I doing? I should've been basking in my life; I had a "great on paper" job at Scholastic (which, in reality, was horrible and demeaning), a cool apartment in the West Village, fun friends, plenty of disposable income...my youth. The world was my oyster, as they say. 

Shirley Manson, my 90's idol

But yet there I was, stumbling through my 20's all confused, down, and depressed--though I had no legitimate reason to be sullen. Sometimes I wondered whether perhaps I actually got off on the darkness and sadness. You know I love it when the news is bad./Why it feels so good to feel so sad./I'm only happy when it rains./Pour your misery down./Pour your misery down on me. 


Because when things were awful for real (like after 9/11), at least how I felt finally made sense. 


This wasn't clinical depression (I know the symptoms), but I walked around with a strange hollowness inside, and my head was a buzzing hive of doubt. I felt burdened by life and by what was expected of me (okay, what I expected of myself). Living my life just didn't feel the way I thought it should/would/could.


Occasionally, the burden would lessen (new & better job, vacation, marriage), but it always came back with a thud once the novelty wore off. 


Until, that is, I became pregnant with my first child. I was over-the-moon elated. And suddenly, it wasn't all about me anymore. By focussing on the life growing inside of me, I was finally able to get out of my head. The burden was lifted.


And it hasn't come back. 


Oh, sure, I still have "I'm Only Happy When It Rains" moments, but that's just it--they are mere moments (or, at worst, a day). I no longer spend the majority of my time in that dark place. 


These days, life is more "Here Comes the Sun."


And Ginnifer Goodwin's character? In the end she gets her man and lives happily every after. 

Don't Let the Sound of Your Own Wheels Drive You Crazy

If you'd asked me a few months ago what subject matter I'd be least likely to blog about, I would've answered, "Cars." (And I'm not talking about the movie.) As a rule, I don't think about cars, notice cars, or care about cars. Living in the city, I was car-less throughout my 20's.

But lately, because we have to purchase a new one (our current car's transmission is dying and costs too much to fix), my poor brain is full of nothing but Hondas, Mazdas, Toyotas, Fords...V6 engines, MPGs, horsepower, and finance charges. Bear with me....

Nothing brings out your inner teenager like buying a car. Just look around at all the middle-aged dudes out there driving sports cars and the young grandmas in their cute, impractical convertibles.

I should know...I've been arguing with myself over which car to purchase for a couple of weeks now. I have a few musts: mid-sized, 4WD, third-row seating, not a mini-van. A back-up camera would be nice. There aren't tons of cars in this category and I've test driven four so far.

Kia Sorento

My sensible mom side says, "The Kia Sorento is fine--it's not exactly luxurious but it's a solid car and one of the least expensive options."

My inner teen, however, has a something different in mind. She wants what everyone else has. And by everyone else I mean the other moms tooling around our little pocket of Westchester County.

And they all happen to drive Honda Pilots. So, of course, now I want one, too. I wish I wasn't such a copy-cat. It makes me feel like I did back in high school when all I craved was to fit in and wear the same clothes the popular girls were wearing. I've never been one of those people who thrived on bucking the trend.

Honda Pilot

The Honda Pilot has a lot going for it besides being the vehicle of choice for all the cool moms. Too bad it's more money than we want to spend: almost $10K more than the Kia Sorento. Sure, it's more luxurious inside, but 10 G's worth? Doubtful. It's also kinda huge--we don't even know if it would actually fit through our garage door.

But when my rational mom side starts talking, that's when my inner teen begins to beg and plead...because the car I most wanted when I was 18 was a Jeep. And the Pilot is slightly Jeep-ish (kinda, sorta) which makes me want it all the more.

Mazda CX-9

So my inner teenager is at war with my sensible mom side. I'm not sure who will win.

Maybe we'll split the difference with a Mazda CX-9. The basic model is a few grand cheaper than the Pilot but it's definitely cooler than the Kia. But then no one wins (except Mazda), and that's not right.

