(A few) thoughts on Mother's Day...

In honor of Mother's Day, today's remarks are dedicated to the women who raised us, as well as those who are still actively in Mommy Mode. As for me, my darling sons both made cards at school...my favorite part of Riley's declared, "If someone is mean, I will help you get happy!" (Aw, thanks, honey. But if it's all the same to you, I sincerely hope no one is mean to me today!) Derek wrote a brief note on lovely flowered stationery (no doubt given to him by his teacher). It read as follows: "Dear Mom: Thank you for cooking dinner and giving me my allowance. I could not buy video games without my allowance. Love, Derek." WOW! That boy just oozes gooey sentimentality, right? (It does, however, accurately and succinctly pinpoint the two most pressing concerns in his life at the moment: food and electronic entertainment. At least I get credit for providing him with his absolute favorite things...) I also was gifted with dark chocolate ("it's what's for breakfast"), allowed to sleep in, greeted by the aroma of freshly-made coffee when I ventured downstairs, and treated to Husband-prepared deviled crab for dinner. All I needed was a tiara (darn it, I keep meaning to get one of those) to complete my Queen for the Day celebration.

After eleven Mother's Days, it's funny for me to reflect now that, for a large portion of my 20s, I harbored deep doubts that I even wanted to have children. For whatever reason (and don't ask me; who knows what my fun and frivolous post-graduate-school persona was thinking), I suspected that I was just Not Motherhood Material. (Heck, some days I still wonder if I'm truly cut out for this job!) But obviously I took the plunge anyway, and so far seem to be doing okay bringing up two nutball children. What does that mean? Well, no one's lost an eye with a Nerf dart, no one's face has frozen that way, and no one's gone blind from sitting too close to the TV. (So judging by Old Wives' Tales, I'm batting a thousand!) Of course, since they're boys, I keep at my disposal, to apply at my own discretion, the Universal Disclaimer: "It's Your Father's Fault." And there are days that I just gaze upon my offspring, scratching my head and wondering, "who are these incomprehensible people, and why are they so bizarre? Like yesterday at the dinner table, when I actually heard these words coming out of my mouth: "Do NOT lick food off your brother's arm!" (I mean, it seems to go without saying, yes?)

My point is that Moms and Dads inevitably accumulate a vast assortment of anecdotes--running the gamut from the heartwarming, to the heartbreaking...to the ridiculous. (Ooh, lucky for my children--I write them down and publish them for others to enjoy along with me!) Well-meaning, earnest Parental Veterans can impart helpful advice about feeding babies, and getting them to sleep, and changing diapers without...incident...but no one can ever fully prepare you for dealing with unpredictable little human beings on a regular basis. For example, in my pre-mother-of-boys life, I could not possibly have imagined participating in the following conversation: Me (cautiously): "Derek how's your...soccer injury feeling this morning?" Derek (emphatically): "Oh, my nuts are sore!" (Sigh. Can we at least call them...oh, nevermind.) Nor could I have predicted that at some time in the future I would find it necessary to firmly state, "Riley, you must put some clothes on before coming down to eat with your family! (He was fresh out of the shower, dancing gleefully at the top of the stairs, shaking...well, NOT what his Mama gave him, obviously...having shed his towel in favor of..."air drying". I believe I then added: "It is NOT naked-dinner-day!" And the answer to the next obvious question is: no, in fact it is never naked-dinner-day, much to the boys' unending disappointment.)

So, here's to another year of exploring the Mysteries of Males (Step 1 apparently is: make them get dressed. Who knew?) Hopefully there's enough chocolate to see me through...and no one loses an eye over it!

She Works Hard for the Money...(or not)

Twice a year, I change jobs. I know, I know, it sounds fickle and irresponsible, like something I should have outgrown in my misspent youth, but it's really not my fault. Since I work at a college, I follow the semester schedule. What this means for me is that when classes end this week, I will leave the Professional World for a while and return to my regular full-time gig, as Commander in Chief...of my family.

