Speechless

2011 was the year I lost my voice. Today I found the courage to pick up where I left off. I opened the page to this blog, a chapter of life I’d long abandoned, and came up short when I looked at my very last entry. On December 31, 2010, I pondered what the New Year would bring, noting lyrically that “there are many things I can’t plan for or anticipate. Illness or financial setbacks may strike…”


Two weeks after I wrote those words, my father went into the hospital. By July, I had buried both of my parents, and stepped into a whole new way existing in the world. I have written before about the challenges of being sandwiched between aging parents and active children. Those years were exhausting and overwhelming. But oh. They were sweet, too.

When your parents pass the age of 80, it is true that their deaths should come as no surprise. But make no mistake, grief easily sidelines those who think they are prepared.

It’s been almost three years now, and I still feel as if I’ve come unmoored. Just when I think I’ve got my bearings, I’m going to be OK, the whisper comes in the night, the morning, the heat of day, “Your parents are dead,” and I am unraveled again, left threadbare and hopelessly tattered.

Tonight my son is at his high school homecoming game. Tomorrow he will attend his first high school dance. My daughter stands poised on the edge of adolescence, ready to leave play dates behind and make the leap into the world of periods and parties, and Jesus help me, boys. It seems lately life has demanded one relentless request of me – learn to let go. Hold the things you love with a gentle grip for they are not yours to contain or control. I have not mastered this lesson just yet.

I went to the cemetery only once, and it is doubtful I will go again. It was a cool April day in 2012, and although I asked for a map on my way in, my tears blurred my vision and I drove in circles looking for the right section of plots. Finally, I parked and set out on foot, weaving between headstones, glancing at names, praying I’d find them, hoping I wouldn’t. Just when I thought I’d have to give up and go back for another map, I saw my father’s name. Although I’d been searching for it for over 30 minutes, it seemed out of place, carved so beautifully in cursive on the granite stone my mother and I had chosen so carefully, like the clothes he was buried in. As if any of it would matter.

“The casket will be closed. Why are you taking so much time selecting a tie?” I’d asked her gently, just days before his funeral. “I just want him to look nice when he meets Jesus,” she whispered. It would be just a few months later when I understood this senseless sentiment, as I stood before an open closet struggling to select burial clothes for her.

I sat down where I stood, cupped my hand to my mouth, and let the magnitude of my loss wash over me in waves. When I caught my breath, I steeled myself to look just few inches to the left where my mother’s name bore tangible proof that her voice, her scent, her laugh were forever lost to me, at least on this side of heaven. Then I put my head down on that soft, damp grass, felt the sun warm on my face, and wept.

I don’t know how to end this post. So for now I will simply stop writing. It’s not much. But it’s a start.

Filling in the Blanks

I just got my 2011 day planner and as I flipped through its fresh, blank pages, I thought about what it means to wipe the slate clean and start a new year. At midnight this Friday, the ball in Times Square will drop and people across the country will shout “Happy New Year!” I will be snug in my bed when this moment passes, but when I wake up on Saturday morning, my husband and I have determined to spend some time talking about our goals and plans for 2011. Soon, my empty day planner will be bursting with meetings, vacations, doctor’s appointments and school events. The minutiae of my life will once again take on a life of its own. But what will determine whether or not it is a “happy” new year?

At 50, I am more cynical about these things. I no longer believe you can determine to have a “happy” year; some things simply are beyond our control. But I do think it is possible to choose to be happy – or at least content – moment by moment, day by day. As I look at the white spaces on my calendar, I imagine writing down activities guaranteed to bring a smile: coffee with a best friend; a weekend away with my husband; a Saturday set aside to lounge, nap and read; an afternoon at the beach.

Undoubtedly, there are many things I can’t plan for or anticipate. Illness or financial setbacks may strike. Opportunity may knock. Life is full of surprises! As you look back, how will you view 2010? Was it a good year? A challenging one? Chances are it was both. No matter, it’s time to say goodbye to the past and look ahead. How will your 2011 day planner take shape? Will you set aside time for the things and people that bring happiness into your life?

I love this quote from Edith Lovejoy Pierce:

"We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year's Day."

Have a wonderful holiday weekend. And a Happy New Year!

Giving Thanks

Several years ago, Oprah kicked off her television season with a self-improvement theme that emphasized the importance of gratitude. The idea was a simple one: Keeping a gratitude journal that lists your daily reasons to be thankful has the power to change your life. Although a part of me responded openly to this suggestion, the cynic in me thought: “Easy for you to say; you’re Oprah! What’s not to be thankful for?”

It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate things like family, friends, provision and shelter. It was that the frantic pace of a daily commute, kids to raise, a marriage to tend and dinners to prepare left little time or energy to reflect on feeling thankful. What I struggled with most was connecting the idea to the emotion. When people went on about being thankful for sunsets or hummingbirds, I got it intellectually (who doesn’t love hummingbirds?), but in truth, I was too busy to actually sit down and appreciate such everyday miracles. Sometimes, it takes unexpected adversity to make us pause long enough to take stock of what is — and is not — important.

Five years ago, my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Although he was immediately placed on medication, the disease progressed quickly. His gradual inability to recognize loved ones and his surroundings has been heartbreaking to watch. During the early days of his diagnosis, as I struggled to add caregiving to my already lengthy to-do list, I found even fewer reasons to feel thankful. I wrestled with unanswerable questions like: “Why did this happen?” and “How could we have prevented it?” I also felt guilty, because being around my dad made me so sad that I often couldn’t wait to get away from him.

Watching my father literally lose his mind has made me appreciate the preciousness of time. To rush through each day and forgo opportunities for reflection is to miss the chance to create a memory. And, if Alzheimer’s teaches you anything, it is that memory really is the essence of life. Every great experience, from a picturesque vacation to an exquisite meal, is made all the better when it is relived. Retelling our stories keeps them alive.

Recently, my 12-year-old son offered to stay with his grandpa while my mother and I ran errands. Later, when I asked him how things went, he said “Grandpa asked me the same questions over and over. He couldn’t remember who I was.” “What did you do?” I asked anxiously. “I just answered him,” he replied simply and without irritation.

My eyes teared up as I realized the boy who had once been babysat by his grandpa was now repaying the favor. And, I was grateful, not for the disease that created this role reversal, but for the lesson it contained. I thanked my son for his compassion and patience. Then, I sat down and told him what his grandpa was like as a younger man — how much he enjoyed long road trips, his passion for baseball, and his habit of playing the piano and singing (off key) at family gatherings. We laughed together and shared a memory.

