Mom in the Mirror

The best tea ever

I have the worst cold and the best husband.

Tonight, when I started having trouble talking because my throat was so sore, we discovered we had no herbal tea. So Gary made me some from scratch. He boiled an apple, the juice and zest of one lemon, cinnamon, mint, and sugar, and served me the sweetest cup of cure in history.

If I could speak, I'd say, "I love you."

The countdown

Last night, at bedtime, I heard myself using the same tired technique to get Colter to settle down. "You have until three: (Pause) one (long pause), two (longer pause), and (longest pause) three."

Because this works, I find myself counting him down night and day.

I can almost hear myself saying, when he's 18 and leaving home for college, "Colter, come on, we need to go! One... two..."

What happens when I get to three for the last time?

Are you a counter?

Big numbers

My car has 199,992 miles on it. On my way to work today, it will pass the 200,000 mile mark.

My body has 14,501 days on it. On May 31, I will turn 40 years old and my body will pass the 14,600 day mark.

I have been a mother for 4,646,880 minutes.

What are some of the big numbers in your life?

Whose words are they?

In the last few days, two pieces I wrote have been published, and neither appeared as I would have liked, mostly because I didn't take the care I should have with the final drafts I submitted.

I have no one but myself to blame for their imperfections, but this experience makes me wonder -- once words leave my mouth, pen, keyboard, to whom do they belong?

It feels like my words become communal, for others to read, interpret, misinterpret. And they should. Even though I believe we have to write for ourselves, we publish for others.

So, I will continue to respond to e-mails that call me an irresponsible pet owner because I have given away far more animals than anyone should, and I'll resist the urge to explain why -- in each case -- it was better for the pet than keeping it would have been.

And I'll pose this question to you, which didn't make it into this book review I wrote: If Anne Frank had been a blogger instead of a diarist, would we still be reading her?

Handsfree at the fair

Gary and Colter and I went to the State Fair last weekend and it was the first time that Colter has refused to hold my hand. He said he felt silly and embarrassed. After I stopped my heart from bleeding, I agreed to try it handsfree. He's 8 years old, he had my cell phone number in his pocket, and I have to accept that he's growing up.

We talked about safety, and then I let go.

Imagine how happy I was when he instinctively reached for my hand or arm several times as we wandered from game to game and ride to ride.

Maybe the lesson is that when I let go, my son sees how much he really wants to hold on.

A diary of motherhood under occupation

I get lots of e-mails from people wanting their sites included in the "moms who blog" list you see to the left. I honor most requests (there are now about 570 listings) and most of the blogs I've linked to are well-written and unique. I received a request yesterday, though, that really stands out. It was from the author of Raising Yousuf: A Diary of Motherhood Under Occupation, and it is among the most interesting parenting blogs I've seen so far. Here's how she describes it: "This blog details the trials and tribulations of raising my son as a war-time reporter in the occupied Gaza Strip."

Here's her Valentine's Day post:

Most children living in a strip of land overrun by trigger happy soldiers, Merkava tanks, and sewage might be afraid of loud noises and machine gun ricochets (that and putrid smelling water). Not Yousuf. Those he tackles fearlessly, having become accustomed to F-16s swooping overhead and the pounding of shells (even while in the womb).

His latest phobia: vaccum cleaners.

She blends the details of her very unusual life with the mundanity of everyday life as a mother. Check it out.

The Un-Valentine's Day

I've had a lovely Valentine's Day so far, but I was somewhat depressed by an op-ed in today's New York Times which asked, "Is our national romance with our children sucking the emotional life out of our marriages?" For details, see my post at Tampa Bay DotMoms. (If you have any comments on it, please post them there -- that blog needs your voice!)

Is boring the opposite of neurotic?

I didn't watch "Sex and the City" during its original run, but I've been catching up with it on DVD. I just finished the end of season two, when Carrie learns that Big is engaged to someone simpler, easier ... light.

It reminds me of all those relationships I tried to make work but couldn't. In some relationships, I was just too complicated for the other; in some, the other was too uncomplicated for me.

Eventually, I got it just right with my husband.

But now I wonder: after a decade together and 8 years of raising a child have we become boring or just compatibly neurotic? And if these are two ends of the same spectrum, what's inbetween?

The threat

Last night, afraid we were turning into a family of zombies, I issued an ultimatum to Gary and Colter: Limit your time with electronics (TV, Game Cube, Game Boy, computer) to two hours a day total or, at the end of this month, I'll cancel cable, bring the Game Cube to work and password-protect the computer.

Why is it that threats seem like such a good idea at the time and such a bad idea upon reflection?

It's not that I would mind canceling cable etc., I wouldn't. It's just that I hate my lack of resourcefulness in the heat of the moment. And I hate what threats imply: I'm powerful, you're powerless. Do it my way, OR ELSE.

Is it ever appropriate to issue an ultimatum? When was the last time you said, "If you do that again..."? Did you follow through on the threat? Did you regret it?

Game Boy nation

This past weekend, I saw a father and son waiting outside Poblano's, where I went to get Mexican takeout. The father was pacing, the son was playing his Game Boy. The next morning, Gary and I were leaving Bob Evans after breakfast, and I saw a family waiting, with a boy playing his Game Boy. And there we were, after spending an afternoon fishing at the pier, cleaning up and getting ready to go, when suddenly -- after hours of unplugged relaxation -- Colter pulled out his Game Boy.

Colter is part of a Game Boy generation, a generation of boys and girls who entertain themselves electronically in the car, in the waiting room, wherever they go.

It is a device they have in common, the way my generation had our pink princess phone. It provides them with an immediate way to connect, as our phones did for my friends and me.

So, are Game Boys binding his generation together or keeping them apart?

Related: Gone to the gaming side