Hibachi. (God Bless You).

There's something about a Hispanic guy pretending to be an authentic Japanese Hibachi chef that makes me feel American.  

To celebrate the first week of summer vacation,  I took my boys to Benihana for dinner.   The smell of MSG greeted us in the parking lot.  No less than 5 excessively smiley (most assuredly not Japanese) hostesses bowed to us at the heavily bamboo-ed entrance.  Within moments, my kids were wearing menu hats.   

Seated with us was another typical American family comprised of a Mom and Dad - the Dad's young son from his previous marriage, the Mom's young daughter from her previous marriage, and somebody's step-niece visiting from Mexico.  We all got along swimmingly as the chef made a choo-choo train out of onion rings my children won't eat.

Benihana is one of those places that sounds soooo fun when you're in the car driving there. 

As you're being seated with strangers, you hear yourself say "That's Hot!" for the first time and start to question your restaurant selection.  Neither of your children want to sit next to strangers and thanks to their lack of volume control, the strangers now know it.   The table is an odd shape, so suddenly your children are sitting together, arms length from a burn unit visit, and you are elbow-elbow with someone else's teenage Mexican step niece.   As the waitress offers your children coca-cola, you get a text from your husband.  Flight canceled.  Uch.  At that moment your toddler discovers the chopsticks.

You review the menu choices and suddenly recall that though it's never on the menu, every time you go to Benihana, you wind up with Hibachi diarrhea.  Meanwhile, your son just ordered a shit load of million dollar shrimp. 

Ok, back to me.  The chef makes the fried rice egg spin round and round while I am flooded with memories of pre-prom dinners 20 years ago.  These dudes were doing this egg spinning thing way back then.  He cracks the egg uncleanly.  Shell goes everywhere.  Glad I didn't order the fried rice.   

"Was that supposed to happen?" my son asks.  "Shhh," I say, not wanting to hurt chef feelings.   

He flips shrimp tails into his hat.  (Well, one made it in, I honestly couldn't tell you where the rest landed.)  He does some sort of percussion routine with his salt and pepper shakers.  My younger son imitates him with a full glass of water and I'm thinking that maybe the folks who wrote Fela got inspired here.

The chef finishes with a flourish and my kids applaud.  "Woo-Hoo!"  the little one cheers.  "That was awesome!" the big one confirms.  They push their veggies aside with their jerry-rigged chopsticks and gobble up their meals all smiles.  "Summer Vacation is the best ever!" 

My clothes smell distinctly of teriyaki sauce, but my children are happy - and therefore by some sort of scientific theory - I'm happy.  Which is lucky for me, considering what I ordered. 

I can't say I'll be racing back to the least Japanese Japanese restaurant in America anytime soon, but I do know I'll be back.  Mom points are nothing to sneeze at.

You Got a (Parking) Lot of Nerve

The time and temp sign outside our local bank flashed the big 100 f today.   My diabetic dog has been panting since 5 am.  My son's hair looks like curly fries.  My eyebrows are sweating.   

Immersing myself and my children in cold water seemed to be the absolute only solution to today.

"Boys, we're going to the pool."  I lacked enthusiasm in my announcement.  It was more like medical advice.  Their lack of exclamation points was apparent in response.

"It's too hot," one said limply.

"I'm scared of seat belts," said the other who had clearly been scorched on our earlier Target run.*

"Get in the car," I said.  "I won't let the seat belt hurt you.  We have to get in the pool."

They rallied.  "She's right," one boy said to the other, and they got in the car.

We drive with the AC cranked up so high that we are unable to hear one and other.  While last month I stood in front of my full length mirror with my nose wrinkled up at my reflection thinking, "I just won't wear bathing suits anymore," I am now driving my vehicle in nothing but a bathing suit.  My ass is sticking to the leather seats and I am wondering at what point in history people started wearing clothes anyway.  My phone rings.  I should answer it, but I don't because I decide it's too hot to talk to people.  I am so mad I have long hair. 

