Weighing In

“What happened to your neck?” my friend asked. “Did a vampire bite you?” She was referencing the embarrassing itchy rash on my neck that was looking worse instead of better.

“Ha, ha,” I said, casually pulling my unusually fluffy hair down around my neck. “I think it’s poison ivy, but it’s not going away.”

She smiled. “So, that’s why your hair is so big today.”

That’s the bad thing about good friends. Nothing gets past them.

After about two weeks of treating my “poison ivy” with everything available in aisle 8 of my friendly local pharmacy, I finally broke down and took myself to the doctor. Actually, it was the Urgent Care center, because my doctor had retired from practice and I just never got around to finding another.

“You have shingles,” the Urgent Care doctor announced.

Shingles. My first thought went to skeletal, mangy pirates dying from unsanitary conditions and poor nutrition and I was momentarily horrified. Then I realized I was thinking about scurvy, which is thankfully very different from shingles. “So, what exactly is shingles?” I asked the doctor.

“It’s basically the same virus that causes chicken pox and is usually brought on by stress to the immune system,” he said matter-of-factly. Well, that was a relief. No parasites crawling around under my skin or vampires biting me in my sleep. And stress would certainly explain it. With my husband and myself both in school and three kids at home, I was averaging 4-5 hours of sleep a night and running at a breakneck pace constantly. Stress to the immune system sounded pretty accurate. So the kind doctor sent me home with nothing to be done about my rash but wait it out and wear big hair for a couple more weeks. He also referred me to a doctor with whom he wanted me to establish myself and said he would be calling me to set up an appointment with them. I was a medical orphan no longer.

Three weeks later I went to meet my new adoptive doctor. The receptionist called me the day before to remind me about my appointment at 9:10 a.m., and also reminded me to come half an hour early to fill out my new patient paperwork, which would mean I would have to be there at 8:40. So, at 8:45 the day of, I was rushing around the house in a panic, looking for steps to my morning ritual I could cut out to make me less late than I already was. As I was dashing out the door, I realized I had forgotten to make coffee. Coffee…the most treasured and sacred part of my day. How did I even manage to get my shoes on the right feet without coffee? How did I manage to put one foot in front of the other and walk myself to the front door with my keys in hand? By what miracle was I able to stand upright and not fall over unconscious? I turned back to the kitchen and, for a brief second, contemplated taking the extra six and a half minutes to brew a cup. Was it more responsible to try to keep my lateness to a minimum or to consider the safety of other people on the road by not allowing myself to drive in a non-caffeinated state? Guilty conscience won out and I rushed, coffee-less, out the door.

Needless to say, I made it to the doctor’s office in 5 minutes and 47 seconds with 20 minutes to fill out paperwork. I was probably more than a little smug when I filled out the paperwork in 10 and set down to wait for my name to be called. I mean, here I was, showered, hair fixed, makeup on and looking not too shabby for a woman running late and I filled out their stinking paperwork in record time. But this was all part of my plan. The makeup and hair would come in handy when I needed a self-esteem boost after having to be weighed. Yes, weighed. I knew it was coming. They could have poked me with a needle the size of a turkey baster and I would have been fine. I would have even been okay with a little unnecessary outpatient surgery. But make me step on the scale? I was sure the Hippocratic Oath said something about keeping patients from harm and injustice. Weighing me against my will seemed the most unjust atrocity a doctor could commit. It was right up there with harvesting organs and overcharging for Tylenol. Perhaps I could put together a malpractice suit.

I picked up the only remaining magazine on the side table next to me and began to peruse. One by one the other patients waiting in the lobby began to be called back while more people began to come in and take their seats. After about 20 minutes of waiting, I started to notice people being called back who had come in after me. I wasn’t too terribly concerned, but my magazine had run out long ago and the only other magazine available was AARP. So I sat and stared out the window and watched people in the parking lot. That riveting experience lasted for another 30 minutes before I finally decided I should say something. The people running the show obviously didn’t realize they were dealing with an addict; an addict who hadn’t had their fix. I mean, I didn’t selflessly sacrifice my morning cup of coffee in consideration for their schedule just so I could sit there surrounded by sick people reading an old issue of Better Homes and Gardens and watching the grass grow out the big picture window for the better part of an hour, just so they could take my blood pressure and make me step on their god-forsaken scale!! WHAT KIND OF A RINKY-DINK QUACK KEEPS HIS PATIENTS WAITING LIKE THAT????!!!!!

So, at 9:50, I took a deep breath and swallowed the caffeine withdrawal that was clawing its way up my throat and made my way calmly to the reception desk.

“Excuse me,” I said, oh-so-sweetly, “my appointment was at 9:10 and I still haven’t been called back. Could you please double check the time for me?”