I enjoy both parts of my Working Life, but it always takes me some time to adjust to the differences in my routine when I switch back and forth. During semester breaks, I no longer stand in front of my closet in the morning, selecting a carefully-coordinated outfit with matching accessories. (Oh, let's be brutally honest: when I'm not preparing for my place-of-gainful-employment, I toss on jeans and a sweatshirt, or shorts and a t-shirt, and call it my "ensemble" for the day.) For my Household Manager position, I tend to go light on the makeup (often dabbing on just enough to not be mistaken for a Suburban Zombie Mom at Giant). My "commute" changes from a continuous, semi-trafficky, 20-minute (give or take a few stoplights) stint...to a stop-and-go affair (Drive to CVS: stop. Continue to Costco: stop. On to the Library: stop. Etc, etc.) When I arrive at my workplace, I get to converse uninterrupted with my co-workers...like a real Adult! About all kinds of things that may not be appropriate for tender young ears (you know what I'm talking about: movies that don't revolve around animated creatures! restaurants without mac and cheese on the menu! Bonus: I don't have to manage my colleagues' behavior, or check their homework, or pack their lunches! No one--usually--talks back to me; and--generally--there's no whining! It's blissful, I tell you.)

Then, of course, you have the major discrepancies in schedule and salary. I report to my outside-the-house job at specific hours, complete my duties, then leave. We don't really need to get into detail about the time requirements for the Mom Corps. But the real kicker is: only my "real job" provides a salary. Even if there was some kind of awesome Union of Licensed Professional Caregivers* that simply compensated me for the parts I don't like, I'd make a boatload of money billing for laundry services...and meal preparation...and grocery shopping...(*ULPC--someone get busy right away and set that up, will you? I'm not even kidding!)

So, next week if you see me out-and-about, looking pale, sporting ponytail-hair, wearing a tracksuit and sneakers, muttering to myself about needing to run to the craft store for supplies for my son's upcoming Social Studies project, please stop me and engage in a few minutes of grown-up interaction. I will be very grateful. And be sure to leave me an application for the ULPC!

Oh, it's time to start livin', time to take a little from the world we're given...*

*time to take time, 'cuz Spring will turn to Fall, in just no time at all. (From the musical Pippin).

I just finished celebrating my 44th birthday, which unexpectedly inspired a whole dumpster-sized bagful  of mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was thrilled to be leaving the actual number 43 behind. Why, you ask? It's a prime number, and I just don't trust them. (They're like...the lonely, friendless outcasts of the Integer World. At least to us Math Nerds.) And once I got over my 40s-Freakout a few years ago, I made peace with my age. After all, I'm still young enough to not have slowed down noticeably yet--except that in my more youthful past, a birthday might have been commemorated by an All-Night-Margarita-Fest in some swanky bar, and nowadays it is more likely to be marked by a delicious, week-long Sugar Extravaganza (this is in no way a bad thing...Cupcake Coma beats Hangover any day!) Yeah, my knees are definitely creakier than they were in their 20s, and I appreciate (and require!) my sleep a whole lot more with each passing year, but overall, 44 doesn't feel "old" at all to me now that I've arrived here safely.

Then, Husband came home from work having his own mini-age-crisis. Seems he'd glanced at some Actuarial Tables (don't ask me why...a little light reading at lunchtime? water cooler conversation? what goes on in 9-5 Corporate Land is an ongoing mystery to me), and discovered that his projected Life Expectancy is: 77. Wow. That doesn't seem very...optimistic. So he was a bit spooked about the fact that "Oh my gosh, I'm not just Middle Aged, but actually past the midpoint of my life!" Since he's very much NOT a dramatic, over-reactive person (like who? oh yeah, me), this was quite an emotional outburst for him. Before he dropped everything to go buy a convertible or get a Born to Run tattoo, I calmly, rationally pointed out that...he was being an idiot. No, no, I mean I reminded him that as a physically-fit, appropriate-weight, non-smoking, healthy-eating male, he would probably live much longer than the generalized "average" which also encompasses every bar-hopping, cheeseburger-chomping, chimney-smoking couch potato born in the same year as him. (He cancelled the order on the Audi Quattro after our little chat. And remains ink-free.)