We arrive at the pool and notice that the parking lot is full.  Not like, "oh, wow it's so crowded" full, but like "holy shit there are no parking spaces" full.  The whining commences from the back seat.  "Think positive," I say.  "Everyone in this car imagine getting a parking spot."  (It's never too early to Oprah-fy your children).  We drive up and down the lanes, perpetually being tricked by dainty cars that have pulled way in to their spots just to deceive the parking spot hunter.  5 minutes.  10 minutes.  Children are asking for snacks.  Then suddenly - out of the blue - a spot!!  A slab of cement as valuable as gold.  I pull in triumphantly.  My children begin a chant: "Mom did it -  She did it - Ma-Ma-Mom did it!" 

We get out of the car.  Soul crushing heat stifles us.  I pull out the fully prepped beach bag with towels, sunscreen, juice boxes, snacks, goggles, dry clothes, sunglasses, hats, ...

"Mom, can I have the pool pass?"

FREEZE.  I might faint.  A friend passes by - "Hey, Sandy" she calls all friendly like.  "See you in there!"  For a second, I consider stealing my friend's pool passes.  Instead, I wave back.

"Boys, get in the car." 

If you think you have heard people whine, you need to multiply that sound memory by like the speed of light, and that is the sound that came out of my about to melt they're so hot children.

I drove home with moderate consideration for traffic rules and regulations.  I got the pool passes.  They were RIGHT THERE.  Everything I've ever left at home has always been RIGHT THERE.  I should just start checking RIGHT THERE before I leave.

We got back to the pool.   I know it is impossible for a full parking lot to be more full because if it's full then it's full and there's no such thing as more full - but this parking lot was more full.  I was circling the lot in line with other cars with potentially equally irritable women behind the wheels.  That's when I saw her.  The lady I would follow to her spot.  Braving the heat, I did the unthinkable from an air conditioned car; I rolled down the window.  "HEY!  Where are you parked?" I yelled too aggressively. 

"Ya' know," she said casually, as though it were a pleasant 75 degrees out, "I can't remember!"  The sound of that lady's giggle is still ringing in my ears.  BUT - by some stroke of luck (or heat) just then, she spotted her car.  It was waayyy behind me.  And there were many cars in line behind me.  I broke every parking lot etiquette rule in the universe and I made a U TURN right then and there and followed that giggly broad to her spot.  I parked in that spot.  I took my children by the hands, shoved my passes under the security guard's scanner, and immersed my family in ... piss warm water. 

The water in the kiddy pool was so warm it made me nervous that I was accidentally swimming in someone's recently used pasta water.  I mean, I looked around for noodles. 

"Mom, c'mon," said the big one, "I have an idea."  I followed this smart smart smart boy to the big pool.  We got in.  It was COLD. 

I smiled.  I laughed.  I dunked.  We were having the coldest, happiest, time of our life.

"Hey Mom," said that smart smart smart big boy, "isn't today Thursday?" 

"It is." 

"Don't I have karate in like 15 minutes?" 

I'll spare you the details of the 15 minutes that followed, but suffice it to say, the most perfect parking spot was WIDE open directly in front of Karate.

*The air conditioning quality in Target in the summer is not to be under valued.

Fantastico Man

This year for Father's Day, our older son presented my husband with a completed  "All About Dad" questionnaire he'd prepared for him at school.

Fill in the blank:  If your Dad were a Superhero, what would he be called? 

FANTASTICO MAN                               .

Oh My God.  Fantastico Man.  Is there any higher compliment?  It's so continental.  Not just fantastic.  Fantastico.   Say it with an Italian flair and it is downright sexy.

I live with Fantastico Man.  It's like a lifetime of dreams I never knew I had have been fulfilled.

*FANTASTICO MAN CAN ...

·         Carry on full conversations in his sleep.

