Photographs

One of my fantasies is that instead of always being behind the camera, I can actually be in an occasional photograph with my kids.

Yesterday, I asked my daughter to take a picture of me and Cameron on his first carousel ride.

Important things to know:
1. The carousel was not moving at the time that the photographs were taken.
2. My daughter was moving at the time that the photographs were taken.
3. My daughter was blessed to have been coached by her two brothers, who are also expert photographers.




All things considered, I am very pleased with the results.

The Arcade

Teachers' Strike: Day 18,000
Weather: pouring rain
Outlook on life: bleak

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Yesterday, I took my children to a mall arcade with the vision that $10 worth of video game tokens would consume an entire afternoon.

In the time that it took me to tie my shoelaces, my boys had used up all of their tokens. They fed every single one into a machine with a motorized claw and a bin of high quality stuffed animals.

The bad news: the planned afternoon entertainment ended 3 hours and 58 minutes early.

The good news: we brought home a creepy teddy bear and an enormous lizard.


Every mother's dream.

Atlantic City

This is Day 6 of the teachers' union strike. In the early morning hours of Day 4, I stumbled upon an advertisement for a steeply discounted hotel room in Atlantic City, New Jersey.

Two hours later, my kids and I hit the road.

Shortly after arriving at the hotel, I began to sense that something was out of place. It took my toddler sticking his arm elbow-deep into a potted plant to realize that that something was us.

"Why are there so many grandmas and grandpas here?" my daughter asked me.

During our stay, we were the only hotel guests who were not foreign tourists or had been bused in from Leisure Village.

The retirees we encountered during our visit fell into two groups: those who crossed themselves and muttered "God Bless" as we passed, and those who wondered out loud what kind of mother would bring small children to a casino...as if casinos aren't family friendly.

If the sight of me with my brood and my cooler full of juice boxes made the other hotel guests nervous, it shouldn't have. We had no interest in the nickel slot machines; we were there for the Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool. Most of the time, we were the only people in the pool area. You can understand then why my kids were a little put out to find a man swimming laps there one morning.

"Look at his flippers!" my daughter said excitedly, pointing at the man's aquatic footwear. All convened at the pool's edge for a closer look.

"Stay away from him," I ordered, drawing an imaginary line down the side of the pool.

Despite having 90% of the pool to themselves, my children were drawn to the swimmer like dolphins to a fishing boat. Even with constant corralling, they still managed to swim closer to him than I would have liked.

Eventually, one of my kids swam into him.

"You're done for a little bit," I said, yanking my son out of the pool by his armpits.

I apologized profusely to the man and offered to buy him a breakfast buffet.

The man declined my offer, fearful that the meal would also include four underage guests.

As it turned out, we did see the man and his wife in the buffet line a few hours later. Everyone was very excited.

"There he is! There he is!" they cried in unison.

I pondered my good luck and eyed the nearest exit.

"Do not.." Before I could finish, my son bounded over to the couple. I closed my eyes and cringed. Tapping the man on the arm, my son smiled and said, "Hi! Do you remember me?"

I'm not a gambling woman, but I'm going to bet that the man did.

The Parable of the Talents

There is a story in The Bible that tells of a man who buried a coin in the ground in order to keep it safe.

Yesterday afternoon, I suggested this as an option for Cortlen's lone remaining sillyband.

Everyone agreed that it was a very good idea.


Sadly, like The New Testament parable, this story did not end well. Ten minutes after burying the plastic bracelet, Cortlen dug it up again. Much to his dismay, the bracelet neither grew nor multiplied during its short tenure in the earth.


Even worse, it was covered with dirt!

Once the sillyband was washed clean and made pure again by the holy waters of the garden hose, everything was fine. Until then, however, it was touch and go.

The moral of this story (I learned the hard way): plastic bracelets are no laughing matter.

Boot Weather

Last week, it finally hit 70 degrees in Philadelphia. As if on cue, my seven-year-old daughter unpacked her snow boots.

The week after Christmas, I bought Camber a pair of furry Eskimo boots. She loved them long enough to rip off all the tags, and then flatly refused to have anything to do with them...until now.

"Can you turn the air conditioning on?" she asked me earlier this week. "I'm kind of hot."

When I suggested that she take off the boots, she went upstairs and exchanged her jeans for a pair of shorts. The boots stayed.

"It's really not snow boot weather anymore," I tried again the next day. I pointed out that everyone else in the family was wearing flip flops.

The following morning she came down to breakfast wearing her Easter dress and the boots.