The tiny little receptionist, who had probably never had a phobia of scales in her life, tapped on her computer keyboard and then turned to me with a smile. “Oh, your appointment was at 9:40. We wanted you here at 9:10 to fill out paperwork.” Then adding salt to the wound, she said, “Your name is next on the list to be called.”

“Oh,” I replied, digging my white-knuckled fingernails into the soft wood of the reception desk.
“Thank you.” I turned and walked back to my seat in front of the window, feeling very perturbed and humbled at the same time. I should really try to pay more attention to those reminder phone calls.

Soon after, my name was called and I shuffled toward the nurse with the clipboard who was holding open the door for me. She was smiling, too. “How are you today,” she asked cheerfully.

I’m ready to tear your frickin’ head off and throw up on your sensible shoes, I thought. “I’m good, thanks,” I said, equally as cheerful. Then I wondered how much less I would weigh if I really did throw up.

“Just set your purse down here and step up on this for me,” the nurse instructed, motioning to the chair and the new, digital scale.

Here it was: my moment of truth. I obediently sat my purse and heavy sweater on the chair, thinking perhaps I should take off my shoes, too. I mean, they had kind of chunky heels. They were thick wedges, actually. The soles were probably pretty heavy. My jeans were heavy, too - kind of new, not soft and worn out. You know, after they’re washed a lot there are fewer fabric fibers and they weigh less, but these had only been washed less than 20 times, probably. Then the thought of standing barefoot in my underwear brought me back to reality and I closed my eyes and stepped on the scale, fully clothed. The last time I remembered getting weighed at the doctor, it was one of those older scales with the slides the nurses move until they’re level. I could stare straight over them and not really read the numbers and let the nurse scribble on her clipboard in complete and blissful ignorance of what it said. However, this scale had the new digital screen, displaying the magic number in very large, very red high definition digital brilliance. I’m pretty sure the patients down the hall could see it. In order to ignore it, I had to close my eyes. Now, in a moment of dumb curiosity I had weighed myself at my sister’s house the year before. I had a general idea of what I weighed. And suddenly, before I knew it, yet another moment of dumb curiosity had seized me and I caught myself peeking. I am not a math person, but it doesn’t take a scale-phobic mind long to calculate when pounds are involved and I deduced very quickly that this scale must be broken. According to the new-fangled digi-wonder scale I had gained eleven pounds since I last checked at my sister’s house. Eleven pounds in approximately as many months.

“Okay, right this way,” the smiling nurse said, looking up from her clipboard and directing me to the room where I would have the privilege of waiting some more. I followed her inside and sat down, numb with the effects of the scale shock. “The doctor will be with you shortly,” she left me pleasantly and closed the door with a soft click. I was alone. My caffeine withdrawal combined with the trauma of the weigh in suddenly came crashing down on me like a ton of bricks and my eyes started tingling with the promise of tears. Great, I thought. This is just great. Why don’t I just start crying here and now so when the doctor comes in he can not only see my new 11 pounds but he can just go ahead and declare me clinically insane? I am a grown woman, for crying out loud! What is wrong with me?!

I blinked quickly and took a couple of deep breaths, scolding myself for being such a girl and tried to suck it up. After all, I had been under a lot of stress and not able to take care of myself properly. And my shoes probably were really heavy.

The doctor came in just as I pulled it together and he looked at my neck, which had been healing up nicely. He made jokes and we engaged in some polite doctor/patient banter and he suggested I make another appointment for a full physical sometime within the next six months. You know, since I am technically his patient and all. So I agreed to make the appointment and made a mental note to eat nothing but bread crumbs and Diet Coke in the meantime so my next encounter with the scale would be better. We shook hands and I headed to the check out desk where I stood in line to make my future appointment. As I stood there contemplating a fabulous diet and exercise plan that was sure to fail I happened to notice the woman in line in front of me. She was not a small woman and her jeans were very…uh…snug. I also noticed that on her backside, just next to the right back pocket, was a slit about two inches long that was stretched and gaping wide open, exposing pinkish-white flesh. I did a double take, thinking surely she just had on a pair of nice, flesh-colored underwear. But further observation told me she was either wearing a thong or going commando because it was not white cotton shining out of the hole.

I’ll admit, I did stare for a moment, because…well, I don’t really know why.

My initial reaction, after the shock wore off, was to tell her. It is an unspoken girl rule to always tell another woman when she has lipstick on her teeth or mascara smeared under her eyes. This would probably fall under the same category. But really, what could she do about it? She couldn’t reach back there and wipe it away with a moist towelette . She didn’t have a jacket or sweater to wrap around her waist. She would have been horrified and embarrassed and have left the doctor’s office a mess, probably drawing more attention to it than if she had walked out oblivious. So I opted to do the woman a favor and stand there quietly, waiting my turn, completely forgetting about my silly eleven pounds. I mean, it could have been worse. I could have been in public in a pair of split pants showing my shiny white butt to the whole world. So, after I made the appointment for a follow-up physical, I went home to make coffee, with lots of sugar and cream, and I might have even had a nice fattening pastry to go along with it.