·         Stay at the office until 2 am and still remember it's Field Day in the morning.

·         Fix broken things.

·         Eat leftovers happily.

·         Win any trivia related game.

·         Wrestle without causing real injury.

·         Read books with outstanding character voices.

·         Make horrendous, yet hilarious puns.

·         Shower a child in under 2 minutes.

·         Make a Ford Taurus X drive like a Beemer.

·         Mow the lawn with eagle eye precision.

·         Compose catchy songs with clever rhyming lyrics on the spot during breakfast.

·         Play sports he's never played before with great authority.

·         Give hugs that stop injuries from hurting.

·         Dance like there's a spotlight.

*For a more comprehensive list of Fantastico Man's powers, please refer to my son's father's day project.

I love Fantastico Man.  (Cue PEE WEE voice: "Well, why don't you marry him?") I DID.  I totally married Fantastico Man without realizing it.  In fact, it is only as we approach our 11th wedding anniversary, that his true name has been revealed.  It was worth the wait.

On other Father's Days, I've celebrated my husband.

On this Father's Day, I salute Fantastico Man. 

Girlfriends

You can always tell a real friend; when you've made a fool of yourself

she doesn't feel you've done a permanent job.

- Some random quote I read online beneath a Spanx ad.

Since moving to the suburbs, I miss my Super.  Since becoming an adult, I miss my friends .  The odds of Ramon (my super) ever coming over to change a lightbulb are slim.  But every once in a while, I get a night out with girlfriends. 

I have decided that it would be impossible to be a mother without girlfriends.  It takes a village?  Maybe.  It takes a few phenomenal women who know when to tell a joke and when to pour the wine?  Yes.

There is something that hovers above a table of girlfriends without agenda.  It's the scent of juicy gossip mixed with shared passions, admitted fears, spot-on advice, and belly laughter.  Lingering in the room of women on a night off, you can hear their muscles relax a little.  It sounds like the de-furrowing of eyebrows.  There is a collective, unspoken decision not to discuss the piles of laundry that are stacking up, the inbox full of email requiring immediate response, the tub upstairs still full of wet bath toys.  When you're with a group of gals who dig each other genuinely, it looks like summer camp grown up. 

That table of smart, capable, gorgeous, sassy ladies are able to change the scope of a day - a week - a month - simply by sitting down together.   

Our lives are so full.  Ambition and chores alone could fill a day.  Attention is divided at best.  We are a generation of women striving to make our mark just as soon as we make breakfast.  

Syncing calendars with girlfriends is like a giant game of Whack-A-Mole.  So when that rare Monday night pops up free across the board, I recommend you grab it.  Because those ladies don't need anything from you.  Their faces are washed, you don't have to make their lunch for the morning, they don't require you to stay late at the office or expect your brows to be plucked.  There is a mutual understanding amongst women with a couple precious hours to devote to unplugged face time. 

"Let's get a little drunk and laugh.  And if anyone needs to cry, go for it.  There are brownies over there." 

And then go home (a little too late) with a spring in your step.  When you get there, take out the trash, (trust me, your super isn't coming) and then pencil in the next date.  No, you know what.  Put it in pen. 

That Owie's Gonna Cost You - A 3 minute Play by Sandy Rustin

My friend is hosting a charity yard sale tomorrow morning in our neighborhood to help raise funds for a local single mom (without health insurance) who was injured in a car wreck.  (Here's a link to the details: http://maplewood.patch.com/articles/yard-sale-on-sunday-will-support-local-woman).

 I'm donating my garage full of giveaways tomorrow and I plan to spend the morning there, kibitzing with friends and setting appropriate prices for old baseball gloves and mismatched lamps.   The day will be cheerful and friendly.  I'm betting the kids will organize an overpriced lemonade stand.  Maybe I'll even find a treasure (please someone donate a bike) to bring back to my newly purged garage.  But behind the scenes of  tomorrow's smiles and cordial banter, there is a terrified, hurt Mom, wondering how she's going to pay her health care bills-not to mention her mortgage-all while caring for her kids without the help of a partner.

