Mom in the Mirror

Water baby

We spent some time yesterday at the beach and then at the pool, and it made me wonder which Colter will prefer when he's older. Right now, I suspect he likes the pool better because he spends more time there (at least once a day during the spring, summer and fall). But he loves looking for shells in the sand, building castles and jumping in the Gulf waves, too.

Which do you prefer: pool or beach?

Google sense and nonsense

Every time I search for something on "MomintheMirror," Google asks me, "Do you mean ManintheMirror?" No, I don't. Why do you ask? OK, I know why. There's a website called ManintheMirror.org. But still...

Peace or peas

Gary says that all he wants for Father's Day is a little peace. To motivate Colter, I told him that whoever disturbs the peace today will have to eat peas, since both he and I hate them, but Gary loves them. It's peace or peas, I said. Peace or peas.

Of course, Colter knew I was joking. It's a good thing, because one of us would eat so many we'd turn into the small, round, green vegetable.

How are you celebrating Father's Day?

Scruff drunk

Because I've been growing my hair long for Gary, he decided to grow some scruff on his face for me. And I love it! I love it! I love it so much it reminds me that before I loved Gary for his kind heart, his patience, and his tenderness, I loved the hair on his chest.

I've heard that this type of preference is usually inspired by a woman's father, but I'm not sure.

How about you? Do you prefer a clean-shaven face or a hairy one?

Adventures in househunting

We started seriously looking for a house last weekend, so I've been absorbed in that this week. It's been interesting to see what appeals to me, what appeals to Gary, what appeals to Colter, and where the overlap is.

So far, we've found two houses that we all loved. One of them we saw last Sunday and have been mulling over. The other we saw last night and are trying to figure out what we can offer, given that it's a 1941 bungalow (we want something old with character) and needs lots of work. I hope we buy it, but I know that the two times we purchased homes previously there were lots of setbacks and false hopes.

Meanwhile, I feel as Geneen Roth describes: I am homesick for a place I have no recollection of visiting.

One more blast from the past

Do you remember Wacky Packs? They were stickers with fake ads for fake products, and I collected them as a kid. They disappeared for many years, but the company just released a new set, with "Frosted Snakes" instead of "Frosted Flakes," "Slop-Tarts" instead of "Pop-Tarts," and "Gutterade" instead of "Gatorade." They're very funny, especially if you're interested in pop culture and/or advertising. You can see the entire series here and read original coverage about Wacky Packs here.

Colter discovers comics

It's been a bit of a challenge to keep Colter reading over the summer, so I bought him a few comic books last weekend and that seems to be helping. He immediately read "Teen Titans."

I loved comic books as a kid. I used to save my 25-cent allowance and buy comics whenever I could. I remember having a stack of "Archie"s and "Richie Rich"s that I re-read often -- until our crawlspace flooded and they were ruined.

What were your favorite comics when you were a kid? What are your kids' favorites?

Like money in the bank

I still have my first paycheck.

I received it Aug. 28, 1978, when I was 13 years old, for volunteer work I did at the St. Nicholas Theatre in Chicago. It was given to me by Peter Schneider, who has since won a Tony Award for "The Lion King."

At the time, Peter handed me the $25 check as a surprise thank you at the end of a summer I spent ushering, answering phones, helping with costumes and doing other odd jobs. I put it in a scrapbook and tucked it away for safe keeping.

I haven't managed to hold onto a paycheck since.

I've never been good with money. I've never saved much, never planned for my financial future, never took the time to understand the difference between an APR and an IRA.

I didn't need to. Money was my father's business.

He owned a currency exchange, and when I was lucky enough to spend the day at work with him, I basked in his reflected wealth and counted out the 5s, 10s, 20s and $100 bills before giving them to people as I cashed their checks.

I'm sure I touched hundreds of thousands of dollars in all my time behind the bulletproof glass that protected the money (and us) from those who wanted it -- maybe even needed it -- more.

But in all that time, I never quite understood that money was something to protect. I thought it was something that protected me.

I always believed that money -- and my dad -- kept me safe.

My father was born in 1930, a child of the Depression. He was one of six children. He never went to college. Instead, he married and started a small business that grew as his children did.

Like most families, we didn't talk about money much, but I always knew we were middle class.

We weren't poor, and we weren't as wealthy as many of my private school friends, who had Warhol portraits of their parents hanging in the kitchen.

It was from my very rich friends that I learned money didn't buy happiness. But it didn't buy unhappiness, either.

This was my first clue that money might not be as powerful as I thought. I ignored it.