Buying a car is such a major purchase; I just want to make the right choice. I don't want to be overly extravagant but I also don't want to regret our decision and end up ogling every Pilot-driving soccer mom I see.

Sigh...can you tell I've never bought a car before?

Compare and Contrast...Or Maybe Not

I'm not one of those moms who baby their youngest. I've often wondered how that's even possible, since the younger child always wants to try whatever his or her sibling is doing. If anything, they tend to grow up too fast and do more at an earlier age than their siblings. Right?

Lately, I've begun to wonder.

Because it seems that I might have been guilty of underestimating what my daughter is capable of. The problem is, my son was always so darned advanced that Little Miss suffered in comparison. I know you aren't supposed to compare your kids, but it's impossible not to. It's not like I judge them based on the comparisons--that would be mean--but I can't help but set a benchmark based on what my son has been capable of at various ages.

And, unfortunately for my daughter, the kid's fine-motor skills have always been off the charts. Which I didn't realize for a long time because I had nothing to compare it to. Eventually I began suspecting he was more artistically capable than the average kid. I have seen other mothers blanch as they looked at my son's drawings on our refrigerator and then mentally compared them to their own child's scribblings.

My son's drawing of a dinosaur (a Therizinosaurus, no
less--look it up, it's pretty spot-on), done when he
was almost four.

My daughter's drawing of Minnie Mouse, also done
when she was almost four. 

My daughter's fine-motor skills weren't nearly as impressive. Because she wasn't great at drawing, she didn't seem to enjoy it all that much. She didn't show any interest in coloring until she was three-and-a-half; then it would be just five minutes of haphazard scribbling and she'd move on to something else. As a result, I've never really encouraged her to develop her fine-motor skills.

It also doesn't help that, while my son had brand-new markers, 64-pack of crayons, colored pencils, (the works), poor Little Lady has had to make do with half-dried out markers and broken crayon nubs. Not exactly inspiring.

Over the past few months, however, my daughter has gone to some birthday parties with craft themes. I was concerned that the parties might bore her because her preferred party entertainment is usually more of the physical, gymnastics/tumbling nature.

But I've been pleasantly surprised how into it she's been. And actually not all that bad at it, either. Lately, she's been drawing and coloring up a storm and she can't get enough of craft kits. I've been surprised by her coordination and attention to detail, and she's starting to take real pride in her work.

No thanks to Mom.

Oh, sure, I'm trying to make up for lost time: new crayons, setting aside time to color together and do crafts every morning. But I still feel terrible because I've totally been selling my daughter short. I've been treating her like she couldn't do something of which she's more than capable. I've been babying her, I guess.

I hope just I haven't soured her to artistic pursuits or hurt her self-esteem in any way.

I'm sorry, my darling! Let's blame your brother, okay?

Say Yes to the Dress

My four-year-old daughter will only wear dresses. She has dozens of them: long-sleeved winter ones we pair with thick tights; comfortable, everyday cotton ones; light, flouncy sundresses; fancy, poofy, special-occasion ones. Most are hand-me-downs and the rest were bought at inexpensive stores. Luckily, we haven't had to take out a loan to fund her little dress obsession. Yet.

I've noticed the other girls in her preschool class wearing dresses pretty often. It must be the age. I vaguely remember my niece going through a "dresses only" phase when she was little (which morphed into an "anything but dresses" phase).

So I'm pretty sure this too shall pass. And it's not like it's a big deal. It's only clothes, after all. Except that there are times when a fancy frock isn't exactly practical. Take the other day for instance. It was a rare day when we had nothing to do, so my little lady and I decided to hit DD first, then visit a local playground. Here is what she opted to wear:

What would you call that dress? It's like a pinafore, right? She chose a pinafore and strappy, pink, jelly sandals with zero cushioning or traction. Not at all suited for playing in the dirtbox sandbox or climbing rope ladders. Did it slow her down? No. Did she regret her outfit choice? No.