If only she lived in Japan, France, Switzerland, Italy, Spain, Netherlands, Norway, Taiwan or Sweden, she wouldn't have to pin her hopes on a neighborhood yard sale.  Why is it that America doesn't register amongst the top health care systems in the world?  Our sick are cared for conditionally.  Could you imagine if we cared for our children the way our government cares for us?  It would look like this:

That Owie's Gonna Cost You

A young mother and her son play cheerfully on a playground. Suddenly, the boy trips and falls.  Tearful and pathetic, the little boy approaches his mother.  She wears red shorts with a white tee shirt and blue wedge sandals.  Her sunglasses on top of her head.  She is the perfect picture of a mother.

BOY:  (crying) Mommy!  Mommy!  I hurt my knee.  It's bleeding!  (At his own mention of blood, he progresses to hysteria.) I need a SpongeBob band-aid right now!

MOMMY:  (embracing him)  Oh Jimmy, honey.  Let Mommy, see it.  (She looks.  It's bleeding.  Rough Stuff).   Oooo ... yes, that looks really bad.  We should clean that up, and put some Neosporin on it.  (In a faux baby voice) And you are right, Mister, you definitely need a band-aid.  And probably some kisses and hugs too. 

BOY: (still crying) Ok (sniff sniff). 

MOMMY:  (Her demeanor becomes professional)  Let me see your insurance card.

BOY:  My what?

MOMMY:  I'm gonna need your Membership ID and Group Number.  Are you in a PPO?

BOY:  I'm in a Pre-K.

MOMMY:  Are you pre-authorized for hugs and kisses?

BOY:  (Calling off) Daddy?!

MOMMY:  How many SpongeBob band-aids have you had this year?  You may have met your quota?

BOY:  I had one that time I hurt my finger on the fence and one on my other knee once and I had one for my cheek when I hit the coffee table and my forehead when I  ...

MOMMY:  And judging by the looks of it now, you could probably do without the Neosporin.  Just rinse it off over there in that rusty water fountain and hopefully you won't get a secondary infection.

BOY:  I don't know how to turn on the fountain.

MOMMY:  Oh, well that's too bad.  I think the fountain specialist is on vacation and is unavailable to see you for two weeks.  Do you have a referral, I could probably get you seen the first week in July.

BOY:  Mommy, my sock is bloody now.

MOMMY:  That's a secondary injury.  I won't be able to even think about that until we get this initial issue taken care of.

BOY:  Mommy, I don't know what secondary means and you keep saying it.

MOMMY:  Do you have insurance or not kid?

BOY:  I have a rock in my pocket.

MOMMY:  Ok, I tell you what, without proper insurance, I can help you, but you'll have to pay out of pocket.

BOY:  (handing over his rock) Ok.

MOMMY:  (re: the rock) Uh-uh.  I don't think so, Buddy.  There will be no dessert for a month, I will confiscate the contents of your piggy banks and I get to sleep with your blanky.

BOY:  You don't like how my blanky smells.

MOMMY:  This isn't about me.  Do you want the band-aid or not?

BOY:  (He nods and chokes back tears).

Mom pulls a red crayon and many forms out of her back pocket.

MOM: Ok, before I get started, I need you to sign this agreement.

BOY:  My shoelaces are bloody.

MOM:  Again, I'll remind you to stay focused.  (She lays the forms out on the sidewalk).  Sign here - here - here - and here.

BOY:  How do I sign?

MOM:  I'll sign for you since you're a minor.

BOY:  Thanks, Mom.

As she signs the documents, a KID approaches the boy.

KID: Hey, are you ok?

BOY:  No, my knee is bleeding.

KID:  I have an extra band-aid.  It's Scooby Doo.

BOY:  I like Scooby Doo.

KID:  Here.  (He hands him a band aid).