I bought books and French fries with all the pocket change I earned babysitting, and when I was in college and started making real money, I bought more books and more French fries.

Eventually, I worked full-time, set aside enough to buy a house with my future husband, had a baby, and generally believed I was financially independent.

Until my dad died. Without a will. And though he hadn't sent me money in years (except for my birthday), I realized that I still considered him my provider. My protector. My safety net.

"Though I never thought of his money as mine, a lifetime of having a father who would stand in front of an oncoming train to protect me comes crashing up against reality," said author Geneen Roth, when she learned her father left everything to her stepmother.

"It isn't the money I crave," she wrote, as if speaking for me. "Money is only the transport, the red caboose on which my father's love hitched a ride. I don't need a million bucks (although I wouldn't turn it down); I need to know I am worth a million bucks."

Money was how my father loved me. And without his money, I was suddenly unsure of his love.

This was my second clue that money isn't as powerful as I'd hoped. It can't speak from beyond the grave or give when there's nothing left.

I didn't ignore this clue. I had no choice but to provide for myself. So, I did what my father did: I worried.

No matter how much money was in the bank, or how little, I worried about paying the mortgage, paying for my son's college education, paying for retirement.

I worry about money so I don't have to worry about anything else. It is my great unfinished business, my "if only."

If only I had more money, I'd have more time with my family, I'd be able to relax more, life would be easier. And it is. When there's lots of money in the bank, anything seems possible. And then the funds run low and everything seems impossible.

But money is a mask. It conceals deeper worries about the future.

My anxiety about saving for college is really anxiety about my son's future. If only I had money in the bank for college, I'd be sure he could go to a good school and have a happy, successful life after that.

My anxiety about saving for retirement is really anxiety about aging. If only I had money in the bank for our later years, they'd be more comfortable; somehow we would be protected from the physical, mental and social disintegration that can precede death.

Money is insurance, a totem that protects against all evils.

Except, of course, it isn't. It is metal and printed paper that we agree represents a certain amount, and then we exchange these coins and bills for other things we've agreed are worth that same amount.

Money derives its value by trade. And no matter how hard I look or how good I am at bartering, I can't find anyone willing or able to trade my bank balance for my father's love. Or my son's future. Or lifelong health and a peaceful death.

I can't buy comfort. But I can go broke trying.

This LifeFiles column originally appeared on about 70 TV station websites managed by Internet Broadcasting Systems.

Cup or cone?

Don't think too hard, just remember, how did you prefer your ice cream as a kid? In a cup or a cone? If you were a cone-r, did you let the frozen treat melt all over your hands and fingers or did you lick the cone methodically in a circle to minimize drips and sticky fingers?

I was out for dinner with some friends last night and we marveled at how most of the adults ordered cups (far neater) and one wonderful boy ordered a cone and enjoyed it all over his body. It reminded me of the time Colter was very young and we discovered ice cream behind his ears after one particularly gooey cone. Colter has since become a cup kid, completely. He hates mess.

Cup or cone: How do your kids prefer their ice cream? How do you?

Anne Frank would have been 75 today

I don't remember how old I was or where I lived when I first read Anne Frank's diary. I only remember this overwhelming, sickening feeling: "It could have been me."

I was probably 12 or 13 and already a diarist myself; I started my first journal at the age of 9 or 10 and never stopped writing.

I was (and am) Jewish, an observer of rituals, a believer in God, a person of tremendous faith.

But her diary -- translated into 100 languages, sold over 25 million copies -- has power at any age, for people of many religions. Her tragedy is so unique, yet identified with 6 million untold deaths.

I read Colter "The Story of Anne Frank" this morning.

He didn't remember hearing about her, or the Holocaust, even though I know we've talked with him about both before. And he couldn't really absorb the facts, or even believe they were facts. "This is a true story?" he asked.

When I cried, he hid under the covers and said, "Don't cry. If you cry, I'll cry." I said, "Sometimes it's important to cry. It's important to honor the dead." He said, "Did Papa Sam read her diary?" Somehow any talk of death always comes back to my dad, perhaps because he's the first person Colter loves who has died.

"Everyone I know who is Jewish has read her diary," I tell him. "You'll read it too when you're a little older."

But he doesn't understand.

It could have been me.

It could have been him.

Someone pointed out to me yesterday that if Anne Frank had lived, no one might know her name. She might not be famous at all.

I can't imagine what she would have been like today, at 75. And I can't know.

Because even though it could have been me, or Colter, or one of many other close and distant family members, it wasn't. It was her.