Since then, I have kept my opinions to myself.

My neighbor told me not to worry. "She'll sweat out of those boots sooner or later," she predicted.

I don't know if I can wait that long. The urge to rip them off her feet is growing stronger by the minute.

The Vintage Frock

My mom passed away from breast cancer when I was in high school so, by default, I inherited the Mother of the Bride role in my siblings' weddings. Next month, my sister Amy is getting married. I've already told her that if I'm going to be the MOB, then I'm going to be a hot one.

"That's entirely unnecessary," she told me.

As I have discovered, finding an appropriate dress for the occasion is not the problem; finding one that meets all of my criteria, however, is. The dress I'm looking for must be skin tight, have sleeves, fall past the knee, and be machine washable. It also must cost less than $30.

"I need to approve anything that you buy," my sister informed me over the phone.

Truth be told, if my sister had it her way, I would not buy a dress at all for her wedding. In an email I received last week, Amy suggested that I instead purchase a "vintage frock."

"Everybody else is doing it," she said, referring to the rest of the wedding party.

"That doesn't make it right," I hissed back. I then felt compelled to remind her that the same group of people watch foreign films on purpose and sometimes forget to shave their armpits.

"Besides," I said, "Wearing another person's clothes kind of creeps me out."

This isn't true, but it served the desired purpose of sending my conservationist sister over the edge.

To prove that my fears are totally unfounded, Amy sent me a photo of a dress currently listed on E-Bay.

"What's wrong with this one?" she asked indignantly.


I rest my case.

Sillybandz Word Problem

You have 12 sillybandz. Right away, you snap one of them in half. You accidentally flick another one at your sister and she snatches it and refuses to give it back. You lose yet another at the grocery store. You give three to your friends at school. Two more get confiscated when your mom catches them in your mouth.

Q: How many sillybandz do you have left?


I have one child who is having extreme difficulty accepting that that number is less than 12.

Turn off the Screen Week!

Yesterday, my kids brought home this piece of paper from school:



In unrelated news, this morning our school district's teacher's union announced that they will be going on strike next week. School will be canceled for up to five days.

Alvin and Friends

Many moons ago, before I had children and freely judged those who did, I vowed that no child of mine would own a portable electronic device until he/she entered high school. Exceptions would be made for children who won the National Spelling Bee or showed exceptional promise in an obscure sport such as archery or badminton.

"There is no reason why a seven-year-old needs an ipod," I have been quoted as saying more than once.

Experience has proven me wrong.


A trio of singing chipmunks will break anybody.

The Breakfast Meat Mixer

While I rarely get invited to real life parties, I do receive more than my fair share of invitations to blogger media events. Up until recently, I have always politely declined offers to attend product launch parties and the like on the grounds that such events require two things that I don't have: 1) interest in new products 2) interest in meeting new people.

I have to admit, however, that one invitation that I recently received lingered a little longer in my inbox than normal: a party to be thrown in honor of a new line of microwavable sausages.

The 'Breakfast Meat Mixer' was to be held in a hotel ballroom in the city.

"Don't do it," my husband begged.

"You have to go!" screeched my sister who lives in Iowa.

The promise of a raffle drawing and a free pound of bacon sealed the deal.

The Breakfast Meat Mixer was attended by 15 bloggers (including myself) who live in the mid-Atlantic region. During introductions, I was inspired by how far some women drove to sample sausage: one blogger was from Trenton, New Jersey; another lived in Delaware.

Along one side of the room was a buffet table filled with hearty delicacies: a tower of sausage links, a plate of pigs in a blanket, an unsightly amount of ham. I piled my plate high and sat down at one of the tables.

The blogger sitting to my left filled a napkin with sausage and put it into her purse. The woman to my right was too busy tweeting about the contents of her plate to notice.

While we were eating dinner, we were treated to a riveting educational video about breakfast meat and its importance to the American family. The film was followed by a rousing motivational speech given by a marketing associate.

"Who likes surprises?" he shouted into the microphone.

The crowd erupted in cheers and wild applause. We all sat on the edge of our seats as the man unveiled a large table covered with Styrofoam coolers.

"Oh! Oh!" gasped the audience. The surprise was nothing that anyone had anticipated. The coolers, as it turned out, were full of meat.

The names of the winners of the packaged meat products were pulled from a hat. The winners descended on their prizes like The Price is Right contestants, shrieking and bouncing and hysterical to the point of tears.

