Tangled

As the gold medal slipped over my head and the opening notes of our national anthem filled the stadium, the crowd’s screams slowly dissolved into screams of despair. I reluctantly emerged from my delicious dream as my brain registered real life screams coming from our daughter Ava’s bedroom.

Now awake, my mental calculations began. Emergency or bad dream? Did our daughter’s screams qualify as a one- or two-parent alarm?

I rolled over to jab my husband awake.

“Is she being abducted?” I said.

“Doubtful. Fire?” Mike said.

Ava’s screams reached a crescendo.

“I don’t smell anything. You go. You have longer legs,” I said.

“There better be a wild animal in there,” Mike said as he jumped out of bed. “You owe me.”

Wishing I could reenter my Olympic dream, but too agitated to sleep, I glanced at the clock. 12:50 a.m.

I yelled to Mike to tell me what was happening.

“She’s bleeding from her head!” is what I heard.

Oh, god, not again, I thought as I sprang out of bed and clamored for my glasses, lost among the detritus on my nightstand.

As I ran to her side, I chided myself for ignoring her initial screams.

“How bad is she hurt? Where did she fall?” I said between pants.

“She has silly putty in her hair.”

Not registering Mike’s response, I peered at my daughter’s head.

Apparently she’d fallen asleep playing with silly putty and woken up with the puke pink-colored goo matted to hunks of her thick brown curls. I’d never seen anything like it.

Although I assured Ava we wouldn’t have to cut off her hair, the matting was so severe I feared she’d soon be sporting a one-sided mullet.  Not a great look for a fashion-conscious fourth grader. And not a haircut this mom was willing to live through.

I turned to my trusted friend Google for advice.

Apparently, since time immemorial, silly putty and kids’ hair have attracted each other like fingers and electric sockets. Fortunately, parents around the globe have tried countless remedies ranging from peanut butter to WD40 and documented their success with each on the internet.

We decided on olive oil for our triage in the beauty ER and massaged half a bottle into Ava’s matted web of curls. I couldn’t help giggling as Mike combed out the now liquefied goo with the studied precision of a brain surgeon.

Ava, however, did not appreciate my punch drunk humor and berated me for being insensitive, which launched another fit of giggles, especially as I realized we now had to get all that olive oil out of her hair.

As the clock struck 1:45 a.m., Mike and I finished our task, hugged Ava and settled down enough to sleep, grateful for our parenting success. My only regret?  Not photographing Ava’s head before and after. And she refused to put more silly putty in her hair for the sake of this blog. That’s the thanks I get.

This mom had the presence of mind to photograph her daughter's silly putty debacle! Bless her!

Unlike me, this mom had the presence of mind to photograph her daughter’s silly putty debacle!  Photo courtesy of http://www.sarcasta-mom.blogspot.com.

Plastic Barbie Lunch Boxes: Use Only As Intended

Plastic Barbie lunch boxes should come with a disclaimer:  This item will not protect you in an emergency.

I walked home from elementary school past the same twenty seven houses every afternoon for months without incident, swinging my pink lunch box north to south as I counted the brick and wood-frame homes fronting Westover Avenue or skipped over the cracks snaking through the sidewalk, determined not to break my mother’s back by landing on one.

I’d just passed house number thirteen on my route and stopped to smell the lilacs dangling like purple snow cones from the bushes out front when I saw a blur of movement over my left shoulder and felt the sidewalk slip beneath my feet. The lilacs’ heady scent mixed with the hot, muddy smell of spit as I felt the sting of teeth on my arm and fell to the ground under the bushes. Before my brain registered pain, I saw the ash-colored face of a large greyhound run past me.

Terrified the beast would return for round two, I crouched in the bushes, clutching my scratched lunch box to my chest as a shield before sprinting home, determined not to stop, even for our neighbor who called after me as I ran by.

“Help,” I wailed as I ran up the stairs to the kitchen where my mom was filling homemade cream puffs. I could smell the rich lemon custard on her hands as she ran to me, unmasked horror and powdered sugar clouding her features.

