i have chi

so there is this styling tool -- a flatiron, really -- called a chi. it is the mercedes of hair styling tools. it is $169. that is about $134 more than i am willing to pay.

two of my friends have them. and their hair always looks styled. different. pretty. not like my normal look -- a windblown bird's nest within an inch of its life. my friend melissa practically begged me to get one. she loaned me hers and all its accompanying hair products. we had what might be called a hair intervention luncheon with two other perfectly coiffed women. don't they know i just don't care?

well, not entirely true. i got a chi. here is me, chi'd:



another, worse shot:



here is how i came to get a chi. melissa called me to tell me she was sticking a $70-off coupon in my son's backpack. so that brings the chi to $100. then, for props, she added a 20% coupon. that's another $20 (off the $100 -- keep up, people). then i realized i had a $40 credit at this particular store. AND, they were having a free chi class.

this can only be called divine intervention.

i could get a chi for only $5 more than i was first willing to pay. plus free instruction. what i hear: someone will play with my hair for free. YES, sign me up. i am THERE.

the chi not only straightens. it curls. it waves. it will sing you all your favorite songs.

this nice lady at the store did my whole head. well, she did half my head, and let me do the other half. then she corrected my half. the chi is very hot. it makes a sizzling fajita sound as it slides through your hair. but i'm not worried. it's got fancy-named stuff that means it does not fry your hair.

and plus, it makes your hair pretty. so who cares what it sounds like. we've got fire extinguishers.

i love chi. it's my new best friend. sorry, melissa -- but you're a very close second.

update: mother love

my mother is coming home friday. home from the hospital, home to my home to fully recoup.

we are thrilled to have her. i will never take a grilled cheese and milkshake for granted again. especially if she is the one making it for me.

it was a harrowing two weeks. but i'll tell you when a turning point came. and i may or may not be half joking.....

it was when she was fully upright and caught sight of her hair in the bathroom mirror.

gad, she said. this -- is a mess.

and i swear, from that point on her recovery came rapidly. my mother is the old-fashioned type who has had a standing appointment at a beauty shop for every saturday of her life. it was one of the conditions of her marrying my father, and quitting her job: her weekly hair appointment must stand.

she takes hair very seriously. several years ago, while driving through niagara falls, i parked and got out to take in the view.

come on, mom, i yelled. LOOK at it!

she may or may not have cracked the window. because it is very misty you know, and women -- we know what mist does to our hair. nothing good.

i can see it fine from here, she called. i remember thinking, you have got to be kidding me. isn't this one of the natural wonders of the world? how often are we going to be driving from boston to toronto? when will we ever be here again?

i am the complete opposite about my hair. people probably wish i would do something with it. oh sure, i can clean up well when i have to. but for the most part, i look like a heavy wind hit me on the way to wherever i'm going. i never say no to swimming with my kids. or driving in a convertible or jeep. or doing things that will destroy a good hair day. i'm very carpe diem about it. seize the day, gather ye rosebuds while ye may. and if the hair gets destroyed, so be it.

but back to my mom. her hair does not move. it does not swing. it does not blow in the breeze. and when she was first in the hospital, and i tried to run a comb through it, it was painful. for her. for me. days of hairspray residue does something to hair. something....not good.

but for that moment, when she caught sight of her hair in the hospital bathroom, i saw a shift in her. a determination. she was going to get better. going to make her next hair appointment, so help her god.

do not ever underestimate the power of hair. my mom is getting released on friday, and has a hair appointment immediately following.

cutest. cupcakes. ever.

this week is our scout pack's blue and gold banquet. and today was a test run of our entry into the baker's competition. if i remember correctly, we forget every year to pick a winner. and that is because we have dozens of young boys running wild for two or more hours. it gets lost in the mix. or maybe they do announce winners, and i never notice. yes. that is most likely the case.

this year i will try to notice. because this year we have the cutest cupcakes ever.




it's cookie monster. and he has a cookie shoved into his mouth. and these chocolate cupcakes....they are TO DIE FOR. i ate two. but i could have eaten 12.




the kids were fascinated by the making of these. my husband made them. he said i could take credit for them, but who are we kidding here. mine would have come out looking like smurf blobs. i can promise you that.