As we all know, females tend to live longer (at least when their husbands don't go off half-crazy with Midlife Mania), so my magic number according to the chart was: 82. As it is, "taking care of myself" is written into my Daily Agenda, so I plan to continue doing my part to fend off Father Time. Of course, as much as it pains me to admit it, certain things remain out of my control. But barring illness or accident, I might be around for quite a while longer. Which naturally started me pondering...if I am halfway-through my lifespan, what would I like to accomplish in the time remaining? Certain things spring instantly to mind: I want to hike through a South American rainforest, visit the Egyptian pyramids, and go on an African safari, for example (you know, in between grocery shopping, filling the car with gas, and dropping kids off at soccer practice). Then I got stuck. I'm not exactly the thrill-seeking, adrenaline-adventure kind of girl, so things like "skydiving" or "climbing Mt. Everest" don't appeal to me. And although I love learning, I have no desire to, say, perfect the art of French cuisine or study how to paint watercolor landscapes. Hmm...some of my favorite pastimes are traveling, taking pictures, watching baseball games, and writing...so that gives me a brilliant idea: maybe I'll be the one to hop in a sportscar and drive around the country, posting photos and blogs from all 30 Major League Ballparks! Whoo hoo! Midlife Road Trip here I come! (I'll even have a tofu dog for you : )

Dust in the Wind

Parents pass many traits on to their children; in my case, some examples include blue eyes, fair skin...and allergies. (also Chocoholism...or does that fall under the realm of "nurture"?) My own nose didn't really start giving me fits until I was an adult--they say in our area, the so-called "Allergy Belt", it's common to develop sensitivities to local pollens after being exposed to them for years on end (YAY!) But unfortunately for him, my littlest guy seems to already exhibit a full-on case of the Runny Nose-Sneezing-Itchy Eye Syndrome that plagues so many sufferers around here. So I hand him tissues, and pour him shots of Zyrtec ("Ooh, my grape stuff!" I swear he's a mini antihistamine-junkie!) and sympathize (as I simultaneously rub my own eyes and blow my own nose).

After several years of trying to play Dr. Mom and make up a coherent treatment plan as I went along, I finally decided it was time for him to undergo actual allergy testing. To be honest, I had been stalling for a while because I dreaded subjecting my 7-year old to the tortures of "scratch testing" (Okay, I know it's not equivalent to, say, the Spanish Inquisition...but having experienced the procedure myself, I can say with great conviction that...it isn't fun. Being pricked by tiny, allergen-filled needles, which may or may not cause you to swell up and itch in multiple locations...NOT my idea of a good time. And you can imagine how hard it is to sell it to a 2nd grader!) Little did I know that the doctor administers a much more limited panel to pediatric patients (3 groups of 8 potential triggers: poke, poke, poke, DONE. Whew!). Of course before we even walked in to the office, I fully talked Riley through what would happen, so he would feel thoroughly prepared and (hopefully) remain calm. And what do you know: he barely even flinched during the "sticking part". Afterwards, when you have to sit still for 15 minutes to allow any reactions to appear, I brought out the the Big Guns: "Here, sweetie, you can play Angry Birds on my phone while you wait!" (Really, I can't think of any situation that can't be improved by blowing up some evil pigs!)

I snuck a peek at his back while he was busily flinging avian missiles, and saw one very obvious big honking red spot. When the doctor came back in to evaluate the results, the Grand Prize Winner was: dust mites. That's it. All in all, it could be a LOT worse...except that you can't just avoid dust-- it's everywhere. Yeah, they call that a year-round allergy. (Welcome back, Zyrtec, our tasty, grapey, histamine-suppressing friend!) You know, Riley made it through this point without shedding a tear...until the doctor was matter-of-factly listing some suggestions to minimize exposure to dust, and he mentioned getting rid of stuffed animals. I think Riley actually startled the man, by bursting into loud, hysterical sobs. The kindly physician quickly backpedaled, assuring Riley that no one, I mean NO ONE, was going to take away his stuffed animals! ("Maybe just a tumble in the hot clothes dryer, to kill those pesky mites, how does that sound?" Riley sniffled and grudgingly agreed that his stuffing-filled friends might not mind a therapeutic spin once in a while.)

So, it turns out that besides my witty sense of humor (ha!) and love of reading, Riley also inherited my semi-functional nose. Sorry, sweetie! At least now we know for sure, and can better deal with it ("Death to Dust Mites" being our brand new motto. Maybe I'll get t-shirts printed...). Bonus: it gives both of us an excuse to have someone else do the despised dusting chore, right?

Coming to Your Town (consider yourself warned)!