As we barrel into the hectic pace of the holidays, it’s a good time to pause and reflect on the meaning of gratitude. It can be found in both the highs and lows of life — everyday experiences become routine or profound, depending on whether or not we allow gratitude to grip our hearts and restore our sense of wonder. I’ve discovered that thanks is not something you feel, it’s something you give. You have to release it in order to reap its benefits.

How about you? What will you give thanks for this holiday season?

All Dolled Up

Saturday we dropped nearly $300 in a couple of hours at The American Girl Place. The occasion was my daughter’s eighth birthday, and the outing required a two-hour trek (one way) from our semi-rural home to the upscale Los Angeles shopping center where the store is located. The multi-level doll emporium is truly a little girl’s dream, housing every American Girl doll, book and accessory, plus a movie theatre, photo studio and café – really, it is retailing run amok with glassy eyed little girls running around clutching $95 dolls while helpless -to-say-no- moms, dads and grandparents belly up to the cashier with credit cards extended. But…as someone who can sort of remember what it was like to be an eight-year old girl, I have to admit the place had me at hello. The bright airy feel, the delightful themed alcoves, the heart shaped cakes and chocolate pudding served in tiny flower pots? LOVED it.

I was a girly girl who loved dolls – baby dolls, Barbie dolls, talking dolls…you get the idea. As a child, I remember feeling intoxicated when I opened a new doll and inhaled that oddly toxic plastic odor unique to toys manufactured in the 60s. So when I bought my daughter a huge furnished doll house several years ago I was dumbfounded to find her bored with the whole concept. What was the point, she wondered, of rearranging the tiny furniture in each room or setting the miniature family in front of the itty bitty TV? I admit I had no answer for that, except that I did it when I was little and I kind of thought she would too. Sexist and backwards I know, but some parental expectations are simply pre-programmed.

Still. I respect my daughter’s independent streak – she knows what she likes and isn’t afraid to say so. For the next few years we steered clear of dolls in favor of more purposeful toys like Legos, board games and puzzles. Then she got an American Girl book and her perspective changed. For the uninitiated, nearly all American Girl dolls come with a back story – some are historical characters who grew up as slaves or during the Great Depression. Others are modern day heroines facing 21st century challenges like bullying and peer pressure. These dolls have a point. A purpose. My daughter was ready to be initiated and I jumped on the opportunity – a quick catalog call and the first doll was on a UPS truck to our door. Having already mothered a son through various phases of trucks, trains, guns, dinosaurs, cars, guns and more guns, I was selfishly eager to mix and match tiny outfits, style stiff synthetic hair, host doll tea parties, and rack up some serious mother/daughter time.

That was two years ago; we now have three American Girls in our collection – the third came home with us on Saturday. When we pulled in the driveway with our big red bag, I watched as my daughter raced from the car to show her drop-jawed little friends the bounty of her shopping spree. Shaking her head, one neighbor girl exclaimed with envy, “You are so lucky!” My daughter sighed, a beaming smile playing across her face. “I know.”

As flashbacks of my long-gone girlhood played across my mind, I thought “So am I.” Then I went upstairs to set up the tea party.

Just Let Them Eat Cake

My son turned 12 today and I did not send cupcakes to school. His birthday celebration took place over the weekend and was decidedly low key– his father took him and two friends to a water park for the day – I stayed home, got my hair cut, took a nap and ordered pizza for the slumber party later that evening. What a difference 12 years makes!

I recall with embarrassment the early years of motherhood when every birthday was celebrated as if my first born was the only child ever to turn two, or three, or four. Back then, I would launch myself into birthday party hysteria, hosting gala themed events replete with costumed TV characters, back-yard sized bounce houses, and cutesy menus (who can forget the Thomas the Tank Engine "Mr. Conductor Peanut butter sandwiches" cut into train shapes?) I've actually lost sleep wondering what to put in the goodie bags!

And it's not just me. My friend threw a circus for her daughter’s 7th birthday. A circus. There was face painting. Clowns. Balloon animals. Live entertainment. Seriously? What on earth is wrong with all of us?

Of course, like it or not, eventually you are forced to scale back. As kids get older their guest list gets smaller, typically narrowing to a few best friends rather than the obligatory entire class. Your audience dwindles too; parents start dropping off rather than staying for the festivities, so there really is no one left to impress. And as a mom, your involvement in the whole affair becomes increasingly optional. Apparently not convinced of this, I popped my head into my son’s slumber party late Saturday night to ask if they needed anything. I couldn’t help but laugh as three pre-pubescent faces glared silently back at me as if I’d asked them to sign up for summer school math. I got the message – get lost mom. We’re fine.

And you know what? I’m fine with that too. Maybe kids aren’t the only ones who mature over time. Still, my daughter will be eight in May. I'm wondering if Justin Bieber does house parties...

Sweet Hearts

My dad was my first Valentine. He was that strong, handsome, home-by-five provider that typified suburban 1960s life. I remember the years he worked a night job at a local country club – on holidays like New Year’s and Valentine’s Day there would be fancy, celebrity-filled parties – Lucille Ball, Jack Lemmon, Count Basie – these were the A-listers of my parent’s generation, and my dad served them all. On those nights I’d try to wait up for him because he’d always come home with great stories of who was the best (or worst) tipper, and he’d bring bags of leftovers and party favors: gourmet finger sandwiches, frosted tea cakes, pink and red balloons, streamers and more.

When I was older, February 14th was always celebrated with heart shaped boxes of candy. One for me, one for my mother, my daddy’s “girls.” Long before I dreamed of boys, I knew there was one man in my life who would never forget his Valentine. The tradition continued until I left for college, a relief I think since my taste in chocolate had gotten expensive by then. Dad had gone from grabbing $12 boxes of Whitman’s Samplers at the five and dime to waiting on line to shell out $25 for Godiva truffles, my favorite. Not that he ever complained.

I just ordered flowers for my parents for Valentine’s Day, and as I addressed the card, there were many things I wanted to tell my dad about my recent reflections, but couldn’t. The dementia that has stolen both his personality and our personal history leaves me no common ground on which to build a conversation, share an anecdote, or even reminisce. He will never remember our Valentine tradition since he will never again quite understand what this holiday of hearts and flowers and candy even signifies.