last year i went to sam's and bought some cupcakes. then i shoved some tiny sparkly flags into them. the kids loved them. that's my style: pre-made and easy. that is how i roll.

and this is how the mister rolls: elaborate. detailed. appealing. perfection. everyone oohing and ahhing. and then the kids will smash them into their faces.

and it will be all over. all over for the cookie monster.

yes. i live here.

a typical night for me consists of being on facebook around 11 p.m., chatting and laughing hysterically out loud with my california friends, and realizing that i have not yet cleaned my kitchen.

oh. buzzkill.

and then i continue chatting, while wondering just how bad would it be if i left it 'til in the morning. at which time i throw cold water on my own face, and come to my senses. because it is NEVER fun to wake up to a dirty kitchen. EVER.

here is what i face: multiple pots used for soup. a frying pan from this morning's sausage patties. yes, i am lazy. it has sat there all day. i could give you excuses but i won't.




the orange-looking soup, in case you're wondering, is chicken with rice, with salsa thrown in. it's a real crowd-pleaser. and a mom-pleaser, because it's easy. fast. not a total nutritional loss.




now you are viewing leftover lunch. and yes, i was raised better than this. my mother never has a dirty dish in sight. i see butter still out. an ice cream carton. nice. and yes, mcdonald's.




and because i leave no counterspace untapped, here's soup cans. peanuts. more ice cream. i will do better tomorrow. i promise.




hey, the stuff on the right is CLEAN. but it could grow whiskers there waiting for someone -- me -- to put it up. left side -- not so clean. and the yellow rubber gloves? out because i got a manicure on thursday, chipped three nails on friday, and swore to heaven above i would never do THAT again.




after pic #1: clean!




clean! wiped down. it's good for another eight hours or so -- while we sleep -- until the young 'uns hit the kitchen with their myriad breakfast creations. and we start all over.




clean! what you can't see, is that in the meantime i have eaten leftover pei wei, so the left counter viewed above, is now dirty. again. a plate, a tray, two chinese containers. it never ends. you can't win. just give in.




i lied. i win. because my little boy made this for me for valentine's and it's on the fridge.

"too much help"

so the first grader brings home an assignment to choose a nursery rhyme, and make a diorama of it for a speaking grade. they only need to learn one verse, as in "humpty dumpty sat on a wall," so maximum speaking time, in my estimation, will be 5.5 seconds.

this task is handed over to daddy, as he is head of the art department. as well as all things math, science, and history. his department broadens daily while mine shrinks. i do writing assignments, book reports, journaling, etc. mine may be small, but my fourth grader was the ONLY child to get a perfect score on his writing TAKS test. so there.

my friend melissa is throwing her diorama together the night before it is due. or, rather, her child is doing it. ours has been under construction for days. i remind my husband that this will be merely a visual prop, and only for about 5 seconds. no matter. a little more gets done each night as time allows.

now take a look at this and tell me if there is any part of it that looks like a 7-year-old helped:




no. right? definitely not. it's a battle i no longer fight. the "perfect art projects" fight. i throw in the towel on that one.

so the grade sheet comes home. he looked at the audience. he spoke at just the right pace. his volume was a little low (wow. come spend a few minutes in my home, lady). he had good posture. he did not hesitate or read from notes. he spoke in a clear and interesting way. (god, they are really digging holes here where there is no dirt.) (it's one sentence, for god's sake.)

but at the bottom was a note, with a smiley face -- because it is first grade, after all. "too much help."

oh, really? you think?

mother love

oh boy. this is gonna be a tough one to write. but i can't really write a bunch of fluffy fun right now when my heart is so heavy.

so, deep breath. let's go.

first of all, i am an only child. i have never much liked this status but there was not much i could do. when i was 7, i gave my parents an ultimatum. i said that i either wanted a brother or sister, or i wanted a dog. and within a week's time, i had a dachshund named trixie.