Sometimes, you've just got to let the younger generation have their say...even if what they choose to express is...one enormous bunch of goofiness! Wait, I mean "creative, inspired, artistic"...well, before I exhaust my supply of euphemisms for "Brotherly Nonsense", let me state for the record (ha ha...sorry!) that I DO admire their musical collaborations. These early efforts may not win them a Grammy or nab them a guest spot on the Today Show (they don't like to get up that early, anyway), but it represents time that they spend working together, writing and rehearsing (and sometimes arguing and negotiating, but all sibling bands do that, right?). They seem to have found their natural positions: Derek out of the spotlight, comfortable and safe behind his drums (but still able to make a lot of noise...and that's what it's really all about, yes?); Riley right up front, happy with the attention and probably picturing the eyes of the imaginary "crowd" all turned toward him. For right now they have to content themselves with the cheers of their supportive Parental Groupies. On the other hand, I'm absolutely sure that they'd be just delighted to come play for YOU...and as their Mom-ager I could agree to a reasonable fee...oh, let's face it, with these two, you could most likely get them to accept payment in...CHEESEBURGERS!

The Lyrics

Toad Gold

Have you ever wanted gold?

I got some Toad gold.

That's gold that will never get cold.

It's Toad gold.

I'll get some Toad gold,

and share it with you.

I got so much of it,

I don't know what to do.

Yeah!

I have so much gold,

Some of it must be sold.

With so much gold,

you gotta be bold.

I just wanna hold

all of my...

TOAD GOLD!

Yeah!

Written by Riley Westman (who is obsessed with the Toad character from the Mario Brothers games...note that he is holding a Toad stuffed animal while singing in the video.)

My Time in Vegas

My time in Vegas was good,

I was havin' fun like all people should.

I went to parties every night,

I even got in a bar fight.

Oooohhh Vegas...

I had a good time.

Oooohhh Vegas...

The place where I committed a crime!

I drove around the city,

I never gave a pity.

Stayin' in a mansion,

that's where I want to go again...

VEGAS!

Written by Derek Westman (and by the way, the answer is: no, I do not have the slightest everloving clue as to why my children are singing about BAR FIGHTS. Either they have rich and vivid fantasy lives, or they're slipping out after their 8:45 bedtime and getting into trouble!)

Son of a Sailor...

When my sons were younger--like toddler/preschooler age--Husband and I tried to expose them to a variety of musical genres. Now, the ulterior motive of course was to save ourselves the trauma of having to listen to endless repetitions of the Wiggles and Raffi (not that there's anything wrong with Kiddie Music...it just made my head want to explode after a while...especially stuck in a car...in traffic..I think I might have actually once yelled "Oh yeah? Well "The Wheels on the Stinkin' Bus" better get the heck out of my way! So NOT soothing...) From Husband, they learned to appreciate Stevie Ray Vaughn, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and the Clash*. From me, they grew to enjoy Showtunes, Mozart and other classical composers, and...Jimmy Buffett. And truly, you can't go wrong with the cool, laid-back island vibe of Mr. Buffett, right? Derek used to request it so often that the first song he actually knew all the words to was: Cheeseburger in Paradise. In Kindergarten, he landed in trouble for the very first time in his school career by singing in the hallway. The tune that got him busted? Fins. (And incidentally, he was also doing the shark-arm motions as well. During recess, he had to draw a picture and write about what he had done wrong. Seriously. How could I be mad about that? I was proud of my own little Parrothead...)

Alas, he seemed to outgrow his Buffett phase when he discovered that it was much easier to rock out on the drums with the likes of Queen, Bon Jovi, and Ozzy. And in terms of his listening pleasure, he discovered pop/hip-hop in the form of Taio Cruz, Usher, and the Black-Eyed Peas. But then, a close friend of his was trash-talking Buffett before he came over one day (as in "I don't get it, why do people like that music?"). Hmmm...sounds like an ideal opportunity to...play Boats, Beaches, Bars, Ballads on repeat, the entire time he's here! (Yeah! Torture The Guests, that's my motto!) Derek claimed he couldn't remember back to the time when he used to listen to this stuff constantly; but as he became reacquainted with oldies-but-goodies like Changes in Latitude/Changes in Attitude and Volcano, it appeared to dawn on him that he actually liked the sun-and-surf tunes.