"Yes!" yelled the lucky blogger who won a honey baked ham. She raised it over her head for all to see.

We were all green with envy. To add insult to injury, somehow my name didn't make it into the drawing. At the end, I was the only blogger without a cooler.

Feeling strangely relieved by my good fortune, I crept toward the door and made a stealthy exit. I was almost to the hotel lobby when I heard someone shouting my name from behind. I turned around to find the marketing executive running after me, cooler in hand.

"I found some extra bacon in the back!" he said excitedly.

I thanked him for his generosity and told him that his gesture was really and truly unnecessary.

"You could use it for an upcoming giveaway on your blog," the man suggested.

"I'll get back to you if I'm interested," I said and backed away.

We shook hands and parted ways. As I got into my car, I heard the unmistakable squeal of my bacon being raffled off.

Shaved Legs

My seven-year-old daughter has terrible seasonal allergies. When we woke up this morning to find all of the cars in our neighborhood covered with a thick film of yellow pollen, I cringed.

During the months between March and June, my daughter takes an average of 4-5 showers each day. That, and a handful of prescription medications are the only things that keep the itching and irritation at bay.

"Can I take a shower in your bathroom right now?" she asked after school. Her poor eyes were half swollen shut.

A few minutes later, my daughter emerged from the bathroom dripping in blood.

"What happened?" I screeched, rushing toward her.

My daughter wiped the blood from her legs and looked confused.

"I honestly don't know," she told me, shrugging her shoulders. "I was just shaving my legs, and they started bleeding."

My mouth fell open. For once, I didn't know what to say.

"How many times have you have shaved your legs?" I asked finally.

"Whenever I take a shower in there," she replied, gesturing to the master bathroom.

I bit my lip and tried to smile.

She stuck out her nicked legs for inspection.

"Very nice," I said. "Very nice."

Silly Bandz

Yesterday afternoon, I spent 20 minutes at the Hallmark store waiting in line for something really worthwhile.

A dozen plastic bracelets fashioned into the shape of animals.

"They're not bracelets!" screamed my son. "They're silly bandz!"

Bracelets are for girls. Silly bandz are for everyone.

The non-bracelets are the hot item at my kids' elementary school these days. Based upon my observations at the bus stop, silly bandz are objects that are to be worn, traded, and at some point, put into your mouth.

"If I see you nibbling on those things one more time," warned a mother to her third-grade daughter, "I'm going to take them away."

"Where did you get that gum?" I asked Kellen this morning. "You know you can't chew gum at school."

My son responded by spitting a wad of rubber bands into his palm. Just then, the bus pulled up. He deposited all of the bracelets onto his wrist except for a saliva-drenched giraffe, which he put into my hand.

"You can have that one," he said, running down the street.

His generosity overwhelmed me.

Skinny Jeans

To my total horror, yesterday I discovered (another) patch of gray hair on my scalp. In a frantic attempt to make myself feel better about the process of growing older, I headed straight to Forever 21, a mall clothing store whose name evokes the Fountain of Youth.

I wasn't two steps inside the establishment when I was accosted by a sneering teenager.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a way that implied that I was in a place where I didn't belong.

"I'm looking for something called skinny jeans," I told the girl, with an air of confidence that I didn't know I had.

The teen rolled her eyes. "That's all we carry," she said, and walked away.

Rejoicing, I grabbed one of everything.

Once inside the dressing room, I realized that I had been bamboozled. Skinny jeans are really just uncomfortable leggings.

"These are no good," I told the sales girl, passing a thick stack of pants through the dressing room curtain. Something about the last pair of jeans, however, caught my eye. At the last second, I snatched them back.

"Now we're talking," I said to myself as I slipped the pants on and admired myself in the mirror.

A few minutes later, the sales clerk tapped on the curtain. "Do you need anything?" she asked.

I drew back the curtain and smiled broadly.

The teenager bit her lower lip and shook her head.

"Have you tried Anne Taylor Loft?" she asked me.

She might as well have said 'Coldwater Creek.'

"That's an old lady store," I hissed.

I forgot to mention that all four of my children were in the dressing room with me at the time.

The teenager shrugged her shoulders. "Do what you want," she advised, "But I think you should shop around."

As much as I respected the teen's honesty, on the way home, I started to wish bad things upon her.

Last night, I prayed that when she grows up, she'll have triplets.

The Baby Zoo

Yesterday my kids didn't have school, so I took them to one of Philadelphia's many "quaint" and "unique" zoos.

That's real estate speak for "small" and "weird."