my parents were older when they had me. older and very well-behaved, now that i think of it. very in control. very "leave it to beaver." for many years, i lived in this bubble. this assumption that life was predictable and calm and safe. and then in high school, i began to like people who were....different. my friend cindy's dad, for example, sold pot out of a giant garbage bag in their home. this was certainly different. i was friends with the school "bad boy" who would jump his bike off the shacks every morning, and end up in the vice principal's office by 10 a.m. daily. i was friends with the tortured artists. it was just much more interesting.

and in college, i hit the motherload. a treasure trove of insanity. i reveled in it. i bathed in it. i met people who dug deep and didn't stop, even when it got ugly, or uncomfortable, or hilariously ridiculous. these people....freaked my parents out just a little. my mother prayed. a lot. my father thought i was sowing wild oats, and always gave me more freedom to do so than i ever expected. i have a feeling me and my dad could have been friends, and hung out around campfires. we didn't much hit it off as father and daughter, but i do think we would have made great friends.

but my mother. oh, my sweet mother. my father once told me that there were two people in this world who thought i could do no wrong, that i was just about perfect. and those two were my grandfather, "pa-paw," who always called me (and correctly so) "miss hollywood," and my mother. because anything i did wrong, she could explain away. and there were periods when she explained away a lot.

my mother is sick. sicker than i have ever seen her, holed up as i write this in a hospital bed. she is weak and she is fragile. and i have dreaded this day since my bubble first burst. the bubble i lived in where everything was taken care of, no bad things ever touched me, and where i could always get a milkshake and a grilled cheese anytime i asked.

my mother takes care of me, and now my family, like nothing you have ever seen. she brings food, she doubles the kids allowance, she sees dust on my stairs and brings all her equipment over. she befriends my friends, my neighbors, anyone who needs a hand up. she is the center of her large family, the one who everyone calls when they are worried about their Marine son, or trying to pass law school, or struggling with cancer. she is a peacemaker. she is a rock. she is one tough cookie. and right now, for the first time ever in her life, she is knocked down.

i have a girlfriend who tells me i am spoiled. spoiled by my mother. and it makes me mad, because to me i am just lucky. i hit the jackpot of all mothers. but spoiled? i do not ask for it. i do not expect it. i have no idea why i, of all people, got chosen to be her daughter. but i can tell you this. in the last 72 hours or so, i have cried and apologized to her profusely for every wrong/bad/shitty thing i have ever done, while she very calmly tells me that no, i am wrong, i never did anything to apologize for. so i am left thinking that either she is just very delusional or that she just has so much love in her heart that she sees through all the crap that people -- i -- say and do.

up until now, i always thought i would feel like an orphan when something did happen to my mother. when i lost her. or thought i was going to lose her. and truly, i will say, losing a parent is something that no matter how many people surround you in your life, you go through it alone. it is one of life's darkest walks.

but i have felt rallied around, and lifted up, by my family. by my friends. and it surprises me, this outpouring of love. i have put myself into hyperdrive. just do the task at hand and deal with it, get it done. but then i get a phone call, or an email, and i break down. again. because she is so loved. and evidently, a little of her has rubbed off on me. i can feel it.

on the drive to the hospital, she is in her bathrobe and not all here. i am calm, and trying to push back tears, at what this willingness to finally go to a hospital must mean. but that is a whole other story. her and hospitals. her and doctors.

momma, i say. i have not called her that in years. and suddenly i am a little girl again. momma, i love you.

she's very weak and slow to respond. i love you too, honey.

we drive on. i repeat it again. just to hear her respond to me. i want to memorize that voice, those words, these moments.

momma. i love you.

and i'm so sorry for all the shit i ever put you through. all the times i spoke harshly. the times i didn't call. the times i fell short. lost my cool. wasn't interested. couldn't be bothered. was not the girl you raised me to be. i am sorry for all that. and more.

she is not interested in the apologies. it's a waste of precious time. so i go back to what i really want to say. she doesn't squeeze my hand back. but she's still here. she is still here.

momma, i love you. so, so much.

and she knows. she always knew.

remains of the day

it's 5:30 p.m. on a friday. i wake up from a fabulously uninterruped nap. the house is quiet. my oldest son walks in, shirtless, looking more and more like a young man.

can i make some soup? he asks.

yes, i mumble. loving that he is willing and able to cook for himself. and knowing that half of his wanting to do so has to do with the fact that he knows i do not enjoy it. he just does it to be nice. he's a gem.