So I wrote this blog to say thanks to my dad, for showing me what romance should be: sweet, thoughtful, tender. A man of few words, my dad maintained traditions of love and loyalty that spoke volumes.

If you are loved by your father, you are blessed indeed. Happy Valentine’s Day, Daddy. I miss you so much.

Melting Down

While on vacation over the New Year’s holiday, my seven-year old daughter experienced the mother of all meltdowns. As I learned later, it started as squabble with her older brother that left her feeling angry and misunderstood. Not wanting to be labeled a tattle, she chose to sideline herself as her brother and friends continued to play, seemingly oblivious to her self-imposed absence. Watching them laugh and joke without her only added to her frustration, and after festering in a stew of toxic emotions for twenty minutes or more, she finally just lost it.

It began as a low moaning whine and built into a crying jag jarring enough to raise the dead. Loud, relentless and borderline hysterical, she refused to be comforted. Hugs, threats, teasing, tickles and the tested and true “ignore her until she stops” technique all failed to halt the emotional tidal wave wracking her small body. Eventually we had her lie down to finish crying it out, and exhaustion quickly took over. She slept for three hours.

I’m not new to parenting and am well aware that tantrums come with the territory. But this experience caught me off guard. My daughter was not just unreasonable. She was unreachable, lost someplace inside herself we couldn’t seem to access. As I puzzled about her behavior, in a flash of insight I understood that while her uncontrollable crying was triggered by events of the day, the depth of her distress was rooted in experiences that occurred years earlier. An adopted foster child, she has already experienced more loss in her short life than I am ever likely to know. As a result, she’s been known to personalize even the slightest criticism, experiencing correction as rejection. And although maturity has tempered her tendency to overreact, she still has her moments.

Watching her sleep, all puffy eyed and flushed, I longed to take the brunt of the blows she’s been dealt. Kissing her still wet cheeks, I add my own tears to hers, heavy with the knowledge that I will never be enough of a mother to replace the one she’s lost. There is a hole in her heart my love can bandage but not mend. Then I do what I always do: I give her to God, healer of broken hearts, and ask Him to help my little girl sense the comfort of His arms around her. And I pray He helps me parent her with compassion and understanding. Especially when I don’t know how.

Today as I was putting on my makeup, I suddenly caught a glimpse of my own mother’s face staring back at me from the mirror. It’s an unsettling phenomenon that happens more and more frequently as I age. Then I realized with a start that my daughter is likely experiencing a similar phenomenon when she looks in the mirror. Her enviably high cheekbones, coffee-hued skin and luminous black eyes surely echo the face of the woman who carried her to term. I suspect this realization haunts her, since it's a face she has never actually seen outside of her dreams. When she was very young, she'd tug my arm in restaurants and stores, pointing to strangers and whispering, "Is that my real mom? Look - she's brown like me."

So I give her extra hugs. When she complains and frets, I do my best to console. And when all is said and done, I take to my room, close the door and have a meltdown of my own.

I can’t carry her pain. But I can follow her example and simply cry it out.

Untamed Heart

Fellow mom blogger Kyran Pittman penned a post recently that resonated with me. Her fabulous Notes to Self blog is my new favorite, and in it she offered a sneak-peak excerpt from her upcoming memoir. To read the full excerpt I encourage you to go to her blog, but the jist of it was that inside every honest woman there resides “a creature that can’t be domesticated.” I love that line and have pondered its meaning in recent weeks.

After 18 years of mostly happy marriage, a successful writing career, two kids, one dog, two consecutive suburban homes, a sensible sedan and several SUVs, sometimes I still wake up in the night panicked, wondering if my life has purpose. The security I spent years chasing down seems suffocating at 3 a.m., and that’s usually when I feel it stir, the seed of something I dare not feed or water. It’s a violent urge, this desire to shatter the wife and mommy mold I’ve strapped myself into so that the woman I lost along the way can claw her way back out.

As Kyran so eloquently says, this creature in each of us is restless and untamed. Like all wild things, it has an inclination to roam, a feral desire for danger, and a limited ability to form attachments – it will not be tied down. This creature, whoever she is, would not play nice at PTA meetings or bake brownies for Bible study. Nor would she even consider spending precious down time trolling recipe websites for 20-minute weeknight meals. She is Thelma and Louise. She is Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. She’s the maneater Darryl Hall warned young men about, the one who only comes out at night.

Discontent is an elusive emotion. It’s rarely biting enough to spur change, yet it nags like a hungry child, whining incessantly but never satisfied with the very thing it demands.

My husband is not immune to these restless musings. We joke about quitting our day jobs, running off to Mexico and opening a taco stand. Pulling the kids out of school and traipsing around Europe for a year. Or moving to the mission field and living on faith and donations. But then he laughs, sets the alarm, and sleeps like a baby, while I stare at the ceiling and wonder how I will do this – live this life I’ve chosen – for the next 25 or so years.

But come morning, the creature slinks back to its cage. Routine relegate discontent to a dim corner of my consciousness I will not have time revisit any time soon. As I rush the kids out the door in a flurry of backpacks and briefcases, my “to do” list already dictating my day, I pause, suddenly aware of a low but steady purring, seemingly announcing the approach of a very large cat. I look around, expectant.

“Mom – you got new messages on your Blackberry!” my son shouts behind me, and I turn to see him scrolling the screen, fascinated with technology as only an 11-year old can be. I take the droning device from him and turn it off. Then I slide into my leased SUV, whisk out the driveway of my expansive corner lot, and chauffeur my kids to their pricey private school. Next it’s off to work, where I will spend the next eight hours earning nearly enough money to pay for the various trappings of my middle class life.

I do what I do to keep what I have. Like it or not.

Don't I Know You From Somewhere?

Imagine a place where every disparate segment of your life collides. In this alternate universe you can spend quality time with people from your past, your present and possibly even your future. Your ninth grade nemesis is there. So is your first crush. Your high school prom date is chatting with the guy who dumped you for your (former) best friend. Your husband and your ex are chumming around too, bonding over music trivia.

Your old boss has shown up, and frighteningly, so has your current boss, along with a whole posse of girlfriends – college roomates, bridesmaids, work friends and PTA pals. Your pastor has dropped in, oh, and just for good measure, some of your crazy relatives did too: first, second, even third cousins and their kids. These people have no common interests and no real desire to get to know each other. Their sole purpose for being here is the fact that they have (or had) some kind of relationship with you. The problem is most of them know WAY to much about you (I mean, who introduces their Bible study friends to their drug buddies from back in the day?) Naturally, there are all kinds of alarms are going off in your head since clearly these people should NOT be mingling. But it’s too late. Even if you leave now, everyone will still be here when you get back. Watching. Waiting. Posting. Tagging.