He appreciated it so much, in fact, that he swiped the CD to take upstairs and play in his room. Next thing I knew, the three boys and one girl were filming themselves--I'm sorry, "making music videos"--lip-syncing to Margaritaville. It was a great deal less...mellow...than your traditional Buffett rendition, with sequences that somehow involved leaping off the bed, spinning around on a desk chair, fake-fistfighting in slow-motion, and throwing slippers at the vocalist (hey, they were SHARK-shaped-slippers!). But at least the kids were--in their own unique "raging goofball" kind of way--expressing enjoyment for some truly classic beach-rock. Let's see, how can I use this to my advantage...I've got it: since it's nowhere near time for a vacation yet, I'll teach them to serenade me while I sit on the porch sipping Boat Drinks! I feel closer to the ocean already!

(a personal favorite musical memory from that era is when 3-year old Derek plopped himself down with makeshift drumsticks, called for silence, and announced that he was going to sing the RHCPs' Californication. So funny. So inappropriate. Husband in SOOO much trouble! Also, Derek would wander through the grocery store humming the Clash's Lost in the Supermarket...and no, I'm not making that up!)

Growing Older (but not up)!

Last April I was freaking out because my older son had reached Double Digits in age. A year later, I don't actually remember exactly WHY this threw me for a loop...maybe I've just evolved into an exceptionally well-adjusted, go-with-the-flow Mom in the past 365 days (yeah, right....stop laughing so hard!) Anyway, time marches on, now he's 11, and although it seems like his 10th birthday was about a week ago, we're both fine with the new, advanced number. (except it's prime, and I tend to dislike prime numbers...don't get me started...)

I do realize that we're creeping closer to the Big A (yeah, adolescence--shudder!), but I figured 11 couldn't really be that much different than 10, right? Well, wouldn't you know, when Derek woke up on his birthday he immediately announced, "My chin hurts." (Um, okay...did someone punch you in your sleep? That's it, no more Wii Lego Star Wars before bed!) But upon closer inspection, it appeared that he had sprouted his very first small pimple. What a special pre-teen birthday surprise! Of course he reacted with his typical dramatic humor: "Oh no, I have ACNE! Well, at least I have a week to get rid of it because it's Spring Break...I'm gonna have to take zit-popping lessons from Katy Perry!" (the last part thanks to the ProActiv commercials that air endlessly during matches on the Fox Soccer Channel. Apparently watching professional soccer causes oily skin...who knew?)

And then there was the yearly checkup with his pediatrician, during which we discovered that he's packed on 12 pounds in the last year. This may not sound significant at first, but to put it in perspective for my skinny son: with the exclusion of his first year of life, Derek has never gained more than 3 or 4 pounds in 12 months. He still has the metabolism of a hyperactive gnat (grrrr--so jealous!!) but at least he's becoming more...solid (and considering he started out a-few-ounces-shy of 6 pounds, 77-1/2 sounds downright...huge!). This of course was good news to us. But then she had to ruin the happy-growth-spurt-vibe by uttering the absolutely dreaded words--"I'm definitely seeing signs of pre-puberty." Aaarrgh! I swear I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and start shouting "LALALALA I can't hear you!" But I figured that was not the Mature Adult Role Model that was called for in this particular situation. Somehow I managed (denial) to survive the nasty shock (not thinking about it) and muddle through the rest of the appointment (deal with it later, much later) without further incident. With any luck Derek will remain my oblivious little boy for a bit longer (fingers crossed...and toes).

Speaking of which, I breathed a sigh of relief when, later that day, he came into my room and solemnly proclaimed, "Now that I'm 11, I must take the next step forward and become more mature." He paused, presumably to allow his grave words to penetrate with the proper dose of seriousness...and I braced myself for what was to come...then he broke into a devilishly-cheesy grin, threw up his hands, and yelled, "PILLOW FIGHT!" So at least for today, my firstborn--the Gleeful Gooberhead--seems to be clinging tenaciously to his childhood with both hands. Whew!

Brotherly Love (sort of)

Although my sons took their sweet time becoming little talking toddlers, (ironic, as their mother is a Speech-Language Pathologist by training, yes?) there are moments when I vehemently wish that they'd just, temporarily, forget how to speak. Particularly to each other. Why, you ask? Let me tell you--as brothers, they are very close. And of course this can be touching and sweet and an all-around joy to behold...when they get along. But they also have that special Sibling Talent for pushing each other's buttons, picking at each other's pet peeves, and poking each other's weak spots. Then, inevitably, comes the thing that is currently making me nuts, the Big B: BICKERING. It seems to me that the boys have been diligently working on raising their petty spats to the level of an art form...an incredibly annoying, obnoxious, get-on-your-very-last-nerve kind of art form, but at least they have goals, right?