but where's little brother?

today the students had valentine's day parties at school. someone very quickly and quietly disappeared upstairs with the loot. let's just say, a lot can happen in two hours while a mom is sleeping......



do you see the black trashcan? i didn't know if it was for an "emergency" or for candy wrappers. do you see the sleeping child? his sugar rush must have taken him so high that he landed with a thud on that sofa.

oh, fun. we shall resume our talks on moderation tomorrow.....

for these reasons and more

my scout pack recently went on a camping trip to a place known for its alligators. that alone blows my mind. to me, camping should be somewhere beautiful. SAFE. not an alligator preserve. i did not go. my children went. my husband went. i sent prayers and bottled water. and i went to dallas.

last year, for a third grade field trip, we took the children to this alligator haven. i did not want to go, but i did. my son wanted me to. and, i figured, i could throw a more deserving child into the mouth of an alligator should the need arise.

this is the level of insanity of the field trip. this photo was not taken with a zoom lens. this is literally me, taking a picture from the path we were walking on.



this is a different alligator. and how gross of him that he wants to hang out in such murky, disgusting water. really, dude, have some pride.



and, you know, i'd be walking along all happily during what i thought was an alligator-less area. then i'd see this:



they were everywhere. sometimes you'd just see the eyeballs. even looking at these pictures again makes me want to hurl. and when the scouts said they were considering this place as a possible campsite, i about had a cow. NO FREAKIN WAY, i replied to all. I HATE THAT PLACE. so, to humor me, they changed it from the big spring campout to just the arrow of light ceremony campout. um, am i stupid? you know, i have been lobbying for places like sam houston state park for eons. that's right, i would rather camp out next to the STATE FEDERAL PRISON than near a bunch of alligators. do they listen to me? no. they do not.

but it's okay. because camping for me was essentially ruined one year ago on my sixth scout camp trip at enchanted rock. i had figured some things out by this time. like, how to never go to the bathroom alone. on a previous trip, they had told us to beware of snakes in the bathroom. uh, come again? so not only do i have to wee-wee in a gross musty bathroom, i must also watch for SNAKES while doing so?

it was then that i started recruiting little girls to go with me to the bathroom. all under the guise of protecting them. and i never, ever drank water after 6 p.m. lest i wake up in the middle of the night. no amount of thirst is worth that terror.

so, enchanted rock....where do i even begin. i'll begin with the worst. we are on a nature hike led by a park ranger. we are walking down the main road, for god's sake, not even on a beaten trail. and we stop because there is a COPPERHEAD in the road. the boys are fascinated. the parents are quiet. me? i am about to hyperventilate and pass out.

a copperhead? that's a copperhead? what the hell? what the heck are we doing here? this is insane. i want to go home. i am having this running dialogue with anyone who will listen. and pretty much, no one is.

so the park ranger scoops him up and puts him in a cage in the back of his truck, at which time i zero in on the park ranger. what would happen if someone had been bitten by that snake? i ask.

oh, he replies all calmly, they'd have to be life-flighted to the nearest hospital.

oh, i think, well then why don't we all just go climb into a tiger's cage at the zoo. and it was seriously at that moment that camping was over for me. never mind all the weird night noises that only i seemed to hear. all the freaky bugs. the sleeping in a tent being pounded by rain. this was the straw that broke the camel's back: the copperhead in the road. and never mind that it was a baby. all that meant to me was that it had a mother and father somewhere in the vicinity.

there was also snakes hanging from trees. or, ok, the possible sighting by someone else of one possible snake in a distant tree -- but all i hear from that is "snakes are hanging from every tree." and letter boxes....good lord, the letter boxes. it seems that some state parks HIDE letter boxes in the woods with secret notes inside. and so my friend tracy takes it upon herself to find every last letter box -- in the RAIN, no less -- trudging through waist-high growth in the middle of the WOODS -- to find some secret note that amounts to "congratulations. you found it."

and again, i am the only one with a running commentary.

tracy, it's not worth it.

tracy. you have young children who need a mother.

tracy. it's not funny anymore. i hate this place.