BOY:  Thanks!

KID:  No problem.  Bye. 

KID exits.

MOM:  (finished signing) Ok, all set! 

BOY:  I got a band-aid from that kid.

MOM:  Oh. (Annoyed) Okaaaaay.  Well ... if you want me to put it on you, I can.

BOY:  Thanks, Mom.  (He hands it to her).

MOM: In exchange for your tricycle.  Now, c'mere and let Mama kiss it and make it better!

As the boy confusedly runs into his mother's arms, the lights fade to black.

There's a lady in my neighborhood who has a really bad owie.  She lives in a country that seems to love her, until she needs something.  They have exactly what she needs, and they know she really needs it, and they'll be happy to give it to her - so long as she gives them all her money.  

So sure, are all the ladies in the neighborhood getting together to do their share and help get this lady as many goddamned band aids as she needs?  Yes, we are.  Should we have to?   I don't think so.

Today I signed this petition for change  -  http://www.puttingpatientsfirst.net/petition/

Tomorrow I'll help throw a charity yard sale, for a lady I wish lived in Holland.

The Pleasure of Imaginary Ice Cream

Today was the last day of preschool.  The two year olds are now three.  We celebrated with pizza and fruit .. and imaginary ice cream.

At every chance he gets, my son becomes the ice cream man. 

Filling pails with playground sticks and sand, he offers me chocolate and strawberry with chocolate sauce, no nuts.  He assures me each time, "it's delicious."  I am really good at making believe it is.

While us sentimental moms stood around, filled with pride at the lack of diapers amongst our crew and overcome by our kids'  ability to now reach once unreachable countertops, the children lived in their own moments.   Their chins dripping with watermelon juice, they debated who's turn it was to vroom the toy train.  They wondered if someone could read them their favorite book.  They burst open the doors to the playground anxious to be first on the teeter-totter.  They served imaginary ice cream.

When you are newly three, there is no reminiscing and there is no future expectation.  There is simply now.  He won't remember this chapter of his life.  The memory of this year is mine.   And while I feel my heart swell with end of school nostalgia, my son milks pretend cows and lives within his grandiose plans to be a farmer who makes ice cream. 

I forgot my camera today and was beating myself up about it - "NO pictures of the last day of his first year of preschool?!  What kind of a Mother am I?!  And I forgot to shave my legs!"  My thoughts were interrupted - "Mommy, the cows have no more milk.  We are out of ice cream.  Here is a cup of chocolate sauce."  There he is again - living in the moment.  "Now really," I had to admit to myself, "what good would my camera do me?  In 10 years, I'd skim over the photo of the cracked pink cup filled with sticks, never recalling that it was this decadent chocolate sauce treat that I should win an Oscar for enjoying so much."   

Motherhood and the Passage of Time are at odds with one and other.  The quest to relish the moment, perhaps prevents us from living it.  The fear that this moment too shall pass, interrupts us from enjoying it.  Comparing his waddle from the start of the year to his current manly strut, wastes this occasion to savor chocolate syrup.

I'm glad I forgot my camera.  And I'm glad the cows ran out of milk.  I took a break from my own schmaltzy wistfulness and relished every chocolate drop of the last day of my second son's first year of preschool.

And now, I've written it down, so in those failing flashes when I am far from living in the moment, too sad that there are no more babies living in my house, I can read this and remember the ice cream man.

The Art of Snuggling

When the air's a few degrees cooler than chilly

The sky, a silk foggy gray ...

When your toes are wishing for pink fuzzy socks

And your eyelids are heavy midday ...

That's when you seek out your baby;

Your toddler, your daughter, your son. 

Warm up to a short, cushy body

And breathe 'cause the magic's begun.

You'll find in the crook of her elbow

Or under the curve of his chin

A smell of fresh cookies or lemon sorbet

Or beaches mixed up with his skin.