Welcome to the very weird world of Facebook.

I just got a friend request from someone whose name was only vaguely familiar. Her picture offered no clues, but since she knew me by my maiden name I assumed it was a legit request and not some MLM team building scheme. I accepted. Turns out she and I were buds back in junior high – 7th grade according to her. A mere 36 years ago. She gushed that she was so excited to “find” me (really? She looked?) She assumed I remembered her – I’m still not sure I do, but I’m playing along. She wants to know what I’ve been up to. So… how exactly do you tell someone what you’ve been doing since you were 13? Who remembers? And why would you even want to? There’s a reason nobody goes to junior high reunions.

Of course now I’m in a junior high school friending freefall because accepting a friend request from one former acquaintance now opens you up to everyone else on their FB page – people who may also think they remember you from somewhere. I’ve already had two more requests from people I can’t place. It’s the “If you give a pig a pancake” rule of social networking.
Used to be there were old friends, former friends and new friends. This new category of FB friends has me baffled, because here the old become the new, former become the current, and nobody ever drops off the rolodex.

So where do you draw the line at ignoring people and hoping they just go back into the once closed door of your past where they belong? Is it rude to simply not respond to friendship requests on FB? Or is there a polite way to say “thanks…but no thanks.”

Judgment Call

I recently read a blog by Irene Vilar, a self-described “abortion addict.” Irene had 15 abortions in 16 years, but today has two young children – she claims finally yielding to motherhood saved her from the cycle of habitual pregnancy termination. She also admits getting pregnant with the intent to abort – often waiting until the second term of pregnancy to end it. Her blog promotes her recently published memoir entitled Impossible Motherhood, which cites among other things, a background of neglect and abandonment that led her to end more than a dozen pregnancies. Her tone is one of measured remorse; she’s sorry, but it’s not her fault.

Whenever I read controversial pieces, I’m always eager to see how people weigh in. Many read this blog and expressed feelings of sadness, outrage and disgust. Others extended compassion and understanding. Some politicized and still others proselytized. Not surprisingly, quite a few people were harshly critical. But what struck me was the number of people who were quick to label anyone judgmental who dared question this woman’s choices. In response to one particularly caustic comment, one irate reader ranted: “Who are YOU to judge HER?” It’s a fair question.

As a Christian I know all about withholding the first stone. I’ve made some very poor choices of my own, including two abortions – one in high school and a second in college. Am I morally superior to Irene Vilar because her aborted children outnumber mine? Of course not. Some will of course argue that abortion is not a moral issue to begin with; I’ll table that for another discussion. What I’m wondering though, is when did it become virtually impossible to criticize someone or something without having the “J” word hurled your way? Frankly, in this case, I think if you put yourself out there and write a book about unconventional behavior, you are asking for reactions. Reactions do, after all, sell books.

I’m not purchasing the book but I do have a reaction. I find it abusive and irresponsible to abort for sport. To purposefully skip your birth control pills (which Irene says she did repeatedly to rebel against a domineering husband) is reckless and foolish. I also think describing abortion as an addiction minimizes the very real problems that afflict millions of people – dependence on drugs, alcohol and other destructive substances and behaviors. That Irene felt empowered killing babies she says she intentionally conceived is more mental illness than addiction. That she will now parlay her troubled past into talk show appearances and an income stream is akin to taking blood money.

True, I have never met Irene and did not read her book, so I’m ill-equipped to comment on the whole of her life circumstances. I can draw conclusion only from the facts provided: her pregnancies occurred primarily in the confines of a marriage to a man who did not want children. But he did not force her to abort; she never told him about the pregnancies.

For her part, Irene blames her choices on a “hypersexualized society that at once values the perfect mother, but also expects women to be sexually attractive to men and to achieve professionally.”

So it is society’s fault she had 15 abortions. A society that unfairly made her choose between her sexuality, her career, her marriage and her unborn children. Given her current age of 40, the timeline for these archaic ideas she felt beholden to was around the mid-80s through late 90s, so I can’t say I’m buying that idea. But if you want to play the blame game, then you are essentially admitting there is blame to be assigned.

15 children died at this woman’s whim – that’s more than half of your average kindergarten class, just to give some perspective. Who bears the burden of guilt here is not for me to decide, but I do have an opinion about it. And I don’t think that makes me judgmental.

To read Irene’s blog: http://community.todaymoms.com/_news/2009/11/02/3453446-after-having-15-abortions-motherhood-saved-her

What do you think of this story? Can you judge behavior without judging the person? And where do you draw the line?

Lighting is Everything

Every time I look in the mirror lately there seems to be something new to lament. A deepening wrinkle. A freshly emerging sunspot. A slackness to skin that was formerly taut. Have I always been so vain? Or is the very approach of the big five-oh making me just a wee bit paranoid about my appearance?


Whatever the reason, I find I have fewer and fewer of those “high five yourself in the mirror” moments these days. You know the feeling, when you get a new dress or perfect pair of pumps that make you want strut and twirl. You may not actually say so, but on some level you know you look good.


So I’m chatting with my plastic surgeon recently (O.K. not really but he’s the guy who does my Botox who happens to be a plastic surgeon). Anyhow, he passes me a hand mirror and asks if I mind if he “makes a few suggestions.” Sure I say, bracing myself. He very gently offers that I might consider an upper eyelid lift to get rid of that “tired look” and shave a few years off my apparently haggard appearance.


As he uses his thumbs to lift my drooping lids and show me what I might look like if I were fully awake, I have to admit I’m tempted. But then I remember that the reason I look tired is because I am tired. Bone tired. Everyday. All the time. There’s no surgery for that.

After stopping at the mall for a skin-tightening eye cream and a sugar-free vanilla latte, I go back to the office, pausing briefly to check my appearance in the poorly-lit bathroom. Now I look wired and tired.


My friend Helen and I discussed this very subject the other night as we sat in very flattering light admiring each other. She said she actually moves into better light for photos now that she knows what angles works for her. We joked about finding pocket lights that could be whipped out of our purses at a moment’s notice to chase away unwanted shadows and make sallow skin glow.