does she listen? no, she does not. by the third day of this particularly hellacious camp trip, i was hating life. i was hating everyone who looked my way. i was tired. stinky. creeped out. thinking i was surrounded by utter and complete morons. because these same parents let their children crawl through crevices and caves at enchanted rock. yes, they did. and what more perfect place for a rattlesnake to hide than a cool, dark, damp place. so what better place to send your children through, right?

but here's the two best parts of that trip. because there always has to be something good.

one. my young son, on the way down from our hike up the enormous "enchanted rock," starts screaming at the top of his lungs: "I HATE THIS JACKASS MOUNTAIN!!!" did anyone NOT hear him? oh, believe me, everyone heard him. and if i hadn't been so giddy with exhaustion and terror, i probably would have been the slightest bit embarrassed. but it just struck me as extremely hilarious. because that is what kind of mother i am.

two. on the last day, i am waiting to leave. watching while it all plays out in slow motion, the likes of which you have never seen before. because my desire to get the hell out of dodge is directly related to how very s-l-o-w-l-y it is happening. no one is in a hurry. so i leave. and at first i am thinking i will just WALK back to houston, but it turns out to just be a walk around the park. in the middle of the road. watching very closely for copperheads.

and i am alone, and it is totally quiet, and right then a deer runs out right in front of me. it stops just feet from me, and i stop too. it is staring at me, waiting for me to move. we stared at each other for quite a bit. and then it ran off into the brush.

it's a small thing, really. but i will never forget it. it was like the universe saying, this woman needs a miracle. let's throw her a bone. it was one of the most awesome moments of my life. i could have stood there forever.

so, thanks universe, for that beautiful deer. for making it stop, to look at me. for making me remember the beauty and richness of the woods.

but hell if i am ever going camping again.

the upside of being sick

because i am feverish today and somewhat delusional, and realizing it is time for a picture post, i am sharing these photos. which are apropos of nothing i am about to write. you're welcome!



now here's a funny one that both of my kids would absolutely kill me for posting. good thing they don't have my blog address! and i am also realizing i need to hide this white t-shirt, because this child has it on in 95% of his pictures.



ok, we are all wobbly on our feet and both kids are home today from school, sick. oh, happy day. but i must say, i do try to find the golden nugget in anything that comes my way. so now, the upside to being sick:

--you lose your appetite. nothing sounds good. nothing tastes good. therefore expect to see a 2-5 pound weight loss

--if you do get hungry, there are no rules. eat lunch at 3:30? sure, why not.

--my purse has not moved off the kitchen table for over 48 hours. i came home from the hairdresser, plopped it down, and then got sick. do i care? no. i do not.

--my house is a shambles. to many of you, my house would appear spotless. but not to me. no beds are made. there are wadded up tissues everywhere. half-drunk water bottles are all over the kitchen counter. and at this point, no one knows whose is whose. so that is a gigantic waste of water and plastic. and the only reason we have these stupid water bottles in the first place is because of a recent camping trip. i do not buy into buying bottled water.

--i look like a hot mess. and i don't care. and by hot mess, please do not think for a moment that i think i look "hot." no, think more amy winehouse hot mess. frizzy, super curls. no makeup. sweaty, faded black t. my friend cindy and i joke that it is a treat for people when we do ourselves up. we do not look "on" all the time, so when we do make an effort, people take note. we clean up well. but if you were to see me today, you would surely never believe it.

--free pass from cooking, people. need i say more?

--my children are oddly quiet when they do not feel well. but that is not entirely true. the older one tends to carry on and put on a show like he is surely at death's door. at which point i pull out my tough love and say, "look, bud, we all feel like crapola. suck it up and be a man."

--everyone is super nice to you. you get a free pass out of everything. like, for example, i am in charge of, oh, 25 classroom valentine's day parties on friday. but other people are stepping up to help. they even held a special meeting in my honor (behind my back) about how to plan. in my humble opinion, if you cannot just show up and hand out some damn pink cookies, you have no business being a room mom.

--i caught up on all my dvr'ed shows. i spent hours watching tv last night. i am now up on girls next door, desperate housewives, brothers & sisters, and new adventures of old christine. if you have any questions, just ask.