Right behind one of her earlobes

Or in the whiff of his hair

Is the answer to all of your worries

So relax, snuggle up in your chair.

Maybe you should grab a blanket.

Or a piece of warm coffee cake.

A book about some sort of wizard.

Or a ratty, torn stuffed, spotted snake.

Whatever your prop for the nuzzle

Make sure your dog's right nearby.

He'll want a few pats in the process

Some scratches you can't deny.

Take off all of your jewelry.

Your collarbone must be exposed.

Open your arms to a soft curly head

Then keep both your eyes tightly closed.

Hum a soft little ditty.

Something your mother sang you.

Brush his cheek with the back of your hand.

Give a bunny nose kiss or two.

This is the perfect snuggle.

The parent and child like a glove.

Do not move 'til he wriggles.

Cling to rainy day, tangible love.

In Flight

"Mom, that woman is talking about Charlie."

We are standing at Delta baggage claim.  Standing?  Reeling.  We are reeling at the Delta baggage claim.  In the muddied reflection of the steel luggage conveyor belt, I notice mascara stains the bags under my eyes.  My diabetic dog (God, I love him) is whining from his travel case, anxious to be released into the madness of Newark International airport.  "Watch your fingers!" I hear a stranger demand of our tiny Houdini who has climbed precariously up onto some sort of airport cart that he's pretending is his fishing boat.   In case you're wondering, in this moment, our older son is thirsty.  I know this because he has told me every 30-60 seconds for the last 45 minutes. 

"Who's talking about Charlie?" I ask defensively.  Almost seven now, our eldest knows better than to point.  So instead he does an elaborate head tilt that equates to pointing with a huge foam rubber finger.  "HER" he stage whispers.

Before I crane my neck to see, I know who it's going to be.  It'll be that woman wearing foundation two shades too dark for her skin.  That woman with bangs that haven't uncurled since 1987.  That woman who has perfected the "Tsk" sound.   She uses the "Tsk" sound to scold mothers on airplanes.  She is irritated because she was SO into that article about Prince Harry's blazer collection that she just couldn't stand being interrupted by a little child screaming.  She has assumed the child is a brat.  An obnoxious, ill bred toddler who screams because he can.  She's figured the parents are assholes.  Solely responsible for her unpleasant one hour and 47 minutes. 

I hear her.  "...and they didn't shut him up!  They just sat there, holding him, doing nothing.  Tsk-Tsk-Tsk."

Doing nothing.  

"Listen Lady,"  I want to say.  "When your baby is suddenly awoken from a long overdue nap on an airplane because the captain has decided to tell a joke over the loud speaker, come and find me.  When, during the descent, he begins to scream in pain because it feels like his "ears are popping out of his brains" come and find me.  When he is sobbing "make it stop" and squeezing his hands to his ears so tight that you yourself begin to sweat through your clothes, come and find me.  After you've "done nothing" by pulling out all 32 special toys, books, games, duckies, snacks, juice boxes, and lollipops you've premeditatedly brought on board for just this circumstance, I want to talk to you. When your hugs and kisses have stopped working, and your child has inadvertently unhooked your bra,  I want to "Tsk-Tsk-Tsk" in your face. " 

How I would love to be the kind of gal who could come up with an Aaron Sorkin monologue on the spot. 

Instead, as  the lady with neon blue eyeliner continued to regale her friend with tales of "the screaming kid" on her flight, I looked over at my husband.  He was pretending to be the captain of Charlie's boat.  Charlie's ears didn't hurt anymore and he was reeling in a very big "Holy Mackeral" off the side of the airport cart.  My older son had found his oasis in a barely functioning water fountain by the car rental sign and was lapping it up Newark style.   I took the dog out of his carrier.  He shook himself out and flashed me a smile.

I turned to find that woman.  She was gone.  I'm sure she's somewhere tanning right now.  But where ever she is, poor thing, she's not with Charlie anymore.   Lucky me, my little fisherman is downstairs sleeping.