I, however, enviously eyed the other little girls wearing sensible leggings, cargo pants, and sneakers. They looked so comfortable and didn't have to worry about stepping on the front of their dresses while climbing or getting wood chips stuck in their open-toed sandals.

I also don't like it that my sweetie-pie seems to measure her self-worth by how pretty her dress is. I remember one day not too long ago, I somehow managed to convince her to wear leggings. I think it was cold and rainy out and a dress just didn't make sense. The outfit was plenty pink and girly so I thought it would pass muster, but about halfway through the day, my daughter started crying for seemingly no reason.

"What's the matter, baby?" I asked.

"I don't look pretty," she whimpered.

"What? You always look pretty. There's no way you can't look pretty--you are a beautiful girl."

"But my clothes don't look pretty!" she wailed.

So up we went to her room and changed into an appropriately frou-frou dress, and the day was salvaged.

Another time, there was a birthday party at a kids gym. Again, it was coldish outside and because much climbing and tumbling would be occurring, I convinced my darling to wear leggings. Well, we got to the party only to discover that all the other little girls were wearing dresses. I watched her watching them. Her eyes darkened and she looked down at her outfit. I could see her little brain working to process it all.

My daughter at 18 mo. She's wearing leggings, T-shirt,
a brown sweatshirt. She let me dress her until age
two. This outfit would be unacceptable now. 

But she was a trooper. She didn't even mention it. She just she sucked it up and had fun anyway. But you can be sure that when she went to another party at that same venue a month later, she wore a very pretty dress.

I get that my daughter wants to look pretty--that's normal enough. But I do worry that she's taking it a bit too seriously. I don't want her confidence and self-worth to come from how she perceives herself to look.

I'm really hoping this is just a phase, too, and that as she matures, she'll understand that beauty is so much more. Of course we tell her all the time that she's smart, kind, and funny. We make sure to explain that a person can only be truly beautiful if he or she is kind-hearted and good. (Yes, Snow White is pretty, I explain, but what truly makes her beautiful is how nice, caring, and gentle she is to all those she meets.) 

I just hope it's sinking in.

I Couldn't Possibly Have Been This Annoying as a Child, Could I Have?

My son's elementary school is only K through Grade 2. I love that the school is specially geared to meet the needs of this young and impressionable age group, and also that he doesn't have to sit on the bus with rambunctious, huge (to him) fifth graders.

When the kids enter school they are five, and by the time they leave most have turned eight. Three years--no big deal, right? I didn't think so, but then the other day it was brought to my attention just how much older kids are at eight than they are at five.

Last Thursday the Kindergarteners didn't have school because it was orientation for next year's batch of K-ers, but it was a normal day for first- and second-graders. It was finally decent out after a few days of rain and gloom so we headed to the elementary school playground just as school was letting out.

We had the playground to ourselves for a few minutes, but before long the after-school club (kids whose parents work) joined us.

"Where are the Kindergarteners?" one girl asked.

"They didn't have school today. Isn't it soooo much better without them here?" answered a wise-ass boy (to whom I immediately gave the stink eye).

The boys broke off to play football with one of the apathetic high school kids who only do the job because their parents force them to supervisors, while a group of second-grade girls came over to the fire-engine structure where my kids were playing.

The girls climbed to the top, leaned against the bars in a tightly packed group, and began to sing as loudly as possible:

Baby, you light up my world like nobody else,

                            The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed,

But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell,

You don't know, 

Oh oh,

You don't know you're beautiful,

If only you saw what I can see,

You'll understand why I want you so desperately,

Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe,

You don't know,

Oh oh,

You don't know you're beautiful,

Oh oh,

That's what makes you beautiful

I was unfamiliar with the song, though I figured it might be a new tune by Katy Perry or Kelly Clarkson (though it didn't sound slutty enough to be Katy or angry enough to be Kelly). It was vapid and frothy and catchy...one of those new British boy bands, perhaps? So, yeah, I Googled it when I got home. It's "What Makes You Beautiful" by One Direction, for those of you who don't happen to live with a female between the ages of 8 and 18 and therefore have remained blissfully ignorant.