On the heels of that conversation, I came up with a few tips for all of us ladies of a certain age who want to avoid being blindsided by unflattering images of ourselves:


· Resist checking your reflection in windows of any kind. If you do, you will find yourself thinking things like “when did I get a double chin?” for the rest of the day.
· Avoid last minute makeup checks in rear view mirrors. Your lipstick is fine but you’re likely to find one of those long granny hairs sprouting from your chin. And you won’t have tweezers.
· Do not look at your thighs in three-way dressing room mirrors. These are sadistic trick mirrors that add pounds and cellulite where none previously existed. I can’t prove it but just go with me on this.
· When plucking eyebrows, skip the magnifying mirror. You will frighten yourself silly. Just make a waxing appointment – it’s easier on the psyche.


Lastly, use the purse compact judiciously. Mirrors that small are ok for looking at portions of your face, like your lips, for instance, or a lone freckle. Holding it at arms length to get a full face view tends not to be pretty.


Then again, it could just be the lighting.

TMI

Remember when there was such a thing as “polite” conversation? When people didn’t talk openly about bodily functions, extramarital liaisons, personal fetishes or unseemly addictions?

I miss those days.

I’m not superficial. I relish heart-to-heart conversations with good friends, and thanks to months of counseling, consider myself to be pretty “authentic.” I’ve worked hard to be real, transparent, approachable. Hey, my life is chronicled in a blog. But unless you are my doctor, I’m pretty sure there’s no reason you need to know what’s going on with me “down there.” If you are not my pastor, I will not be discussing my questionable late night Internet habits with you. And if you are not my husband, the specifics of what brings me to the brink are none of your business.

Apparently, not everyone feels this way. There are in fact a whole lot of people who think that when I ask how they are, I REALLY want to know. As in:

“Hey how’s it going?”

“Crappy. My husband left me for another woman, the slut. Now he won’t even pay child support. The kid’s are angry and think it’s my fault because I gained so much weight.”

Alrighty then.

Or

“Hey welcome back! How was the honeymoon?”

“Great! You know I never had an orgasm during intercourse before so I didn’t know if I could. But boy was I wrong! It was fantastic!”

Okie dokie.

Or

“How was your visit to the spa?”

“Good until after the Brazilian bikini wax –I always go Brazilian you know. Anyhow, I got an ingrown hair and man does it hurt. Have you ever heard of that?”

Can’t say that I have.

It could be argued that at least among good friends, sharing the intimate details of one’s life indicates a certain amount of bonding and trust. But casual conversation should not rival truth or dare drinking games when it comes to being candid. So the question is: when does sharing your life cross over into showing your behind? Translated: exposing waaaay too much of your personal bid-nez.

Here’s the distinction: Heartfelt communication is typically unrehearsed (meaning you haven’t said it a dozen times before and then paused to wait for a reaction). And it isn’t manipulative – it isn’t secretly attempting to elicit pity, shock, envy, or disgust. TMI, on the other hand, paints a picture in the listener’s head that proves nearly impossible to erase, even after several hot showers.

As a person who blogs about menopause, I realize the soapbox I’m on leads to a slippery slope. There is something about aging that makes you just want to share the experience with others.

A few weeks ago, my mom and I were shopping for a new mattress and the salesman was trying to get mom to buy a waterproof mattress pad. I immediately piped up, “No she doesn’t want that. They are way too hot with all that vinyl underneath.”

The salesman went on the defense and claimed the mattress pad was not hot, that no one had ever complained it was hot, and that it was specifically manufactured not to be hot.


I glared at him, the beginnings of a hot flash creeping up my neck, and snarled “Obviously the people making vinyl mattress pads are not sweaty, menopausal women.” Snap!

The poor guy actually blushed and went to busy himself with some pillows that suddenly needed restacking.

So I got the last word but broke my own rule in the process. Right then and there I made a mental note to stop using the “M” card in public. Unless I’m with very close friends of a certain age who actually want to discuss how many months it’s been since Aunt Flo showed up, I’m keeping my estrogen-challenged lips sealed.


But that's probably TMI.

Junk in theTrunk

I work as a marketing writer and many of my clients are plastic surgeons. Recently I had the pleasure of researching a new procedure that claims to “improve your rear view.” Intrigued (who doesn’t want to look better in their True Religions?) I read on. But this was not a nice little nip and tuck to make your butt look leaner, meaner, tighter or cuter. This was a popular form of plastic surgery to make your butt bigger. Bigger.

Excuse me?

The procedure is called the “Brazilian Butt Lift” (because ample posteriors are apparently greatly admired in Brazil) and to perform it, the doctor takes fat from elsewhere in your body so that it can be repurposed and injected into your tush. Oh, and the cost of adding a bit more junk to your trunk? Just under four grand. Right. Cuz I know when I get dressed in the morning I often think “Wow, if I had four thousand dollars lying around l’d run right out and get myself a little Ba-donk-a-donk!”

I come from a culture that places a high premium on generous hindquarters. We write songs about them, make videos and movies about them, and squeeze them into too-tight pants at every opportunity. Since I only dated black guys until I was well into my twenties, the fact that I have a “bubble butt” was always considered an asset (pun intended). Still, when it came to body types, I always wished for the opposite of what I had, thinking long legs, boyish hips and big boobs were the ideal. My petite curves made me self conscious, and left me always battling the fear that I was just a little too plump. I remember one guy I dated attempting to pay me a compliment by offering an affectionate swat and exclaiming “Damn girl, you’re really packing some hams!”

I took up jogging shortly after kicking him to the curb in hopes of trimming some slices off those hams. That remark, along with hundreds of others that preceded it (jokes about “Trudie Booty” followed me well into adulthood) made me long for a flatter fanny.

So that leaves me wondering. Who are these women who are paying big bucks for a bigger butt? My inside informants in the plastic surgery industry tell me it’s women of all backgrounds, mostly in their 20s and 30s, some single, some married, some moms. What, nobody over 40? Now there’s a surprise.

So maybe it’s just a generational thing, a byproduct of now ubiquitous thong underwear, Victoria Secret catalogs, J-lo, Shakira and the ever-bootylicious Beyonce. My generation, we avoid dressing room three-way mirrors, put on robes before walking away from the bed nude, don sarongs for a beachside stroll, and will spend half a paycheck on a perfect pair of black pants that seem to diminish our derrieres.