"Please Come Back to Blogging" was the title of the email. At first glance I thought perhaps a publisher had stumbled across my poor neglected blog and was going to offer me a ridiculously fantasical amount of money if I would only grace the blogging world with my uber-important cyber-presence. Acclaim. Recognition. Fame.

But no.

It was my best friend, which in terms of publishing, translates to something equivalent to my mother. She loves everything I do.

"And I'm following you," she wrote. "See? You already have 1 follower."

There you have it, folks. I'm on my way.

(And since she is a follower - my one and only- I will be sure to catch it when she reads that I equate her compliments to that of my mom.)


Not that she's not important. Not that I don't appreciate her admiration. Not that I don't absolutely respect and value her feedback, but I've tried coming back to blogging. It didn't work. I think the date of my last post can attest to that. And so I asked her, "How?"


"Like this," she replied. "You think of something that happened throughout the day...and just share your thoughts about it. It doesn't have to be spectacular. It doesn't have to be funny. It just has to be YOU."

She makes it sound so easy.

So, here is my attempt at being me...again.

I got a phone call the other day from my youngest child's teacher. She said my Baby - sweet, luscious, crazy adorable Baby - was having a really bad day at school. She said she wasn't listening. And when she tried to correct her, Baby said sometimes her brain just can't listen.

Granted, Baby is in Pre-K. It is her first year at school and she is a rather...ahem...energetic child. But I've never had a teacher call about one of my children. What did this mean?? What was I supposed to do?? Is it a sign of things to come? Was this phone call from the Pre-K teacher the first in a series of many troubling phone calls? Who would be next? The principal? The FBI? The (gasp!) video-rental store???

"Yes, Ms. Supermom, this is a courtesy call from Blockbuster. Baby rented "Dora Saves the Mermaids" twenty-one years ago and failed to return it. You are responsible for the ten gajillion dollars in late fees on this account. Please pay the fees as soon as possible or we will have to revoke your membership. If she had only listened to her Pre-K teacher..."

You see where this is going, right?

And you should probably know that this wasn't Baby's first reprimand for her inability to "listen". When little Pre-K-ers have a good day at school, the teacher draws in a happy face for that day on the calendar in their bright yellow folders. About every other week Baby comes home with a note in her little folder and a straight line face. You know, that face in between frowny and smiley that somehow doesn't feel quite as merciful as I am sure the teacher intends it to be. It seems to be gritting it's teeth behind that straight line mouth, saying, "Your kid is driving me CRAZY. Do something!"

So, now the teacher has resorted to a phone call. This is serious.

I listened to her explaining Baby's offense to me and my mind was racing for the appropriate response. While I can fully appreciate her position - because, after all, I do live with the child - and I want to give the teacher my whole-hearted support, I had never been faced with this particular set of circumstances before. Was I supposed to go to the school and march her home for the beating of her life, or should I apologize profusely over the phone and promise to throw all of Baby's toys out in the street? Neither one of those seemed quite right. Fortunately, the teacher let me off the hook.

"Baby's standing right here. Would you like to talk to her?"

"Yes, please." A long silence. "Hello?" I ask the silence.

"Hello," replied the tiniest voice ever.

"Honey, what's the problem?"

Baby then went into a long explanation, most of which I didn't understand because she was obviously very emotional and trying hard not to show it. From what I could gather, I believe it had something to do with singing during rest time.

I already knew the answer to the question, but I asked her anyway, "Baby, do you like going to school?"

"Uh-huh."

"Do you want me to come get you and bring you home?"

"No."

"Then you need to listen and act like a big kid." And then I went into the speech about it not being fair to the teacher or the other kids when teacher has to stop class to get on to her, blah, blah, blah. And I felt the need to tack on the obligatory parental statement of confirmation, just to say I did my part: "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

When I heard her sad, little voice and the shame she felt for letting me and her teacher and her classmates down, all I wanted to do was rush over, pick her up and hold her until Pre-K was over. "Baby," I said, wanting to cry myself, "you are a good girl. Mommy loves you so much."

"I love you, too."