The adorable faces and Bieber-esque
hair of One Direction

Over and over and over and over they screamed sang those words. Never any other part of the song--just those lines. It was super annoying.

The supervisor stopped the football game. He came over and hollered, "Girls! Enough! Sing something else...anything else! PLEASE!" (Ha, not so apathetic now, are you dude?)

Did it work? Of course not. The howling-passing-for-singing continued.

The girls reminded me of myself when I was young, except in those days we sang "Da-Do-Ron-Ron" or tunes from Grease. And that wasn't until fourth or fifth grade. I didn't have any mad crushes on pop stars until I was at least ten.

But nowadays the girls start earlier. Call me crazy but eight just seems way too young to be singing love songs and giggling about boys. 

Now I know what to look forward to when my own Little Lady turns eight. Someone please help me. 

What to Do When Dr. Jekyll Jr. Becomes a Mini Mr. Hyde?

My son used to be the sweetest little boy you could ever meet. Oh, sure, lots of mothers say that, but it wasn't just me who thought so. Over the years, many people have complimented me on how compassionate, kind, even-tempered, and intelligent my son is. "Such a sweet boy!" is something I've heard often.

And then he started Kindergarten. Or maybe it's that he turned six. Not sure what the cause of his behavior change is, but it happened right around then. He has become demanding, short-tempered, and petulant. Oh, not all the time--no, of course not. Our sweet little boy is still in there but unfortunately, we don't see him quite as much as we used to.

Our son, during one of his
less-than-stellar moments

The transition to full-day Kindergarten has been tiring for him. The school bus gobbles my son up at 7:50 a.m. and spits him back out at 3:15 p.m. That is a long day for a six-year-old. But every other Kindergartener is dealing with this same schedule and I doubt all of them have undergone such personality changes. I'm sure the long days have something to do with the behavior changes, though. Our son absolutely adored preschool--he went three days a week and was usually bummed when it wasn't a school day. He loved the activities, teachers, and other kids. He was friends with everyone.

Well, he still loves his teachers and friends, and he enjoys school activities. But now every single morning goes something like this:

"It is a school day today?"

"Yes."

"Awwwwwww!!!! How many more days until the weekend?" (Imagine this uttered in the whiniest voice possible.)

Thankfully, all his bad behavior has (for now, at least) been restricted to when he's home. His school record is still blemish free; in fact, he's one of the only boys in his class whose status has never gone from Green ("Good") to Yellow ("Warning"). During parent/teacher conferences, his teacher raves about him--she literally has never said a less-than-glowing thing about him.

Which is why, when he gets home and rants and raves and orders me around, I'm dumbfounded. What the hell happened to the sweetest boy there ever was?

If this is a temporary thing, then fine, we can ride it out. I understand that kids go through phases and that each kid has his/her own way of dealing with change and stress.

But what if it's not temporary? If it continues, do we punish him for his outbursts? Right now, I'm reluctant to do so because he's in so much pain as it is in those moments, I hate to add to it. But on the other hand, we don't want him thinking he has free reign to be tyrannical whenever he feels like it.

If any of my faithful readers have experience with this, I'd love her hear how the situation panned out for you.

Because we are at a loss.

MTV's Golden Era: From "Video Killed the Radio Star" to "Jeremy"

I am currently reading I Want My MTV: The Uncensored Story of the Music Video Revolution, by Craig Marks and Rob Tannenbaum (pub. date: Oct. 2011). We Gen Xers are, for sure, the book's target audience. If you were between the ages of 10 and 18 when MTV launched in 1981, you will enjoy this book, which covers only what the authors call "MTV's Golden Era": the years 1981 to 1992.