One thing’s for sure, beauty trends fluctuate more than my hormone levels. Straight hair, skinny jeans, chunky jewelry, big butts – in one day, out the next. Regardless, from where I sit, when you ask a girlfriend “Does this make my butt look big?” the answer you are praying for is not now, not ever, an enthusiastic “yes!”

Don’t cha wish your mom was cool like me?

“You’re waaaay to old to be listening to Miley Cyrus mom. Seriously, you need to stop. It’s not cool.”

I turned from the video I was glued to on You Tube and for once my son’s sarcasm left me speechless. All the possible responses like “Hey it’s a free country!” or “What’s it to you?” seemed hopelessly lame. Besides, at least on the surface, my son is right. At 49 I am decades past the age when I could justify downloading Miley. Sadly, the hours of Radio Disney my daughter listens to in the car have infiltrated my subconscious and hijacked what remained of my musical taste. Which is why I walk around the house humming silly little ditties like “Party in the U.S.A.” by Cyrus, and “Crush” by David Archuleta. It was only a matter of time before they made their way onto my iPod. Wasn’t it?

But let’s digress, shall we? My unabashed enjoyment of what used to be called “bubblegum pop” might have something to do with my own adolescence. I was not a cool kid – short, shy, frizzy hair, too black to be white, too white to be black. An A-student and sheltered only child, I hung with what others probably called the nerds until around 9th grade when I suddenly developed, lopped off my girlish pony tail and invested in shiny platform Candies, tight Dittos jeans and cropped halter tops. This earned me a tenuous spot on the fringe of the in crowd where I almost blended in, but for my ineptitude when it came to music. I never seemed clued in to what was popular until way after the fact.

I remember one conversation (amazing you can recall particular humiliations as far back as age 14) where an especially cool girl said to a group of equally cool girls (and me) how much she liked Bette Midler. Me, wanting to fit in piped up, “Oh I LOVE Beth Midler!” The cool girls turned their collective heads to shoot me daggers of disdain, as the ringleader sneered, “It’s BETTE Midler,” before tossing her hair and effectively dismissing me.

Although I can tell that story like it happened last week, I am completely over the trauma of it. Really. I consider myself popular enough, thin enough and most days competent enough to pass muster, so I’m not out there still trying to fit in or be cool. Plus I rocked my black dress at my 30-year high school reunion, so it really is all good.

But am I chasing lost youth by listening to songs written for and/or by pre-teen girls? Upon reflection (because as a mom blogger it’s what I spend a lot of my time doing) I don’t really think so. The fact that I know all the lyrics to every Taylor Swift song notwithstanding, I remain unconvinced that occasionally grooving to teeny bopper top tens veers me towards the edge of a mid-life crises. These frothy, pointless songs just make me feel good. They tempt me to lock my bedroom door and sing along with my hairbrush. They help me to stop taking myself so seriously.

So the next time my son accuses me of being too old for my playlist, I’m going to smile and answer him with a loud, off-key chorus by teen queen Selena Gomez: “Tell me, tell me, tell me something I don’t know, something I don’t know, something I don’t know!”

Tune in for my next post, “How to annoy and embarrass a pre-teen boy without really trying.”

A Little Respect

Mothers tend to set the civility standard in the home, teaching children about table manners, acceptable social skills and the need to respect their elders. We navigate the sassy years, the rebellious years and the defiant years, believing that with any luck, the values we’ve instilled in our offspring will take root and bear fruit. We hope to raise children who engage in heated discussions without becoming boorish, who listen attentively to teachers, professors and eventually bosses, even if they disagree with them. Children (and later adults), who respect those in positions of authority.

Truth be told, any of us would be mortified if one of our children shouted out the words “You lie!” to a teacher during a classroom discussion. And yet we find ourselves at a chapter in our country’s history where this kind of outburst is considered defensible by some, under the umbrella of free speech.

This is not a political commentary so don’t start drafting rebuttals to what you think I’m about to say. I’m simply wondering how, as adults, we have managed to set such low standards in terms of what is and is not acceptable behavior, standards we are modeling for our children, our youth, and the rest of the world. The South Carolina congressman’s blatant display of disrespect for our nation’s highest office, in my opinion, is representative of the gradual yet steady erosion of etiquette standards we formerly held dear, things we used to teach our kindergartners: Don’t interrupt when someone is speaking. Show consideration for others. Be courteous. To me, respecting others even in the face of huge ideological differences is essential if we are ever going to move forward as a nation, as families, or as individuals. To refuse is to behave like the red-faced toddler who jams his fingers in his ears and shouts “La! La! La! I can’t hear you!” because he doesn’t like what you are about to say.

In one of my recent blogs, I shared my own failings when it comes to losing my temper. I too have been given to angry tirades, ususally directed at my children, and have been publicly contrite about my admittedly bad behavior. When I looked at the replay of Joe Wilson flying into a rage and heckling the president of the United States on national T.V., I felt embarrassed. Later I was saddened and angered when I heard various talk radio personalities practically high-fiving each other as they discussed the outburst. One particular pundit was ecstatic that someone finally had the guts to “speak their mind.”

The following day I sat down and talked to my children about what happened. My son, who just started middle school, is hyper-aware of disciplinary consequences for breaking rules, and immediately wanted to know if the man who insulted the president would be punished. “Can the president fire him? Will he go to jail?” he asked. I told him I thought the main consequence for Mr. Wilson was a high degree of shame and embarrassment. Like the kind I felt the last time I yelled at my kids in public.

So I guess my question is: When did we all become so angry that we have lost all measure of self control? And again, I don’t mean just politically – I think what’s happening in that arena is symbolic of a greater national virus more insidious than any flu pandemic. We rage at store clerks who service us too slowly; hold wait staff in contempt if our order is served up wrong; think murderous thoughts towards drivers who dare to merge in front of us; and scream at teachers and coaches who constructively criticize our kids. We judge and demean those with different religious beliefs and sexual orientations than our own, and are puzzled when they don’t see things our way. Are they blind? Deceived? Stupid? Or is it possible that as we point our fingers in judgment, we really do, as the Scripture suggests, judge ourselves accordingly.

As a suburban working mom, I’m not likely to solve the world’s ills any time soon. But I do want to give a call out to my fellow members of the “motherhood sisterhood” to remind us all that we remain among the most influential members of a society for whom manners and social decorum have become optional. Our voices ring loud and true because they have the ability to shape the next generation’s views and behaviors. So let’s take a stand. Let’s decide not to raise kids who use shout-each-other-down tactics to make a point, who slander those with differing beliefs or lifestyle choices, or who demonstrate disdain for authority figures.