And then she put the teacher back on the phone. I thanked the teacher for her patience and asked her to keep me posted. And I spend the rest of the day worrying, not about Baby's behavior, but about her feelings. Baby is the most expressive, most sensitive, most lovable child I've ever known. Yet in her excitement, she can be maddening. Not that she doesn't care about what you're saying, she just loves life, and at times, does not want to be interrupted by duty or obligation. It's not that she wanted to disrupt rest time, or take anything away from her teacher, she just loves to sing. Maybe, from the outside, it looks like I am dismissing a behavior problem. And in truth, maybe I am. But isn't it good, for everyone, to have someone in your corner? To be loved not for what you do or how you behave, but because someone out there gets you, and is willing to look beyond to the heart of what you're all about?

Kinda like my mom, or my best friend, who love what I write, even if it's not necessarily Pulitzer winning material.

When Baby came home that day, she said she had a surprise for me. She handed me her yellow folder, and when I opened it to the calendar, she had a bright orange smiley face for the day. After I gave her the squeeziest hug ever and kissed her bubble gum cheeks, she ran off singing at the top of her lungs.

Music to my ears.

The Problem With Princesses

I'll tell you a secret. I've always wanted to dress up like a princess. As a child I wore dresses to play outside in the dirt. And when all my friends were buying Guess jeans in middle school, I still preferred a skirt. Then there were formals and proms and the ultimate...my wedding. I chose puffy sleeves and skirts with lace and roses and all the romantic touches so important to my inner princess. But alas, I grew up, and this new, less romantic, less idealistic person rejects anything even remotely resembling a ruffle. (Ruffles, you know, accentuate all those things I am now busy trying to hide.)

Though my days of ball gowns are over, my inner princess resurfaces now and then, but only when an occasion arises that merits her highness enforcing her monarchical rule. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I have two girls who inherited the same princess gene. When my youngest wanted a Sleeping Beauty dress for Christmas, I was giddy with excitement. Truth be told, I may have even planted the idea in her unsuspecting little head. How would you like to have a fluffy, pink, Sleeping Beauty princess dress for Christmas? Would you? Huh? Huh? It was the epitome of selfish, vicarious acts, I know. But it worked. And we placed an online order for the dress, the sparkling tiara and bejeweled shoes, all matching in shades of gold and pink. After all, when the inner princess speaks, it is within your best interest to obey. My little one's joy on Christmas morning almost matched mine as she paraded around in her royal accoutre. She was a confection.


Then, of course, a few weeks after Christmas, I discovered the Sleeping Beauty costume and all it's glittery accessories on sale at the mall. As I was checking out the discounted price tags and feeling kind of sick about the money we narrowly missed saving, I noticed the pink brocade Sleeping Beauty shoes seemed different than the shoes we received from the online Disney Store. These shoes before me were bejeweled, with large pink plastic gems to delight the eye of every potential princess aged 1 to 101. I remembered then that the online photo showed the same shoes, but the shoes we actually got were absent of jewels. Not only did I pay full price for the shoes, but I didn't get what I ordered. The inner princess was not happy. What good are simple pink brocade slippers with a glittery heel when there are jewels to be had?! Off with their heads!
That evening I went home and sent a short and sweet email to the good folks at DisneyStore.com. It simply said:

"In early December I ordered the Deluxe Sleeping Beauty costume for my daughter, along with the tiara and shoes. However, the shoes pictured online have jewels while the shoes I received do not. Why?"

Two days later I received a generic email from Guest Services asking for my name, order number and item number of the shoes. Alas, I did not save the order number, because that would require thought and foresight on my part. I had blindly put my trust in Disney, not even recognizing the mistake until weeks later, after my daughter had practically worn them out. Does that sound like someone who saves order numbers to you? So I sent them back another email with my name and the item number, letting them know that I did not save the order number. The very next day, I received this super chipper email from the UberDisney Store employee, Joe, who is so very happy to help, I wonder if he has had too much Pixie Dust:

"Thanks for the email and the chance to help!
I was so pleased to hear from you and would be happy to assist you in resolving your concern. Regrettably, I will need additional information in order to do so. At your earliest convenience, please send your full name, address, telephone number and online order number. We will review your order and will get back with you as quickly as possible.
Please include any other emails you may have concerning this issue, so we will have a full understanding of your concern.
We look forward to hearing from you again very soon!
Have A magical Day!!
Sincerely,
Joe"

I'm not sure I've ever had anyone thank me for the chance to help me, and especially not with an exclamation point. I didn't know if I should feel honored or creeped out. Yet the inner princess was pleased with his posturing, even if he did ask for the flippin' order number again . I replied to Joe to let him know that the order number was still an enigma floating somewhere in cyberspace and happily supplied him with the remaining information.

One hour and fifteen minutes later, I got a reply. On the dot. Joe had passed the request to his friend, or possibly twin sister, Jessica, who was equally enthusiastic and exclamation point happy. Jessica thanked me for allowing her to bring more magic to my experience and apologized profusely for my inconvenience. Without question, without hesitation, Jessica offered to send us a brand new pair of shoes free of charge and no need to return the jewel-less shoes.