The book's format--an oral history, with quote after interesting quote from musicians, music execs, video directors, VJs, etc.--keeps the book flowing. You get great information without too much dull exposition.

The book begins, well, at the beginning, when MTV was just a gleam in some radio executives' eyes. What's interesting is just how quickly and half-assedly everything was thrown together. They got the okay in January 1981 and were determined to launch on August 1st (when, they figured, kids were home on summer vacation and had nothing better to do than watch videos all day). The founders had seven months to come up with a station name, logo, and catch-phrase; to figure out how to make record companies give them free videos; and to hire all the video disc-jockeys.

The book includes surprising information. For example, I didn't know that Michael Nesmith of the Monkees was one of the main players at the beginning (though he left before MTV even launched due to creative differences with the rest of management). In fact, it turns out that he deserves much of the credit for MTV. In the late 70's, Nesmith developed a show, called PopClips, that played nothing but videos. A pilot was made but it wasn't a success. The concept for MTV was born.

So the origin story is pretty interesting. But the book's strength is the information it shares about all the craziness that occurred behind the scenes of the making of your favorite videos.

"Save a Prayer" video: Nick Rhodes
and John Taylor (on on elephant)

About Duran Duran's "Save a Prayer" video, which was filmed in Sri Lanka, Nick Rhodes says: "John and I were on an elephant, Simon was on one with Andy, and Roger was on one of his own. And they brought a female elephant who let out this enormous noise, which one of the guys in the crew was taping. He thought, Oh, this will be funny, and he played it back through the speakers. Nobody knew that it was her mating call. So the elephant with Roger on its back charges down the swamp and mounts this other elephant. Roger's hanging on for dear life.... If he'd fallen off, he could have been trampled to death. It was funny as hell, but also quite hairy for a moment."

Dr. Magnus Pyke in the "She Blinded
Me With Science" video

This story Thomas Dolby tells about the "Blinded Me With Science" video cracked me up: "My dad, a professor of classical archaeology at Oxford University, was one of the scientists in the video. And we had Dr. Magnus Pyke, a famous British TV personality and bona fide scientist. When I saw him a few years later, he cursed me, because in America, people would walk up behind him in the street and shout, 'Science!' He was a man of accomplishment, and was annoyed by that."

I love that: Sneaking up on a proper Oxford scientist and screaming "SCIENCE!"at him. That's classic America vs. England right there.  

And since this book is about musicians, you'll be happy to know there's plenty of insider info on groupies, drugs, drinking, sex, and inflated egos.

Stevie Nicks in the Arizona desert,
filming the "Hold Me" video

Simon Fields, a video producer, says this about Fleetwood Mac:
"'Hold Me' was a f#*@ing nightmare, a horrendous day in the desert. John McVie was drunk and tried to punch me. Stevie Nicks didn't want to walk on the sand with her platforms. Christine McVie was fed up with all of them. Mick thought she was being a bitch, he wouldn't talk to her. They were a fractious bunch."


And how about this juicy tidbit from Joe Elliott, which will make you want to call up Def Leppard's "Foolin'" on YouTube:

Joe Elliott and his "wedding tackle" in the
"Foolin" video

"...there's a fantastic scene when I'm chained to a pyramid and I break out of the shackles. I sit up and look at the camera and sing, 'Is there anybody out there?' And if you look at the video--which I suggest you do, because it's quite funny--you can see that underneath my white trousers I have on tighty whities. I wasn't wearing them on the first take. [The director] Mallet watched that scene back through the lens and said, 'Dear boy, I can see your wedding tackle. You need to put some underpants on. They'll never show this on the telly if we don't clean it up a bit.'"


So if you watched MTV as much as I did in the 80's, you will definitely get a kick out of this book. I don't know if I'd shell out the $18 Amazon is asking for the hardcover (my copy was a Christmas present--thanks, hon!) but the paperback is coming out in September. It's worth checking out.