After cleaning the small wound on my forearm where the dog’s teeth had punctured my skin, she sat me in front of the kitchen’s picture window with a bowl of custard and a blanket. I didn’t budge until I heard her talking to the police about rabies and heard the panic rising in her voice.

“We don’t know whose dog bit her. She’s never seen it before. How can we make sure it doesn’t have rabies?”

“Mom, what are rabies?” I said, tugging the telephone’s curly cord. “What are rabies?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Mom said. “Go sit down. Right now.”

Convinced I was about to die of some horrible dog disease, I soothed my fear with more custard and glanced out the window. Sitting among our lilac bushes, like a sphinx guarding its temple, my personal hellhound stared at our back door, his black eyes steady and unblinking.

Nearly identical to my hellhound! Photo courtesy of www.projectocova.net

This is not a photo of the actual dog that bit me. Photo courtesy of http://www.projectocova.net

A mouthful of custard muffled my scream, but my mom came running.

“That’s the dog?” she said. “Are you sure?”

I managed only a vigorous nod before bursting into tears and grabbing my lunch box for protection. Moments later, the dog was gone. And I never saw him again.

With the help of our neighbors, the police found the dog and determined he did not have rabies. But I slept with my Barbie lunch box on my chest every night for the next week.  Just in case.

Why I Should Be “Mother of the Year”

Unlike my dear blog friends Ilene from The Fierce Diva Guide to Life and Chris from The Mom Cafe, I have not been officially designated “Mother of the Year” by any governing body or election committee, nor have I earned a congratulatory badge to display on my blog.

What I do have, however, is photographic proof that I should be considered for next year’s contest (or at least receive an honorable mention for best decorations) for pulling off what has heretofore been an impossible feat for mothers around the globe me – a drama-lite, at-home birthday party for our newly-minted five-year old daughter and 15 of her closest friends.

After ignoring the warnings of several more experienced mom friends (“You’re having how many five year olds in your house?”), I honored Rhys’s wish for a birthday tea party and invited all the girls from her preschool class. Impossibly, everyone said yes, and several moms inquired about bringing siblings. What the hell, I thought! Bring ‘em all! I’m nothing if not a “yes” person! Gulp.

Fortunately, we encountered nary a meltdown and zero very few fewer than expected mommy (meaning me) tantrums. Victory! Oh and Rhys had fun too …

Hanging those poofs and lanterns resulted in the biggest argument hubs and I have ever had. Worth it, no?!

Hanging those poofs and lanterns resulted in the biggest argument hubs and I have ever had. Definitely worth it, no?!

A dear friend and consumate party planner loaned me all the decorations for our tea party. Can you say eco-friendly? That should buy me extra points with the selection committee! Right?

A dear friend loaned me all the decorations for our tea party. Can you say eco-friendly? That should buy me extra points with the “Mom of the Year” people! Right?

I almost didn't mind when all the kids messed up my artfully displayed creation!

I almost didn’t mind when the kids arrived and messed up my perfectly arranged stuff!

I say, what's a tea party without a magician? The little one is my newly minted five year old!

What’s a tea party without a magician? The little one is my five year old!

I eagerly await the “Mother of the Year” nominating committee’s congratulatory email! Until then, happy birthday, Rhys! We love you!

Sisterhood Gifts

Author Unknown until now! If nobody else wants credit, I'll take it!

Author was unknown until now! If nobody else wants credit, I’ll take it!

I am blessed to have two wise and loving biological sisters and a group of beloved girlfriends whom I think of as my sisters. Together, these talented, intelligent, funny and generous women make up my posse. And while I possibly could make it through life without them, I hope I never have to.

My sisters mean the world to me – I’m a better person because of them. They laugh with me, cry with me, call me on my bullshit and cheer for me every step of the way. And they buy me great gifts. What more could a girl want? (Other than more gifts sisters …)

Speaking of gifts, I’m getting a big one today! I’m the featured blogger over at The SITS Girls, a sisterhood of more than 40,000 women connecting and learning the ins and outs of blogging and social media together.