I'll be honest. I wasn't expecting that kind of painless service. I expected her royal highness would have to make an appearance and throw around her weight a little bit (which is quite a lot at this time in her life) and probably still not have resolution because I didn't keep the order number. But, the Wonder Twins, Joe and Jessica, came through for me, exceeding all my expectations.

How do you suppose that makes me feel?

Like a princess.

Changing of the Guard

Today I left my children.

I left them for nearly seven hours. And from the looks of things, I will leave them five days a week for the next ten months. I left them at a school.

Of course this doesn't sound so dramatic if you don't know I have homeschooled them for five years and neither of them - ages nine and six - have ever been to school before.

After a harrowing school year here at home last year while trying to juggle mine and hubby's continuing educations and the kids' educations and hubby's job and all the other stuff life has to offer, we made a decision to send the kids to school on a two-year plan. In the span of that two years I would return full-time to finish my degree. At the end of that two years my oldest would be ready to start middle school and my youngest - age three now - would be ready for Kindergarten. The perfect time for reevaluation.

Much struggle came with that decision, but in the end we did feel it was the right one. So in May, the plan was made. As long as that plan stayed looming in the future, it was easy to live with. Kind of like that long distance relative you send a Christmas card to but never really want to invite over to stay for the holidays. It was great in theory.

I started feeling some nerves about its impending approach last week, waking up in the middle of the night in a panic, sometimes not able to go back to sleep. However, I was holding up pretty well. Surprisingly well. I was able to talk about it without getting emotional even though everyone else seemed ready for me to break down at any given minute. Friends called and emailed me, poised to step in and pick up the pieces, but the pieces never fell. I even managed to make it through enrollment and school supply shopping without even a hint of drama.

But it was very surprising - nay, freaky - that this morning while I walked them to their classrooms in their tidy uniforms and bulging backpacks, I didn't even feel a lump in my throat. I even worried a bit at my lack of emotion.

But see, that's the great thing about denial. I never really believed I would be leaving them. I never really believed the day would come.

It was only after I kissed my daughter's soft cheek and began taking those first steps away from her to the double doors that would separate us did I come to feel what had been hiding beneath all along. I taught them their letter sounds. I showed them how to put them together to form words. I made paper solar systems and peanut butter playdough. I was there for every lightbulb moment to see the spark of discovery ignited.

For the first time in their lives, I had made a commitment to turn those moments over to someone else.

My steps became quicker and more frantic as I raced against the tears I could no longer control. When I arrived at the van, hubby had the tissue box ready. He knew it had to come. Not sure why I didn't. Walking out of that school and coming home without them was...wrong. Leaving them there without knowing what they were doing for seven hours with people they didn't know...it was wrong.

Even though I know it was right.

I have applied makeup twice today in the hopes of fooling my face into feeling good. But it has only been washed away.

I miss them.

The picture above was taken just before I walked them into the building. I would like to tell you that they are indeed crying at the prospect of being apart from me, but the truth is that the sun was in their eyes. I would have taken another picture, but they were in a hurry. Sniffle.

Chasing Lovely

"Oh my god, did you see that woman in the gingham swimsuit?" My friend and I are sitting in the kiddie pool at the water park watching our little ones. What started out as a conversation about suits we like has become a critique of the bodies filling the swimsuits and I am becoming uncomfortable. She is three months pregnant and looks more svelte than I. I suck in my stomach a little to try to shrink the roll around my middle and simply say, "Yeah, I don't really like that suit." A woman in what looks like a knee-length sundress made of Lycra swimsuit fabric crosses our line of vision. "Now that I like," I quip, pointing her direction. "Lots of coverage. I wonder if it comes in floor length...with long sleeves...and a turtle neck." She laughs at my obvious self-deprecating joke and the conversation takes a turn elsewhere.



I am not a small girl. In fact, one could argue that, on the cusp of my 35th birthday, I am not a girl at all. But since I am being frank about the matter of size, I should be allowed the kindness of lying to myself about my age. So, let's pretend I am a "girl". The truth is, I have never been small. Not even at my smallest have I been considered small by our freakishly waif-obsessed society. And now, let's just say I am not at my smallest. I spent the first seven years of motherhood hiding somewhere on the fringe of the confident-in-a-swimsuit crowd, never getting in the pool, sometimes donning shorts and a T-shirt if necessity required. I mean, I didn't even think about a swimsuit. But somewhere along the way, I grew some wisdom with my gray hairs and I finally decided I wasn't going to let my insecurities ruin the fun I could be having, especially with my children. So when it came time to suit up last year, I actually shopped for a swimsuit. I bought the cutest suit I could find - sort of conservative with a little bit of sexy - and jumped in. This year, I didn't even flinch. At times I've even felt myself feeling - dare I say it? - confident. Dimply thighs and all. After all, who is anyone else to tell me I can't be beautiful the way I am? For crying out loud, it's the kiddie pool, not Miss America.