The worst thing about it is the absurd triviality of what they choose to debate. Here's a recent example:
Derek: "You said you like Barcelona, not Real Madrid" (European soccer teams, for those who care)
Riley: (mildly irritated) "I never said that!"
Derek: (grinning, sensing an opportunity to incite a battle) "Yes, you did!"
Riley (loudly and indignantly, as though he's never been so insulted in his whole life) "No, I NEVER said that!"

Hello? Can you say "unwinnable argument?" And I fully believe this could very well go on for days if left unchecked, but after approximately 25 seconds I reach the end of my tolerance for this ridiculousness. So I calmly, politely, respectfully interrupt by stating in a quiet but firm voice, "That's enough, boys." Hahahahahaha! What actually happens is that I erupt in unsurpressed Mom Fury and yell at the top of my lungs: KNOCK...IT...OFF! Oh, and I separate them for good measure. But even the verbal bouts are better than the physical altercations I sometimes have to referee. "He punched me!" "He threw a ball at me!" And my absolute favorite: "He touched my stuff, so that's why I tackled him!" Oy. If I had a quarter for every time I've uttered the well-worn rule, "Keep your hands to yourself", I could retire right now...in Spain. (Sadly, my role as Parent Peacemaker has gone woefully uncompensated all these years...)

However, I sometimes catch hopeful glimmers that my broken-record chanting might finally pay off. Yesterday Riley got angry with Derek and ordered him out of his room. Evidently Derek wasn't leaving quickly enough for Riley's liking, so Riley helped him along with a shove to the back. In accordance with our "Zero Tolerance Policy" for such physical aggression, I banned Riley from playing DS for the rest of the day. He sniffled a little, and got a bit teary, but overall took the punishment surprisingly manfully. The Payoff, though, occured the next day: I heard Riley demand in a placid, reasonable voice, "Derek, stop kicking me." I instantly prepared to enter Parental Emergency Response Mode (P.E.R.M.? Hee hee!), and charge up the stairs to defuse the confrontation before it escalated. But I stopped in my tracks when I heard Riley add, "Derek, use your words, not your actions!" YEEEESSSSS! They might make it to adulthood without killing each other after all! Now can I start looking for retirement homes in Espana?

Just your typical Monday...

I should have known this would happen! I went and jinxed myself! (and apparently, knocking on wood-laminate, no matter how vigorously, or with what amount of heartfelt wishing...does NOT ensure you good fortune. That's it, next time I'm going with salt-over-the-shoulder. Or is that to ward off evil spirits? Clearly I need to research my Old Wives' Tales before tempting the Patron Saint of Healthy Children in the future.) Now where was I? Oh, yes: lamenting the fact that while Derek rebounded swiftly from his skull-crushing headache on Friday (even scoring a nifty hat-trick of goals in his Saturday soccer game), Monday brought yet another phone call from the Healthroom Aide. This time it was Riley, who was complaining of a stomachache so painful he couldn't return to class. He vividly described the discomfort ("First it hurt on the right, then the center, now it's kind of all over!" Gee, thanks, sweetie, I've got the picture.) Although I suspected that the problem was...shall we say "digestive" in nature, I picked him up anyway. He left school almost TOO cheerfully, but became suddenly less enamored of his afternoon at home when I reminded him that being sick means lying on the couch, not running around outside or playing video games on your DS. He seemed strangely taken aback by this information ("Hey, pal, this isn't a Kiddie Vacation Day"...or am I lacking in Mommy Sympathy again?) And, sure enough, after a brief...ahem...bathroom break, he claimed to be good as new. Super.

After this absolutely exhausting stint of playing Nurse, I needed a nap. It turned out to be a good thing I recharged my Parental Batteries for when Derek arrived home. There we were, having our usual afternoon chat in the kitchen while the boys ate a snack. I had given them cucumbers (Bonus Points for sneaking in veggies while their guard was down due to post-school-energy-lull!); as they crunched, Derek got quiet and thoughtful (Danger! Danger!) and wondered aloud, "Why do they put cucumbers on your eyes at a Spa?" (Oh, here we go...) I went with the understated, "I think because it's soothing." He came back with, "I tried it once...but I got a seed in my eye." (Of course you did, honey.) He sagely continued, "They probably use those special seedless ones!" (Uh-huh. Are we done yet? Nope, no such luck...) "But why cucumbers, anyway?" I was spared having to impart an in-depth cosmetological explanation of the eye-de-puffing qualities of cucumbers when Riley weighed in with, "Well, Derek, you wouldn't want just any vegetable...like you wouldn't want zucchinis on your eyes, would you?" (This was naturally delivered in his very best DUH tone of voice.)