Sports Authority

This past Saturday marked the beginning of spring soccer here in our little Westchester town. Unfortunately, though our six-year-old son was signed up, he spent the morning reassembling his Hogwarts Lego instead.

My son played soccer last fall, and every Saturday morning my husband would beg, cajole, and bribe to get him to the field. It would go something like this:

"If you try really hard during practice before the game, then you only have to play half the game." ... "Okay, fine, you can skip the game but only if you try your best during practice, and no moaning."... "C'mon, just try, it'll be fun. We can get a doughnut afterwards."

My poor husband got worn down and gave up the fight. So this spring my kid is playing zero organized sports...with zero organized sports in his future.

Whenever we bring up the idea of my son trying something else--karate or T-ball, say--all we get back from him is, "NO, NO, I hate sports!"

Which isn't exactly true. He loves kicking the ball around with his dad and playing baseball in the backyard. But if he gets any whiff of real competition, forget it.

My husband is bummed. When we learned our firstborn would be a boy, visions of bringing his son to Mets games and bonding over shared love for the team floated through is head. Instead, the boy couldn't care less. Last summer the whole family went to a Mets game. My son enjoyed himself because he loves giant pretzels, cotton candy, and fun-to-climb stadium steps. End of story. Oh, there was a game going on? News to him.

The same goes with football. His favorite thing about it? The "football snacks" (i.e. normally-forbidden junk like Bugles, Doritos & Ruffles) we serve while watching playoff games. I'm sure if someone were to mention the word "Superbowl" to my son today, his mouth would water in anticipation of greasy, salty snacks.

When our son was four and showed little interest in organized sports, I told my husband to be patient. I was pretty sure school would peer-pressure him into caring. Well, Kindergarten is wrapping up in a couple months and there's been no change.

"Do kids in your class talk about the Giants?" my husband asked our son during playoff season.

"Yeah."

"Do they like the Giants? Do they watch games on TV and know about the players and stuff?"

"Uh-huh."

Hmmm, guess that's why the kid's best friends in school are girls.

Our son is athletic enough--you should see him bat, he sends the ball flying. His problem is mental: He's nervous he won't be good and therefore doesn't want to even try. We are reluctant to force him to play sports even though other parents have suggested that's the only way to get your child over his or her fear.

It's gotten so bad that my son doesn't even enjoy himself at sports-themed birthday parties. He's fine if the kids are allowed to roam the gym freely and experiment with the equipment as they choose. But once he hears, "Okay, let's all line up, this is what we're going to do" he's OUT.

I recently had to RSVP "no" to a party for one of his classmates because the party venue was the scary-sounding Sportime. My husband has had enough of my son complaining and not participating at sports parties so he just won't go anymore. The way I see it is no cake and gift bag for you if you don't play along. What kid doesn't want to go to a birthday party? That cannot be normal. It's very frustrating.

I don't know...he's only six. There's still time. Maybe it'll happen on its own.

Or maybe it won't. Which is okay, too.

Things I'm Sad My Kids Won't Experience

The world has changed so much over the past few decades. Many of the changes are incredible and awesome, but not all. Occasionally, I'll catch myself thinking fondly about something I did or experienced when I was younger, and it will occur to me that, because the world is so different now, my kids probably won't have the pleasure of that experience.

Here are some things I'm bummed they'll (probably) miss out on:

I remember being 12 and going to the
record store to buy my brother an Ozzy
record for his birthday. This album
cover was an education.

Poring Through Records at a Divey, Yet Excellent, Record Store
Remember when the only way to learn what the singers of the songs you loved looked like was through the record store? Remember wasting countless hours trying to decide which album to spend your allowance money on? And the record store was educational, too: How else was I going to learn about Satanism if not via Ozzy Osbourne's album covers?