So, back to the kiddie pool. My friend begins telling me about a conversation between her and a mutual acquaintance. This particular acquaintance - I will call her Marni - has been divorced for several years and was sharing with my friend about how much she would love to be married again. "Of course I didn't say this to her," she says, "but I was thinking that if she really wanted to, she could do something to make herself more...well, you know...fix herself up a little."



I feel a hot flash completely unrelated to the summer heat rise up the base of my neck to my ears and pound inside my head. I hold back the anger that is my initial response. I am pretty sure I know what she means, but I ask anyway, innocuously. "What do you mean?"



"Well, she just dresses so old and looks much older than she really is. She could change some of that if she really wanted to meet someone."



I ponder for a split second that perhaps I should just sit in silence or make a joke that might distract her again, but the words are coming out of my mouth before I can even think about what I really want to say. "Well, that's where I just feel like she should probably wait for someone who loves her the way she is."



"Yeah, but even you fix your hair and makeup before you go out with your husband."



Then my little one needed a minor rescue and the conversation was left dangling. But it ate at me the rest of the day and into the next. She was right. I do spend extra time on my appearance when I go out with my husband. But that somehow seemed unrelated to undergoing a makeover to land a man.



And I left there feeling as if there were whispering going on behind my back. You know, that Supermom would be so pretty if she just lost some weight. Look at her thighs!

Why this preoccupation with appearance?

I want to say that any effort I put into the way I look is just for my own sense of self esteem and has nothing to do with anyone else.

But I can't.

Ultimately, I want to be admired, by my husband and yes, by others.

I'm not saying that is necessarily bad. I believe we were created to work that way. It is called Survival of the Species.

But why is there still this association that beautiful equals good? I read an article once that went so far as to say pretty babies get better care from their mothers. I have no personal experience on which to base this because all my babies were heart-stoppingly, breathtakingly beautiful, therefore I cannot compare. But isn't that what every mother thinks? Don't all moms think their babies are the most beautiful creatures to grace the planet? What happened to beauty being in the eye of the beholder? Are pretty babies easier to love?

We want to see beauty that holds no weakness or flaws. We would rather look upon the taut mom in the bikini rather than the soft, bulging stomach in the gingham swimsuit. Why? Because that woman has a weakness she cannot hide, a struggle manifested in her ample body. And her weakness makes her bad. I actually heard a preacher from the pulpit talk about keeping your weight down so as not to be a stumbling block to others. Of course, I am paraphrasing here, but he said if you were overweight, everyone could tell you obviously wrestled with the sin of gluttony. At the time - fifteen plus years ago - it made perfect sense to me. But then again, I also believed the whole premise of Christianity was to make myself as sinless as possible.

While the mom in the bikini could be a raging alcoholic that beats her children, her beauty is hailed as the standard by which we should all be measured. Because if you look good, you obviously have everything else together, too. And God forbid that you not have everything together. If you care enough about yourself to look good, then you must approach everything else in your life with as much attention to detail. After all, you can't love others until you love yourself, right?

At the risk of sounding completely "After School Special", I believe Marni needs something on the inside more than the out, obviously. However, it seems mean and unfeeling to try to tell her she should be okay with being alone because I am not. I cannot even pretend to know what she is going through. But I certainly will not tell her that the secret to having a lasting, lifelong, intimate relationship with someone is all in buying a new wardrobe.

I find myself at a crossroads. I want to rail against this, but at the same time I perpetuate it. I will shop for clothes that camoflauge my hips and thighs, though there is no hiding them. I will color my hair to disguise the premature gray I have been growing for ten years. I will put my best face forward, yes, to please myself, but moreover because it pleases others. After all, were I on a desert island with no one around to admire me, would I take the same pains "just for me"? Maybe I would. But there is something about knowing what others find attractive that drives my idea of beauty and makes me want to strive for that. Why is it important for me to feel attractive? It means acceptance. In the end, it is still more about society than myself.

However, I am going to the water park today. I am wearing my swimsuit. And if you can't stand the sight, too bad. I'm not hiding anymore.

Phantastic Phourth

So, whadja do on the fourth? Cookout? Fireworks? Sweltering heat? More of the same?

What did I do? Well, nothing much, really. I only sat in an air-conditioned theatre and watched a live performance of the longest running Broadway show in history.

The Phantom of the Opera.