--i caught up on all my email. well, almost. because once i was finished, here comes a buttload more from little league, pto, and one teacher in particular who i am thisclose to punching in the face. and if you want to take a guess as to who it might be, let me just say: you are CORRECT.

okay, that's all i got. i am all out. i am off to have a 3:45 lunch and watch the view.

his mother's son

yesterday after school, my older son and his best bud rode their bikes up to the playground to play "wall ball." when they got back, he told me that some older kid at extended day watched them play.

mom, he said. the kid told me, "you throw like a girl."

i am surprised. what? he said that? who the hell is this bozo?

my son continued. but i told him, "oh yeah? you look like a girl."

i am shocked. wait, what? you did? and what did he say?

ben continues: then he said, "you are a girl."

i am not even believing this conversation took place, but his honest-abe friend is standing there nodding his head, backing him up.

and what did you say then? i ask.

i said, no, YOU are a girl, dude.

i fill with pride. that was the whole conversation. then they left. ben is my nice child, the peacemaker, the conceder. he didn't start out like that. when he was but 2, he got mad at some bully kid in the chick-fil-a playroom and looked up at him and said, hey! you want a piece of me? then, as now, i was so proud. i don't encourage fighting, not in the least. but i also refuse to be bullied, or let my children be. they know where to kick a perv if they should run into one in a men's restroom.

and luckily, this playground was (somewhat) (loosely) supervised. because otherwise, maybe he should have just pedaled away as fast as he could. i mean, let's don't be a fool, either.

when i tell my mother this story, she is profoundly offended. what? he said ben can't throw? does he know that he's a pitcher in baseball, for crying out loud? that boy is jealous. he just saw how well ben threw and-----

mom, i interrupt. it's okay.

and i am immediately glad that she wasn't here to hear the live version, or the boy would have been staring down a very angry grandmother on said playground.

but the point is, i'm glad to see this child has a bit of me in him. he doesn't look like me. he doesn't act like me. he reminds me to be nice and watch my language, please. but just don't tell the boy he can't throw. he knows he can throw. and he will kick your lily-white ass (sorry, ben) if you tell him otherwise.

jackie o had it right

hanging out and under....



it's the red-eye family......




before i ever had kids, something that jackie kennedy onassis said really resonated with me. and it was this: "if you bungle raising your children, i don't think whatever else you do well matters very much."

and now that i am a mother, i know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was right.

i have never, not once, regretted my decision to stay home with my kids. i knew allowances would have to be made. i knew there would not be new cars in the driveway every four years. i knew i might lose a little of my identity, a little of my independence along the way. that last bit was hard.

i do not judge other mothers for choosing to work. on the contrary, i have the utmost respect for these women who can shove off for work at 7:30 a.m. and still get all the stuff done that i do. especially the single moms. i honest to god do not know how they do it. but i do not take my luxury lightly. i see it as part of my job to clean my own home. to keep closets, drawers, pantries fully stocked. to volunteer at school, and in anything that my children are active in. to forge new friendships with the mothers whose children attract my own. to be keenly aware of what my kids are saying, doing, thinking, writing, caring about.

there have been times when i have steered my child away from another. that is a luxury that has no price. some children know more than they should. they've seen more. and my heart breaks for these kids. but my first loyalty is to my own.

and days like today.....they bring it all home to me. again. i was assigned a group of four third-grade boys to read with. my assignments are different every week. and i will confess, my very favorites are the talkative boys and the people-pleaser girls. because when one child stumbles on a word, these kids will offer up help. and when i ask a question like, "so how did the kids feel about this new woman?" they will all raise their hands or blurt out the answer. that is what i like. participation. eagerness. comprehension. that was not what i had today.

i had four sullen boys who did not want to read. they sprawled out in the hallway, one even reading upside down. one who did not follow along, no matter how many times i reminded him. one who was reading, i believe, at a first-grade level.

as i sit there, many things go through my head. as recently as a couple years ago, i thought that all that mattered was if my child delivered. my child got the A. my child moved above and beyond, even ahead of the pack, because then i would have done my job.

and then, again as before, life smacked me right upside the head. i saw that my black-and-white was once again fading to a nice, soft gray. gray is where i live now.