Receiving a Love Letter in the Mail
I don't mean to brag but I've received a few love letters in my day. Sure, I've gotten love emails too, but there is no comparison: Hand-written sweet nothings beat those printed out on 8.5 x 11 computer paper any day.

MTV Circa 1982
The town I grew up in didn't get cable until practically the 90's (boo!). But the next town over got it in the early 80's, and luckily my grandparents lived in that town (yay!). Whenever we'd go over their house for dinner, my brother and I would turn on MTV, sit on the floor a foot from the screen, and become zombified for hours. It was the most awesome thing ever invented and I was completely obsessed. I think we somehow even convinced the adults to let us leave the TV on DURING DINNER. I remember jumping up from the table mid-turkey-eating and running into the family room upon hearing the beginning strains of INXS's "The One Thing." Michael Hutchence was so hot in that video my tween self could hardly handle it. MTV blew my mind on a regular basis back then.

No idea where this photo is from, but this is pretty
much how I remember it. 

A Huge Blizzard (Like the One in 1978) That Closes School for Weeks
Okay, so it's possible. But if this winter is any indication of how this Climate Change thing is going, massive blizzards are a thing of the past. I will never forget, in 1978, opening up our front door to find an impenetrable wall of snow. Poor grown-ups: Their cars were buried, the shoveling was murder, and their annoying kids were home from school for two weeks. But for us kids it was unbelievable: School was cancelled for two weeks (!!), and all we did was build epic forts and sledding tracks that led downhill from the front yards of our houses to the back. Incredible speeds were attained, no helmets were worn, much hot chocolate was drunk. Legendary.

Visiting a Europe Where the Residents Actually Seem Foreign
My mother is British so we spent a lot of family vacations in England, and back in the 70's and 80's (and even the early 90's) there was very little American influence over there. One or two McDonalds in London, maybe. The city was still very Dickensian then--stark, historic, beautiful, and so, so different from America. My last visit to London was in 2005, and I spent the whole trip marveling at how American the city looked and felt. The ratio of quaint, dingy pubs to garish, cheesy chain stores had officially tipped in the wrong direction. I'm sure it's even worse now. The same goes for Paris, Rome, Madrid, etc. Too bad. Where does a person have to go to escape America's clutches?

But on the other hand, technological advances have certainly made life better in many ways. Here's a list of a few things I'm glad my kids (hopefully) will never have to suffer through:

Catching the Chicken Pox
Using a Fax Machine
Dial-Up Internet
Acid-Wash Jeans
MS-DOS
And the worst of the worst: 
Having to Type Up Their College Applications One-By-Excruciating-One

Drive Me Crazy

Most of the time I'm a pretty good mother, I think (if I do say so myself). I'm a stay-at-home mom and completely and totally dedicated to motherhood. I'm 100% engaged with my kids (okay, 99%). Just by touching a hand I can tell if one of them has a fever. I know what kind of mood they're in with one glance at their faces, and if something is on their mind, they can't hide it. All this is wonderful and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Except when it all drives me MAAAAAAD. Like now. It's 4 p.m. on a chilly, gray Saturday afternoon and I'm home alone with my two kids. My husband had to go out for a couple of hours for work. I haven't left the house yet today, and I just managed to get dressed an hour ago. Shower? Ha.

THEY. ARE. DRIVING. ME. CRAZY.

I sent them to our gross, unfinished basement to play because I needed them out of my hair for a few minutes. For some reason, they love it down there (probably because it is, in fact, so gross). Five minutes later I heard the dreaded words: "Uh-oh, Mommy's going to be so mad."

Turns out our cat (who has Irritable Bowel Syndrome) pooped in the playhouse. So instead of relaxing and having a little "me" time, there I was scrubbing dried diarrhea out of the rug instead. Calgon!