(Cue driving organ theme.)

In the eighth grade I had the soundtrack memorized, never even knowing what the show was or was about. Two years ago when the movie came out, I bought the DVD out of sheer curiosity. It was then that I finally put the music with the story and could fully come to appreciate the hype about Phantom.

On Mother's Day of this year, I received the Mother's Day gift to end all Mother's Day gifts. Tickets to see the show on July 4th, with a dear friend, no less, to spare my husband the, ahem, experience. Independence Day? Celebrate our country's freedom? Screw that. Momma's goin' to see the Phantom.

Walking into the already crowded Performing Arts Center my excitement was bubbling over in the form of schoolgirl giggles. Had I not been surrounded by theatre patrons I would have jumped up and down clapping my hands in child-like glee. It was better than Christmas. Better than blowing out birthday candles. Better than...well, I should be careful. Suffice it to say, I was excited. Silly, sappy, crazy excited.

We found our seats on row N, dead center. That is thirteen small rows from the very front of the stage. And we waited breathlessly. "You know," I said to my friend. "My favorite part in the movie is the beginning, when the chandelier lights up and the organ starts booming out the theme. You think they'll have that in the play?"

"Uh, maybe," she replied, pointing to a large tarp covered mass on the stage. "That might be what's under that sheet that says 'CHANDELIER'."

Hey, how could I possibly be expected to read or spell under such thrilling circumstances?

Soon, the lights dimmed and the MC came out to introduce the show. "...and now I am pleased to present to you, The," Pause. "Phantom," Pause. "of the Opera." Riding high on waves of electric applause and elated expectancy, I found myself getting teary-eyed, a reaction I did not expect. And then we were in the opening scene at the auction. The auctioneer auctioned off the poster, the skulls and the grinding organ monkey music box. Then he came to "lot 666"...the chandelier. He told of the phantom folklore surrounding it and informed the crowd that it had been reworked with electric lights. "Perhaps," he leered, holding up two light switches. "We can scare away the ghost with a little...illumination." He hit the switches and sparks showered the stage with a thundering explosion, ushered in by the simultaneous drive of the eerily familiar pipe organ theme. The chandelier came to life in a blaze of glory. I jumped in my seat, deliciously scared, and for the next two hours and fifteen minutes lost myself. I pouted at the interruption of intermission, wondering how these people could so quickly get up from their seats and walk out for a Coke as if reality had not escaped them. I mean, the masquerade ball was next! Who needs a bathroom break with a masked gala at hand and a killer on the loose?

But it was only fifteen minutes and before long I was at the ball singing "Masquerade" under my breath and crying with Christine in the cemetery. Spellbound.

The end came all too soon and I had to tear myself from my seat to offer a standing ovation to the cast, especially The Phantom. He was brilliant. I clapped so hard my hands stung and my shoulders ached. Could I hide under a seat unnoticed until the next show? Probably not. With leaden feet and an even heavier heart I turned to go, trying to memorize all the beautiful details I knew I could never recall the next day and the last note still ringing in my head. I would have to come back. I resigned myself then and there to be one of those Phantom geeks who have the airbrushed mask and rose on a black license plate on the front bumper of their car. I will have to buy the T-shirt. I will have to drive people insane discussing the wrenching dichotomies and subtle messages within the story, singing the songs throughout my day in ear-splitting operatic falsetto.

As it is written, so shall it be.

I have been obligingly sing-songy ever since. My family LOVES it. Loves, loves, loves it. Really. Yeah, they do.

Wait till I buy the soundtrack.

Alone In My Mind

“Mama, what are these called?” my three-year-old holds up the crunchy cellophane cereal bag, almost as long as she is tall.

I look up from my book – my third in three weeks – and give her a succinctly sufficient answer. “Crisp Rice.” It is a dark, rainy June morning and I have just started reading a new book with perfectly brewed, perfectly sweetened coffee in my bright yellow sunshine coffee cup at the kitchen table. It is a lazy summer Monday that feels like an autumn Saturday. Just me and my book. And those three underage people who live in my house and depend on me somewhat for their existence and livelihood. But other than that, I’ve got the day to myself. I keep reading.

“Mama, I want some cwisp wice,” comes the inevitable response. “In a cup. With a spoon. NO MILK!”

I put my open book pages down on the table to signify that my pause is brief. Bookmarks actually denote a much longer break. Let it be known I am not putting the book down. I am only pausing. I take the bag from her as she holds it up to me. “Really?” and I look at her expectantly.

“Pwease?” Ugh. She’s so cute I could almost forget she has interrupted my pretend day off. She doesn’t play fair.

“Sure, I’d be happy to.” I stand to oblige.