We begin by modeling good behavior. By treating our children and those around us with respect. By practicing the very things we preach.

Mommies Behaving Badly

“You don’t have to yell at me,” she whimpered. “When you yell it hurts my feelings.”

“Obviously, I do have to YELL since when I told you to stop five times NICELY you ignored me. So now I’m MAD and now I’m YELLING!”

When I finished taking a bow for this “mommie dearest” caliber moment, my daughter melted down in tears, while I stood there fuming, embarrassed yet defiant in the face of the sideways glances we were drawing from other obviously happier families nearby.

My husband put his hand gently on my shoulder in the manner of someone coaxing a suicidal jumper off the side of a bridge. Tentatively, (lest he risk being yelled at himself) my husband suggested that perhaps I was overreacting. Maybe, I was being a little hard on our daughter, who is, after all, only seven. He of course was right. In an instant I saw this small person who adores me every day of her life cowering in the face of my irrational rage and felt the shame rise up and choke the anger right out of me.

What she did and why I was yelling was beside the point. The fact that I had lost all manner of self control was a bigger and more pressing concern. After feeling like a jerk for several minutes I kneeled down in front of my daughter and hugged her to my chest. “I’m so sorry sweetheart,” I said. “Please forgive me. Mommy was angry but I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I was wrong.”

My daughter, still wounded, wouldn’t look me in the eye or hug me back just yet. Instead, she said something so deeply convicting I physically stepped back as if slapped. “You always say that mommie,” she whispered. “But then you do it again.”

Before I go on, let me set the context here. It was a sparkling day in San Diego, Labor Day Weekend, the last summer hurrah before the back-to-school rush. We had just finished an amazing lunch at a bay-side café and were getting into a boat my husband rented for us. Life was good, right? It was one of those days that you plan out in your head before they happen, visualizing your perfect, happy family making perfect happy memories together that your children will one day recount as they describe how fortunate they were to have parents like you. Unfortunately, images like this are always quickly annihilated by the reality of my family dynamic. Which, to be brutally honest, is characterized by the fact that being on vacation with my kids for any extended period of time often irritates the hell out of me.

There are certain moms whom I imagine love spending down time with their kids, splashing in the hotel pool, renting jalopy-sized bicycle contraptions, laughing at endless knock knock jokes and teasing away bad moods with a tickle. Perhaps they were born with more patience. Surely they are younger and less hormonal than me. Possibly, they are medicated. No matter. Here’s how I roll on family vacations:

“Stop running in the hotel hall! Please don’t wrestle on the bed. Keep your voices down there are people next door. Can you PLEASE stop teasing your sister. Don’t run around the pool! Stop arguing. I SAID stop ARGUING. Did you hear me? I SAID did you HEAR me? "

And so it goes. Vacation is over. I’m back at work. The kids are back in school. And I miss the little dears terribly (really). Upon reflection, I find it ironic that the thing that bugs me most about them is their repetitious pattern of bad behavior – promising to stop doing something and then, when I turn my back, doing it again. And again.

Can't imagine where they get that from.

Of Mice and Young Men

My son, who will start middle school in a few weeks, still believes in Mickey Mouse. During a recent trip to Disneyland I fully expected him to exhibit general disinterest in the more magical aspects of the Magic Kingdom, but his wide-eyed excitement upon seeing the smiling, world-famous rodent was clearly genuine. Imagine my surprise when he cut in line with his little sister to take his turn at a photo op. I didn’t have the heart to tell him what my seven-year old has been trying to explain for the past two years: Mickey really is just a guy in a suit.

Let me backtrack a bit by saying that my son has not been sheltered or excessively babied, nor is he behind the curve when it comes to being socially savvy. At eleven he’s a text-book tween with his peach fuzz and mood swings, a fascination with cell phones, and musical tastes that run from vintage Beatles to Coldplay. Yet, he continues to cling to a symbol of childhood innocence that is at once sweet and silly. I mean, as good as the Disney costumes are, Mickey, Buzz, Woody and Pluto et al are clearly not real.

Which brings me to my dilemma. There’s a parental crossroads we all arrive at when our children no longer believe everything we tell them. It’s healthy and normal and signifies their transition into becoming autonomous individuals. And while I haven’t researched this, I believe the shift begins when they first learn you’ve sold them a bill of goods regarding the tooth fairy, Easter bunny, Santa and Mickey. Because if mommy lied about those things, what else is she making up?

I realize that not fessing up to these fibs is only delaying the inevitable. But I rationalize that my kids have the rest of their lives to live in the real world. Is it wrong to let Puff the Magic Dragon have one final romp with his little boy before adolescence banishes him to his cave forever?

My son told his friends at summer camp about his trip to Disneyland, and I’m not sure how the subject came up, but someone mentioned that they’d actually seen the guy who wears the Mickey costume remove his head piece. My son remained poker faced during the exchange, but it was his first topic of conversation when I picked him up. And (I’m not proud here) like the Grinch, I thought up a lie and I thought it up quick: I told him Mickey has body doubles, just like Harrison Ford in Indiana Jones. "It helps him be in two places at once and keeps him from getting hurt during stunt scenes in Fantasmic," I explained.

Silence ensued. We stared at each other while he digested this whopper. Looking into his eyes I suddenly realized that I was the one who’d been fooled. My son knew the truth about Mickey – and has probably known for quite a while. But like the tattered blanket he sometimes still sleeps with, I think he finds comfort in holding onto a belief that connects him to simpler time. It’s also just like him to avoid hurting my feelings by admitting he’s outgrown the mighty mouse. He changed the subject quickly to more pressing issues, like the limits on his texting plan.

As for me, I’m grateful that for now he’s letting me play pretend, so I can savor the magic of his childhood just a little bit longer.

It’s Too Late…Baby

We live in a feel good society that encourages the pursuit of happiness and self fulfillment. We delight in stories of people past their prime who take risks and succeed against the odds, like the 90-year old who gets a college degree, or the universally inspirational Dara Torres, the 41-year old mom who became an Olympic swim champion. Just last week on America’s Got Talent, a weathered-looking Midwest grandma wowed the crowd with her stand-up comedy routine, and you’d be hard pressed not to root for her. The message of the day it seems is “it’s never too late so go for your dreams!” But a headline I recently read made me question the wisdom of that philosophy.