Half of the cages were empty; the other half contained animals that are found in abundance in my own backyard.

"Why would someone pay so much to see a raccoon?" my husband asked me later that night.

That is a good question, one that any mother of young children can readily answer.

The zoo in question is geared toward the preschool, but with a little creativity and a positive attitude, I figured that we'd be okay.

"This place is for babies!" squealed my seven-year-old daughter as I pulled into the parking lot.

"I'm definitely not getting out of the car," one of my six-year-olds stated defiantly. By the time I switched off the ignition, he was already curled into a tight ball on the floor of the back seat.

Twin B had a better idea. "Can we go home yet? Can we go home yet? Can we go home yet?" he asked in quick succession.

I lined them all up against the side of the car.

"For once, this isn't about you," I said. "It's about your little brother," I continued, pointing in the direction of Cameron, who was sound asleep in the stroller.

This earth shattering news was a tough pill for everyone to swallow. My older three spent the next thirty minutes whining, sulking, and accusing me of starving them to death. Whoever didn't succumb to hunger pains was sure to die of embarrassment.

"Look around!" shrieked my daughter. "I am the oldest kid here!"
"That makes us the next oldest kids here!" screamed my boys in unison.

It didn't help that a daycare group crossed our path at that very moment.

Ignoring the collective wailing about ruined and deprived lives, I took Cameron out of the stroller to get a better look at a dead rat being pecked to pieces by a trio of turkey vultures.

For unknown reasons, I felt a deep connection to the rodent.

I watched the gory event for an unreasonably long period of time. When I turned around, I found my twins throwing pebbles into a murky duck pond. My daughter was lying in Cameron's stroller. Fast asleep.

Ah. The irony.

The Big Game

Like most Duke grads, my husband and I have what several (lame-o) ESPN sportswriters call "excessive school pride" (is there such a thing?!!!). Throughout the NCAA tournament, I have kept my enthusiasm to myself.

"I would hardly call painting your fingernails blue and wearing Duke gear every day for the past three weeks low-profile," my neighbor pointed out.

There are haters everywhere.

Including, I am sad to admit, in my own house.

As we learned during last year's tournament, Cortlen is a die-hard Duke fan, unless they are playing a school whose name includes a reference to his favorite body part.


Against better judgment, I'm letting him stay up to watch the game. On one condition.

"One mention of butts," I warned, "and you're gone."

An Easter Miracle

Miracles do happen. Case in point: the son of one of my "Special Moms" is receiving a new heart as we speak. You can follow Mason Strickland's amazing story HERE.

Please say a couple of prayers today: one for the family who lost their little one last night, and one for the entire Strickland family.

Go Mason!

Happy Easter!

Easter Shopping

Last year, my children were far too interested in the contents of their noses to be bothered with the contents of the shopping cart next to them. This general lack of awareness of the world around them, coupled with a strategically placed sweatshirt or purse, enabled me to do my Easter shopping with my kids in tow.

This year, I wrongly assumed that I could pull the same trick.

"What's all that candy for?" Kellen asked as he scaled the side of the shopping cart for a better look.

I put the bags of jelly beans back on the shelf.
"I was hungry," I replied, "But now I'm not."

"Why is there a Barbie under your jacket at the bottom of the shopping cart?" my daughter asked me the next day at Target. Lowering her voice to a whisper she continued, "Are you going to steal it?"

"I thought you hate that stuff," observed Cortlen a minute later, as he watched me examine a bag of plastic Easter grass.

"I do," I answered, shrinking away from the shelf in feigned disgust. "Let's get out of here."

As a result of my failed expeditions, I was forced to do all of my holiday shopping tonight. To my surprise, every retailer in my city was pretty much cleared out of Easter candy, except for the disgusting kinds (ie Starburst jellybeans and malt balls). While I was rummaging around the shelves for a lone Cadbury egg or rogue chocolate bunny, a grocery store employee approached with a cardboard box.

"Yes!" I said to myself as the man opened the container. "More Easter candy!"

I waited patiently as the man unloaded the box and stacked its contents on the shelf. Strangely, the man wouldn't make eye contact with me, even after I hugged him.

Soon, I found out why.
Inside the box were 200 heart-shaped Pez dispensers. Another hundred bore the likeness of Cupid with a bow.

"This is Valentine's Day candy!" I shrieked.

The man shrugged his shoulders. "Take it or leave it," he replied. "It's all we have left in the back."

I left it.

Now I'm having regrets.