The other two are watching TV in the living room and I had managed to slip by them unnoticed. Apparently my disguise as a mere passer-by looking for coffee and a good read coupled with the distraction of television was effective on them, but this one is cunning. She caught scent of my trail quickly and followed it here to the kitchen table. I’ve been flushed out into the open.

I pour cereal into a small plastic cup and grab a plastic spoon, crunching some as I shove it hastily in. “Here.” I offer it to her and she takes it back to the chair beside mine to eat. She no longer has to climb into the chair the way she did last summer, but simply stands on her tip-toes and finds her bottom level with the seat and slides in.

My book – a memoir – has me riveted from the beginning. I am only ten pages or so in, but I am hooked. Exotic locations. A spiritual journey. And though I am by no means a fan of romance, there is even a bit of that added to the delectable mix. The author is locked in an embrace with a mysterious foreigner and the sexual tension is palpable.

He is about to kiss me, I know it. His breath…Mama…is close and warm. His eyes…Mama…are liquid blue and drawing nearer. I close my eyes…MAMA!

No one can say the girl isn’t persistent. I look up at the third and most exasperated chant of my name. “What?” I ask my dark-headed elf, trying to act as though I hadn’t been ignoring her, lost in a juicy, somewhat seedy, scene. I am, after all, immune to such twaddle. Really.

“I pee pee in my pants,” she answers matter-of-factly, continuing to shovel cereal into her mouth with her plastic blue whale spoon. I sigh and look down to find the chair beneath her dripping into a puddle on the floor, mingled with bits of crisp rice. She is looking at me, chewing noisily, awaiting a response. Her face shrinks a little in mock naivete that works in her favor. Large and crystal blue, she can have anything at all she wants in life with those eyes alone.

“Why?” I ask, knowing full well she will have no good explanation for peeing in the floor, but needing to seem as though she should have one.

Crunch. Crunch. “I dun know.” She abandons her spoon and resorts to eating her cereal with her fingers, one infinitesimal piece at a time.

I could jump up and clean the mess, and probably should, but it is my self-declared day off and I’ve already made her breakfast, for crying out loud. She doesn’t seem bothered, as she hasn’t even broken stride feeding cereal into her hungry little pink mouth and the puddle isn’t going anywhere. I continue to read.

After a few minutes, I cannot help but notice from the corner of my eye some motion that seems unrelated to eating. A glance in her direction tells me she has dumped her cereal from the cup and is crushing crisp rice with her thumb. She then sweeps the crumbs to the floor and repeats the process again, further complicating the situation beneath her chair. I sit and watch her in silence, trying to decide if I should say something to dissuade her from doing it or continue to let her experiment. I mean, she does seem very engrossed and it could quite possibly be one of those rare educational moments of self-discovery that could lead to a breakthrough of historical proportions - Something like Ben Franklin and electricity or Marie Curie and radium. Who am I to interfere with destiny? But I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that a solid and a liquid, once mixed, form…well, sludge, and once they are unified, there can be no separation.

“No, honey, don’t do that,” I say, feeling more than a little irritated with this, the second and slightly more labor-intensive, interruption of my day of leisure. “You are making a bigger mess.” I scoop up the remaining intact cereal and dump it back into the cup, also making a pile of crumbs out of her reach to be left until I am ready to tackle the clean-up process, which is, at the very least, a chapter away. I may even leave it until tomorrow.

She looks at me, again with the eyes, and reaches her hand out to touch a vagabond grain of crisp rice. Never taking her eyes from mine, she pulls that one, tiny grain back to her slowly – oh, so slowly - underneath her index finger. Unblinking, she slides it off the top of the table, holding it there between her finger and the rounded edge. Then, eyes locked onto mine, in true Easy Rider, “stick it to the man”-fashion, she crunches that little grain into oblivion. I sit, speechless. I could not have been more shocked if my sweet, little cherub-faced toddler had jumped up, flipped me the bird and shouted obscenities across her mushed up, milk-less breakfast. She may as well have said, “What the f---, woman?! Step off, b—ch, and let me eat my ceweal in peace!”

We stay frozen in a standoff stare, both of us somewhat bewildered by what just happened. Her look changes from one of defiance to wide-eyed horror of slow realization. It is written somewhere in that book of unbreakable rules for mommies that thou shalt never allow blatant, outright disobedience to go unpunished. And punishment for such behavior should be as painful and unforgettable as said child might endure, like no Dora videos for a week or hiding all the Barbies. And if the mommy of the offending child fails to follow through, she will be sentenced to a lifetime of bratty behavior.

We sit.

We stare.

And somehow, in the end, it’s enough for me today that she appeared to be afraid. All my correcting, directing and objecting will have to wait until tomorrow. Today I am off.

I pick up my book and continue to read.