There's rarely one event that ends up pushing me over the edge. My kids are great kids and rarely do anything that makes me want to get in the car and keep driving. Usually, it's just a slow buildup of tiny frustrating moments. Then one or two more little things happen (today it was my daughter not napping combined with my husband having to work) and suddenly I find myself falling off the cliff.

I've noticed I lose it more often on weekends. During the week, I manage to keep it together better--I think because I have no choice. With my husband at work until evening, I'm the one in charge. But I don't stress it at all during the week--I'm happy doing all the mom things I love.

But then the weekend comes around and for some crazy reason I expect it to be a little relaxing. I expect to get a break from being the one "on" all the time. Except it hardly ever works out that way. My husband is a great dad and spends as much time with the kids as he can. But it's not like I can easily and breezily take a day off from being mom and recharge. The kids whine and pout about me leaving, which makes me feel guilty--which then makes me not enjoy my time away as much. Instead of recharging, I worry and end up rushing to get home.

But tomorrow is a new day. I will go to the gym and sweat this stress out while my husband takes the kids to church. Hopefully the sun will be shining and we can all get outside to enjoy the fresh air and beautiful spring flowers.

If not, at least I have "Mad Men" to look forward to tomorrow night. And the new season of "Game of Thrones." Yes, things are looking up.

Baby, Don't Go

I've touched on this topic before and I'm sure I will again. How could I not?

There is this thing lurking...I try to push it out of my mind before it takes hold but I can't always. And when I do think about it, it's so painful and sad: My kids are growing up. Duh, I know. It sounds lame and cheesy. Please don't laugh at me.

My kids are only six and three (actually she's almost four, gulp) so, sure, I have time before I need to face their loss of innocence, but everyone knows how quickly it goes by. So, yeah, I'm holding on for dear life (don't judge me).

Whenever a sweet old lady says to me at the grocery store, "Enjoy them while they're this age--it goes by so fast!" I want to punch her in the face. Way to rub salt in the wound, Grandma.

Every weekday afternoon I cannot wait for 3:20 p.m. because that's when the bus drops off my Kindergartener. I miss him so much when he's at school. We hold hands and talk about his day as we walk the block back to our house. And every single day I cherish the feel of his soft, warm, still-little (but not for long) hand in mine. Because how many more years of hand-holding can I look forward to? Three? Two? And how much longer will his chatter be about sweet stuff like the cool colored pencils they used in art class or which instruments they played in music? When he sings me bits of the songs they sung that day, his adorable falsetto melts my heart and I have to hold back the tears. 

These moments slay me. And they continually surprise me. Before having kids, you can never imagine stuff like this affecting you. But it does.

Or maybe it's my daughter crying in her bed after I've finished singing the lullabies we always sing and left her room. If she doesn't quickly settle down, I go up there and lie with her in bed for a little while. It's like magic how quickly her tears dry up. And it feels wonderful to have that effect on someone.

But how much longer will my mere presence stop the tears? How long before my very existence makes her want to scream instead (or at least roll her eyes). Oh, my little lady is going to be an expert eye-roller, I can tell already.

All this is why I find myself occasionally wanting a third baby. There, I said it. But even if I wasn't too old to easily and safely go about it, I doubt I'd actually begin pleading my case to my husband for baby #3. I've always wanted two kids. One boy, one girl; two kids, two parents: nice symmetry. But still, the urge is there.

That's because, as I stand by and watch my two babies grow and learn and begin to need me less and less, my heart aches. I miss the feeling of having a tiny helpless person rely on me for everything.

There's this song that comes on Pandora's toddler station sometimes: Frances England's "You and Me." It makes me cry. I love it. Google it and listen. Beautiful. The lyrics go:

You and me, reading books in bed,

Your head on my shoulder,

Your eyes on the pages ahead.

How did you grow so big overnight?

How did you get so smart and bright?

Yesterday you were asleep in my arms,

Today you're growing off the charts.

I'm so proud of you."

What the hell am I going to do with myself when my kids are grown?

Damn, someone needs to get a job.