You may recall the story of Carmen Bousda who made history by becoming the oldest woman to give birth at the age of 67 back in 2007. The single mother from Madrid had come to the U.S. for her fertility treatments, and later admitted lying to doctors at the clinic about her age, saying she was 55, so as to not be rejected as a patient. She was so desperate to give birth, she even sold her home to raise the $60,000 dollars needed for treatments. On July 15, Carmen passed away at the age of 69, leaving behind suddenly orphaned two-year old toddlers. Carmen had cancer.Now it could be argued that any mother at any age can die of cancer – it’s one of those unpredictable curves life throws you that no one has a crystal ball for. And in her defense, Carmen had good reason to expect longevity; her own mother lived to the age of 101, so she may have anticipated that giving birth 18 years past menopause still gave her a decent shot at living to see grandchildren. Parenting is a gamble is so many ways, and for Carmen, fulfilling her lifelong dream of becoming a mother – even if she might not live long enough to raise them –was a chance she was simply willing to take. Who could fault her for that?

At the risk of sounding judgmental, I’m picking up the first stone.

Let me start by saying just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. I think motherhood is more than a path to personal fulfillment; it’s not something you pursue simply because you want to experience the thrill of carrying a life inside you. Or because you want to know what it’s like to be a mother. It’s not a cure for loneliness or a replacement for meaningful adult relationships. Motherhood is at heart, a selfless rather than selfish pursuit, as anyone who has children can tell you. Do I think at some point it is simply too late to have children? I do. And while I do not presume to be smart enough to determine what that magical number is, I will say that if you have to lie to the fertility doctors to obtain treatment, you are too old. Period.

I feel sad for Carmen Bousda, and whatever circumstances and life choices left her longing for babies at an age when it was no longer a prudent option. As a former fertility patient myself, I can relate to the joy she must have felt when doctors gave her the good news that she was pregnant. At the same time, I question the wisdom of her decision to buy into the idea that “it’s never too late to pursue your dreams.” Her dream left two children tragically parentless, and for them it will always be too late to play patty cake, go to the park, or read bedtime stories with their mommy, who undoubtedly loved them. But to quote a familiar Bible passage, “love is not self seeking.” Perhaps the pursuit of happiness should not be either.

I Scream, You Scream

People tell you childhood years fly by and encourage you to enjoy the fleeting days of Christopher Robin and Pooh. I know I’ve tried, but in my mad-cap rush to get things done and race through my to-do list, entire days disappear in a blur of activity – I’m inexplicably proud of the fact that I can band aid a boo boo, clean up spills, make snacks and text a friend all at the same time. Then, like you, I catch myself operating at warp speed and vow yet again to simply slow down. But have you noticed that when you pause long enough to catch your breath you practically get run over by all of the other people who are in a frantic, pointless rush?

Case in point: last weekend I was lying by the pool dozing when I found myself suddenly humming the familiar but nearly forgotten strains of “Pop goes the Weasel.” It took me several moments to realize the tinkling tune that had invaded my consciousness was actually coming from a rapidly-approaching Ice Cream truck. The realization spurred me into action since I knew I had only moments before I heard my children’s stampeding feet as they came at me bug-eyed with arms waving, shouting: “MOM! it’s the EYE! SCREAM! TRUUUCK!

As I scrambled to find my wallet, my daughter’s sense of urgency was almost amusing as she raced from the front yard to the kitchen and back again. “Hurry mom, he’s going to leave! Hurry, he says he’s not going to wait!” I looked at her with a knowing smile. “Of course he’s going to wait – he saw you come in to get money,” I said reassuringly. “No!” she shouted. “He said he couldn’t wait – he’s going to leave. HURRY!”

Catching the wave of her panic, I rushed outside and sure enough, the ice cream truck had made a U-turn and was pulling down the street, away from my now nearly hysterical daughter. I rushed after it, money in hand, and thanks to a good rear view mirror he stopped. But when we got to the order window he actually looked annoyed with us, drumming his fingers impatiently as the kids decided what they wanted. Was there an ice cream truck driver’s convention I didn’t know about? Some unknown mileage quota to meet? Isn’t the job of driving an ice cream truck supposed to be inherently leisurely? I mean by anyone’s standards this is not high-pressure sales.

We purchased our popsicles and Eskimo pies and ate them slowly in the street, the way ice cream should be eaten on a hot summer day. As we stood there smiling and increasingly sticky, the truck driver raced away, practically leaving skid marks in his haste.

Later as I repositioned myself by the pool, I thought what a sad place the world has become if ice cream trucks don’t have time to slow down. So the kids and I came up with a new motto. In the spring we will remember to stop and smell the roses. But in the summer, no matter how busy we are, we will always pause to savor the ice cream.

Faithful are the Wounds of a Friend

When our children are very little, the tiniest scrape or scratch sends us running to the medicine cabinet for first aid. Often, a kiss is all a boo-boo really needs – the ability to heal a hurt is one of those God-given talents unique to mothers. As our children age, however, the hurts they endure are often not visible to the naked eye. Some we will hear about, others we will sense but not be able to identify, and many we will never learn of at all. And for the most part, these emotional bruises will not heal with merely a well placed kiss.

My son and his best friend broke up. The friendship ended abruptly for reasons that are too convoluted to make much sense to an adult. The final result is that two boys who spent the past year and a half joined at the hip, heads together laughing at an inside joke, and talking on the phone for hours during Club Penguin marathons now behave like virtual strangers when they pass in the hall. The other boy has moved on to different friends with different interest than the ones he shared with my son, while my boy, though still popular, hangs back a bit now, unsure of his footing in the hierarchy of near middle-school boys. He sees, suddenly, that you can be in one day and out the next, with little or no warning and often no clue as to what you did wrong. The tide turns, the clique realigns, and like pre-school musical chairs, somebody becomes the odd man out.

For me the split feels personal and ragged and sharp; I try not to meddle but it is difficult. This boy’s mom and I are good friends too. What happens to grown up friendships when their children no longer want to set up play dates and sleepovers? For me and the other mom, it means tippy toeing around the subject of our kids and trying not to place blame. It means finding ways to get together without kids as part of the equation. And I suspect it means figuring out if our own friendship has enough emotional glue to withstand this emotional storm.

For now I struggle to find words to encourage my son that don’t sound completely parental and lame. He will make other friends. This won’t always hurt. He and this boy may end up being best friends again. It really will be O.K.

In the meantime, I’m on a desperate search for a heart-shaped band aid. One for him. One for me.