If you’re visiting from SITS, welcome and thanks for stopping by! I started this blog just over a year ago to write about relationships – primarly those I have with my daughters, my husband and myself.

I hope you like what you see and will follow me here, there and everywhere. (You also can leave your gifts in the comments. Or send via Fed Ex.)

Those two glorious peanuts in the picture above are my daughters Rhys (5) and Ava (9). I hope they’ll stop fighting long enough to be blessed throughout their lives with the same rich, vital sister relationships I’ve been fortunate enough to enjoy.  Here’s to the joys of sisterhood for all of us!

Let's hope these two always remember how much they love each other ...

Let’s hope these two always remember how much they love each other.
If not, let’s hope they find someone other than me to blame!

Memorial Day Menu: Humble Pie

After enjoying several days of a lovely long weekend, apparently I’d had my fill of relaxation, barbecues and fun with friends and family. I spent Memorial Day on a bender, tearing through our house in my best martyr mode, uncluttering, organizing, cleaning and folding the loads of laundry stacked up since my last martyr fest.

I was a whirlwind of non-stop activity. And I silently let all the lazy asses in my house know just how annoyed I was at them for relaxing and enjoying their day off. And by “them” I mean my husband.

As I hauled out bag after bag of clothes for Goodwill, I made sure to sigh in front of Mike as often as possible as he enjoyed yet another snack while reading the newspaper. I gave him my best evil eye as I cleaned the floor under the breakfast table where he sat. He smiled and expressed his love for me.

I gave him my best harrumph as I dragged bags of garbage out to the alley. He sipped his coffee, blissfully unaware of my seething inner monologue. (For those of you untrained in master martyrdom, keeping hostility bottled up is part of the fun. Asking for help isn’t nearly as satisfying as hoarding a heaping bowl of resentment.)

There was no reason I couldn’t have sat on my ass all morning. We had no big plans for the day and our daughters were playing happily together (after I cajoled them into picking up their toys by withholding the iPad until the playroom was cleaned. My husband is cajoled by one thing and one thing only, and I was too steeped in annoyance for that!).

Though I made myself miserable, I got a lot accomplished that day.

Today, my husband is working from home. He’s busy with reports and conference calls, a steady stream of activity. And I’m having trouble getting anything accomplished. Not one thing. I’ve sat down to write at least three times and haven’t been able to jot down a coherent thought (not that I usually let that stop me!).

The more he works, the less I accomplish. Has he harrumphed me even once? Not yet.

Is he feeling superior and resentful? Mike doesn’t work that way. Frankly, he’s not at all concerned with what I’m accomplishing. That treasured measuring task falls solely on my capable shoulders. I’m the scorekeeper and today he’s ringing my bell.

He could chastise me or rub my nose in it, but he’s too busy working. What I should be doing. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

Letting myself relax feels impossible today. I feel like shit for not accomplishing something. Accomplishment is my higher power, and I bow at its altar on a daily basis. I need a new way of relating. Or maybe a lobotomy. And sex. Either way … HELP!

Smells Like the Old Country

Have you ever traveled home from Europe with a carry-on full of pungent, homemade cheese? No?

Ever flown cross country with a Tupperware full of homemade fish salad nestled between your thighs? Never?

Are you willing to find out what you’ve been missing? If so, you too can be part of my family’s unofficial culinary exchange program.

I come from a large Italian family. My father was born in Italy and immigrated to the United States in his early twenties. Several family members still live in the same port city in Italy’s Puglia region where he grew up.

Whenever a family member, distant relative or willing friend travels to Europe, he or she is asked to bring an extra suitcase full of items our relatives in Italy covet but don’t have easy access to. Our team of volunteer couriers has shuttled items ranging from aluminum foil to Ziploc bags and everything in between.

On the trip home things get really interesting. Those same suitcases are often returned full of our Italian relatives’ homemade culinary gifts, including such savory delicacies as dried salumi, blanched white almonds, grape must and aged ricotta cheese.