it does matter that they all get it. and it matters more than a little.....it matters just about more than anything in the world. the teacher is frustrated. because of their lack of comprehension. lack of desire. lack of parental involvement. i say, is it like this every year? she shakes her head no. no, no, no. this year is bad.

these parents are bungling it. the kids are late to school. they can't read at their grade level. they should care, but they don't. i don't put up with a lot from them. they look startled when my friendly demeanor takes a sharp turn. "sit up," i tell them. "stop, and tell me what you just read."

and i wait. and i let them fill the silence. today there was a lot of silence. i leave feeling there is so much work to do, and i have not made the tiniest of dents. but then, sometimes unexpectedly, one of them will tap me on the back at school and smile shyly. or ask me if i am coming again next week. they like it, this personal attention. they like having expectations placed on them. they need the accountability. so maybe it does make the tiniest of dents.

these kids remind me of that starfish story. a man and his grandson were walking along a beach late one night and the old man was picking up starfish that had washed ashore, tossing them back into the ocean. the boy says, but grandpa, there's so many, how are you ever going to save all of them? and the old man picks up another one, and tosses it. son, i can't save all of them. but it made a difference to that one right there.

and maybe that's the best we can hope for.

proof

this is what it looks like when i am facing an "on strike" dinner eater. the turned back is for extra emphasis.

it says, not only am i not eating, i cannot even look at you.

all about the tough love

i parent so differently than my mother did. she was so nice. so patient. so persistent with her good tidings. me? i am all about the tough love.

my kids do something that goes right over my head. they get mad at me, and then they refuse to eat. uhhh, this is punishment for me? i feel like saying, but honey, i don't like to cook. a better punishment would be demanding a well-balanced meal. what you are basically doing is giving me the morning off. the afternoon off. the night off. you are giving me a really great gift.

and yes, i do feel bad if they don't eat. but there's one in particular who, let's just say, it's not gonna hurt him to miss a meal or two.

i buy fruit. lots of fruit. i have healthy choices and snacks. i have taught them to read the serving size off the nutrition info on packets of cookies and goldfish. we talk about what makes people fat and unhealthy: sitting around, grazing, eating bad foods. we do good things: we ride bikes, we cook together, i use my apple slicer several times a week.

but this not eating thing.... to me it is like making a giraffe stand in peanut butter. the giraffe may feel bad for a little while, but it's not going to ruin his day. ditto for me.

when i think back over my formative years, i can recall practicing tough love on my friends. i had one friend who would always say stuff like, i'm so ugly. i wish i was pretty. to hear her talk, you would think she was a forest troll. and i'm not the kind of person who knows what to do with this kind of information. it was more of a statement, really, than a plea for help.

i tried. you're not ugly, i would say.

YES I AM, she'd come back.

oh, ok. well, then, make the most of what you've got.

you've got a good personality, i would say. and this would seem to upset her more. she didn't want the personality, she wanted the pretty. and i never thought of her as ugly or pretty, she just looked like herself. and i was usually happy to see her. because of her personality and all.

years would pass. god, i'm ugly, she'd say.

hey, i would come back, wanna go out later?

i gave up. i felt like i should have been handed a script so i would know more what to say. but i don't like my lines to be fed to me -- i'm a straight shooter. she wouldn't believe me if i told her she wasn't a forest troll, so i just ignored her statements. it's tough love. and it might hurt a little at first, but you know what you're getting and it's not a bunch of fluff.

it's the same now when someone gets mad at me and says, well, i just won't eat anything then. this is usually brought on by my making some outlandish request, like "no computer before school," or "it's time to brush your teeth." if i say this at the wrong time, it releases a torrent of outrage. furor. disbelief.

and it's sweet, really, that the best comeback they've got is, fine. i just won't eat ANYTHING.

i mean, i've walked this planet a few more years than they but i could think of a lot worse things to say to someone who has made you mad. of course, if my mother gets wind of someone in this house not eating, she is in her car on the way to the grocery faster than you can say strawberries and ice cream. but again, that is the difference between her and me.

she looks at it as a challenge. i look at it as a day off.

bon appetit. or not. it's your choice.