GUEST BLOG - Confessions of the Inflated Kind - By Heather Chaet

“Mama, where is it?” She stands in the doorway of the kitchen, I believe with her hands on her hips. Her tone? A touch too accusatory for my taste.

I sigh. Because I know. I know what she is talking about, and she knows I know. I always know. I know what today’s “it” is, just as I knew what last week’s “that thing” was and yesterday’s “what we had that one time with Catty and the tinker toy jet pack.” I know because I am Mom and, at some point, during my days of labor, I was infused the power to know by the Goddesses of Motherhood.

(Minor side note: She built that jet pack for her stuffed cat back on February 19, and she’s talking about the yellow large binder clip used to hold Catty’s dress – yes, our stuffed cats have dresses -- to the orange sticks. And I also know where that binder clip has been residing for four months. It is in the cubby on the left corner behind the mini cube with floating plastic frogs, er, coquis that says “From Puerto Rico” in black scrawl her dad bought her. Oh, you betcha, I know.)

And today, the “it” she is referring to, with that tone, is a sore spot for me. She got it at a birthday party. She played with it all day yesterday. It is a mouse in a spaceship made out of one pink, contorted balloon. Four folded, twisted bits with a longish end. I don’t really think it resembles any sort of rodent in any sort of mode of transportation, but that’s what the magician-clown hybrid entertainer told her it was. It actually looks rather phallic, but I’m not going there….more for another musing later, I’m sure.

“Did you throw it away? Was it saggy already?” she asks, now hopping up and down.

“No, I didn’t. It’s not. It’s over by the bench where the shoes are.”

“Good! Don’t throw it away, please…until it’s saggy…then you can, okay?” She instructs.

“Deal,” I say, watching her scurry off to find the it in question

She remembers the fate of balloons past. She knows what this one will eventually become saggy, as she said. Deflated, of course, is another word for it. Balloons in our house become deflated faster than most. She is not aware of this fact. She just believes balloons have about a day of good play in them before they start to droop. What she doesn’t know is balloons in our house are, well, encouraged to droop at a faster pace.

With a little poke.

By a needle.

In my hand.

Fine. I hereby confess that I put holes in my kid’s balloons. With pleasure. And without her knowledge.

You see, I don’t like balloons. Let me rephrase: I hate balloons. They’re #3 in the list of “Kid Things Of Which I Am Not A Fan.” Why? For most others in the anti-balloon faction, they hate the pop, that startling pop that makes them jump.

Not me. I relish the pop, because it means I can then get rid of it without hassle or explanation and avoid covert balloon assignation missions.

For me, the balloon comes with many (somewhat irrational) hazards: choking on burst balloon bits, the string getting wrapped too tightly around extremities, the crazy static hair that doesn’t seem to calm down after two hours. After every birthday party, after a stop to Harry’s Shoes, or a trip for trim at Cozy’s Cuts, balloons are toted into the abode. These latex orbs hover and move on their own. They drift and meander from room to room.

And they freak me out.

“Look, it isn’t saggy yet!” She pops back into the kitchen and holds it up for me to see.

“Great, babe,” I smile…and think about where I placed that sewing kit.

(One brief addendum: you may be wondering what is #1 on the list of “Kid Things Of Which I Am Not A Fan.”? The noise that the Styrofoam toy encasement makes when you slide it out of the box. And #2? Battery-powered stuffed animals that move and meow at 2 a.m. and scare the besheeite out of me.)  

Heather is not winning Mother of the Year. Ever. One of her worst mommy moments: telling her daughter she wasn't allowed to play in the sandbox at the park because "Mama is allergic to the sand." All due to her own anxiety about what each turn of that plastic shovel may unearth. Heather documents those moments of motherhood, the little successes and the epic fails for CafeMom.com and New York Family. Check her out on www.heatherchaet.com, and pretty please follow her on Twitter (@heatherchaet).