And on that note, I've changed my mind--I declare both of you 100% recovered, and cleared to go play...OUTSIDE! I'm off to the computer...Mom's got to get busy booking herself a Spa Getaway, pronto! (and don't spare the cucumbers!)

Derek's Day Off...(Bueller? Bueller?*)

We've been very, very lucky in the "healthy kids" department over the years (Hold on, I have to pause here to knock on...all the wood in the immediate vicinity, lest I jinx us. Okay, I'm back). Honestly, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I've been summoned to school to pick up a sick boy. (Calls at recess time? Those are entirely more frequent...Derek got whacked in the face with a basketball...Riley bumped his head on the monkey bars..."Um, thanks for letting me know...send the goofball back to class with an icepack, he'll be fine!" Or is that not quite the Sympathetic Mom Response the School Nurse expects?)

This past Friday, however, I did get that dreaded voicemail from the Health Room. Evidently Derek had lasted long enough after arriving at school to complete his Spelling Test (that's my young scholar), then headed to the Office to lie down, complaining of a killer headache. I immediately left work and slipped into full Florence Nightingale mode--picking up Motrin from home, and a bagel and Gatorade from the grocery store--before delivering the Mom First Aid Supplies to my little soldier at the battlefield...uh, I mean elementary school. We administered the food and medicine, then waited to see what, if any, positive effect they might have. And...nothing. So I obtained his Official Discharge (i.e: told the Attendance Secretary he was outta there) and brought him home.

I had already quizzed him to determine if he was experiencing any other symptoms (ears? fine. throat? okay. stomach? pain-free. fever? none), so the Parental Differential Diagnosis was: your standard, terribly painful but not dangerous, Sinus Headache. Now, Derek will be 11 next week, so I informed him that he would be on his own for a couple of hours while I returned to work and finished my last assignment of the day. I set him up in the darkened Family Room with his Sports Drink, a warm fleecy blanket covering him from head-to-toe, the TV tuned to the Fox Soccer Channel, the remote by his side, and my cellphone number. I hung out with him for a while, imparting some therapeutic Mom TLC, then advised him to stay still and rest until I got back.

But before I left, we had to have The Talk--no, not THAT talk, the one where we review The Home-Alone Rules. As I mentioned, this had never happened before, so I wasn't exactly sure which points I needed to list and clarify. Derek is definitely the kind of kid you can trust: reliable, sensible, responsible. He already knows basic directives like: Don't Answer the Door, and Stay Inside. So, since he's such a rule-follower anyway, I hit upon what I deemed most important for him that day: "Honey, if you get your appetite back, you can eat whenever you feel like it!" (because otherwise I could just see him waiting until he was able to ask permission...as the general, everyday policy is "no eating between meals".) Obviously his sense of humor was not impaired by his pounding head; his instant reply was a heartfelt, "Whew! I've been waiting for those words since I was born!" By the time I left him, he'd already asked for another bagel, and when I walked back in the door 2 hours later, he was polishing off the remainder of a bag of pretzels and requesting the sandwich he hadn't gotten around to eating from his lunchbag...I could only conclude that either he wasn't that ill after all, or a few quality hours on the couch speeded his recovery immensely!

In fact, the only tense moment of the afternoon occurred when I had wrapped up my Health and Safety Lecture and was just about to depart...and Derek cheerfully quipped, "Don't worry, Mom, I won't burn down the house!" Wait, what? I didn't include Fire Prevention in my presentation! Maybe I should stay with you, after all! Aaah! (Of course, that was just a tiny example of what Derek likes to point out as "5th Grade Humor--har-de-har--both boy and building remained intact in my absence. But just in case, let's just hope that's our last Sick Day for a while....)

[*Derek reported with great amusement that when he trudged back to class to retrieve his backpack before leaving, his fellow students cheered, "Yay, Derek's back!" followed quickly by "Aww, he's going home!" Fortunately, Principal Rooney did NOT come by our house and catch him whiling away the academic day in his cozy Boy Cave, surrounded by snacks and scoping out the soccer broadcast...]