My family also dabbles in domestic food transactions. For years, every time I visited my sister on the East Coast I lugged a suitcase full of my mom’s delicious baked goods. Tins brimming with calzones, taralli, focaccia, biscotti – I’ve traveled with it all.

But I drew the line at schlepping fish salad after watching my mom navigate a flight carrying a large Tupperware of her delicious seafood stew. Without breaking a sweat or spilling a drop, my petite, plucky mother caught that container as it tumbled out of the overhead compartment and carried it between her legs the rest of the flight. My mom and her fish salad are the reasons flight attendants now remind passengers to use caution when removing items from overhead bins.

The latest Italian delicacy to traverse the globe is a ten pound package of homemade Italian cheese sent with love to my dad from his sister in Italy. After changing hands several times en route to Chicago, the aroma-challenged package now occupies my refrigerator awaiting its final destination.

Photo via Wikimedia Commons

Photo via Wikimedia Commons

These culinary reminders of home fill my dad with joyful nostalgia and fill me with unease. I won’t eat anything that’s been out of a refrigerator for more than 37 seconds. My 83-year-old father prefers dairy products that have endured unrefrigerated transatlantic travel.

While many of you will no doubt see this food exchange as a charming, loving tradition, I’m beginning to wonder. Perhaps there is a good reason some of these food items are not readily available in the United States? Where are those pesky U.S. Customs officials when you need them?

Thankfully, our family’s gene pool has evolved to include iron-clad stomachs impervious to the foodborne illnesses known to level mere mortals. And, just in case, I’ve become an expert at dialing 9-1-1.

Strangers On a Street

I was the sort of kid who spent afternoons playing with dolls on the grass, utterly focused in my own imaginary world. That’s how David snuck up on me that day.

Although our houses faced each other on Westover Street, per some unspoken rule, David and I never crossed over, each playing only in our respective front yards.

We’d gone to school together since kindergarten, but our taste in toys separated us as surely as our mothers’ dislike for each other.

“The only time that woman talks to me is to brag about her kids,” I overheard my mom tell my dad one evening. “If I have to listen one more time to how ‘exceptionally gifted’ David is, I’m going to scream!”

All I knew is that David spent hours marching his GI Joe dolls up and down the thick branches of the oak trees dotting his front yard. He never played with other kids, and he never said a word to me.

But that day was different. Even the air smelled wrong, like a mixture of damp towels and rotten eggs.

As I played on the grass, making Barbie kiss Ken again and again, David appeared, towering over me, blocking the sun.

“Wanna see something cool?” he said.

Startled, I jumped up, wiping grass off my knobby knees. David seemed wild and unexpectedly animated, his flat black hair in tangles and his mouth contorted in an unusually toothy grin.

“No, thanks,” I said, clenching my eyes shut as I bent down to pick up Barbie. I felt both excited and scared, unsure what to make of this new version of my typically somber neighbor.

“You don’t have to touch it. It won’t hurt you,” he said.

As I opened my eyes, my scream stuck in my throat, like it did in nightmares when an unknown danger approached and my voice wouldn’t work.

David’s cupped hand cradled the ugliest creature I’d ever seen. Its red protruding eyes stared into my own bulging browns.

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

“My dad says these 17-year cicadas are gonna be everywhere in a few days,” David said. “This is the first cicada on our block, and I found it.”

“No way,” I said, a swell of defensiveness tempering my fear. “I bet we have way more of those ugly bugs in our yard than you do.”

David shrugged his shoulders and walked away, murmuring quietly to himself.

I felt confused and angry. How dare he come over here to brag!

I spent the rest of the afternoon searching unsuccessfully for my own cicadas, hoping to best David while simultaneously praying to never see those bulging red eyes again.

Over the next several weeks, as the cicadas invaded every crevice of our neighborhood and we grew intimately familiar with these mysterious creatures, I silently watched David from my side of the street quietly marching GI Joes up and down the tree trunks in his yard. I never again saw his face light up with such pure excitement. And he never crossed over to our yard again.