Say Cheese!

I've been a shutterbug since the first time I picked up my Mom's little Instamatic, sometime in the 70s, and took over the photo-snapping duties at some family gathering or another. I don't think I ever gave that thing back, either. It had those funny rectangular flash attachments that you clicked into the top of the camera, and every time you took a picture, one of the bulbs would pop, until they were all used up and you replaced it with a fresh one. (So primitive...so NOT cost-effective...so environmentally irresponsible...but it was hip at the time...right up there with velvet blazers and, apparently, shiny dress shirts...oh, Dad...sigh.) I pretty quickly figured out that not only was it loads of fun to capture the action on film (the potential for goofy or embarrassing shots being oh-so-high back in the old-school "every frame gets printed no matter how stupid you look...or how much your thumb is blocking the viewfinder" days), but also you got to tell people what to do...and they actually obeyed you! "Go stand over there, straighten your shoulders, now smiiiilllle!" I'm sure it made me absolutely giddy with power.

Instamatic: Mom and Dad, sporting their disco-era finery

Eventually I grew up a bit, hoarded my high-school babysitting money, and chose my first 35-mm: a Ricoh with a separate telephoto lens and a detachable flash unit that you had to slide into its socket--AND remember to turn on--when you wanted to utilize it. I lugged that thing absolutely everywhere, for over 20 years, as a matter of fact, until I finally dropped it--not the first slip, but as it turned out, the final one--on some concrete while shooting Fall foliage at a nearby lake. I mourned a little...but the brief sadness quickly gave way to rejoicing, because now I had a perfectly legitimate reason to buy a brand new camera! Whoo hoo!

Ricoh: the Roman Coliseum, circa 1991

But I found myself facing a dilemma--the entire Universe had converted to digital technology, film was fast becoming an anachronism...what was an old-fashioned photography buff to do? After much soul-searching, wringing of hands, pulling of hair (okay, maybe not those last two) I decided I just couldn't convert yet--at least not 100%--and went with a film-style Nikon. And it produces beautiful images...especially when the subject remains perfectly still....like a beachscape or a nice, cooperative...mountain. However, when someone--your son, for instance--is sprinting up and down a soccer field, or climbing a tree, or leaping into a swimming pool...not so much. Thus I ended up with a second Nikon, of the digital variety, and so patted myself on the back for fully entering the Modern Age of Photography.

Nikon N65: Harper's Ferry, WV

Or at least that's what I blissfully went about believing...until we were at the final Orioles home game a few weeks ago and I was busily clicking away with my little Coolpix to chronicle our fun day at the stadium...and a guy behind us (older than me, I should note...indignantly!) chuckled and quipped, "What's that thing in her hand?" I stopped for a moment, temporarily at a loss, then noticed that all around me, my fellow fans were also taking pictures....with their iPhones or whatever other "smart" device they had. Ahhhhh, I get it. Now, I could do that, too, but the results are much better when I use my "real camera"...because I get them printed, rather than just instantly uploading them to Facebook...oh, never mind, I'll admit I'm a dinosaur in this particular case--and I own it. At least I'm a photo-snob, artistic throwback, right? (RIGHT? I'll pretend you all agree with me. Thank you...)

Coolpix: Billy Goat Trail

And really, if you want to feel old and out of touch, who better to help you than your children, yeah? Case in point: the other day Derek, my beloved 7th grader, queried me out of the blue, "Hey, Mom, do you have an Instagram account?" "Um...noooo?" I answered. (Unsure if this was the acceptable response or not, which was made abundantly clear by his follow-up...) With perfect seriousness, and not one ounce of irony whatsoever, he asked, "Why not? (pause) Don't you want to be cool?" Oh...dear. Of course I do! Dang it, now that's something else I have to figure out (mutter grumble sputter). So at my earliest convenience (the next day--no sense putting off these troublesome tasks--I mean "valuable learning experiences") I applied myself to my phone to master the App. (Which incidentally should have taken approximately 10 seconds, but was made infinitely more challenging by the fact that Google for some reason stubbornly insisted that I was using my previous phone. No wonder I attempted to download 6 times, yet never could find the stupid program. Ah, technology. It's okay; I eventually won.) And now I can say (with pride? chagrin? relief? clearly I have mixed feelings at this point...) that I have joined the Instagram World. Something else to play with...when my Nikon(s) is/are at home!

Instagram: immediate gratification!

Fall? Already?

Just this week I noticed the trees around here beginning to display their Autumn wardrobe of reds, oranges, and yellows. When I went running this evening on a wooded path in a nearby park, I even found myself crunching some of the first-fallen leaves under my sneakers. And when I finished my 3 miles, at only about 6:30 or so, the afternoon light had noticeably begun to fade away into dusk, earlier than I've become accustomed to at this point. What does all this mean? I need to finally let go of the last few clinging shreds of my Summer mentality, and finally accept that Fall is here to stay. (Mid-October, not a moment too soon, right?)

The unscheduled days of July and August are long gone, replaced by "get up, get ready, get out the door" routines for school and work. An agenda completely devoid of responsibility has given way to Math homework and Spanish review and Reading assignments and take-home Science experiments. Free-for-all pickup football games in the neighborhood have taken a backseat to (two teams' worth of) soccer practices and matches. And all of this is hunky-dory--I mean, sure, it happens every year, right about this time, as a matter of fact, so we really ought to see it coming--I think it's just the whole "losing daylight" thing that bums me out a little. And of course the "decreasing temperatures", which leads to the yearly dilemma of "I despise feeling cold...yet I also dislike wearing a coat...or gloves...or a scarf...and a hat is just RIGHT out of the question". (Thus my annual declaration: I swear I'm moving to Southern California one of these days...)

So yeah, everyone in our family seems to get a bit sluggish while we work out the change-of-season kinks. But on the other hand, we cheer ourselves up with some of the treasures that Fall brings: pumpkin spice lattes (okay, that's just me); tart and juicy apples; Postseason baseball (including, for once, our O-R-I-O-L-E-S)...and in just a few more weeks, the promise of Halloween candy. For that, I'll concede to switching the clocks back...and putting on a warm sweater!

Let's Go, Os! (stomp stomp clap)

I was raised by a rabid Orioles fan (and Colts, but shhhh--we don't talk about that painful subject). My father grew up in Baltimore, and could reminisce enthusiastically, knowledgeably--and at length--about the graceful fielding of Brooks Robinson, the powerful hitting of Boog Powell, or the masterful pitching of Jim Palmer. He experienced firsthand the thrill of following a talented team's season-long campaign, all the way from Opening Day in chilly early-April, to the Pennant Race in crisp late-September. He celebrated the World Series wins in '66 and '70, and lamented the near-misses in '71 and '79. That's right about where I started paying attention, unfortunately, as I will forever have a serious loathing for the &%$# tune "We Are Family", originally by Sister Sledge, but corrupted by the Pittsburgh Pirates as their theme song that year. To this day, hearing it nauseates me. But I digress...

On the other hand, I was lucky enough to grow up during the Ripken Era, marveling at the Iron Man's overwhelming respect for the game, love of playing, and work ethic that defied understanding. I clearly recall watching the '83 Fall Classic with my Dad, and feeling overjoyed not only with the victory, but also with the selection of my favorite player--feisty, fun-loving catcher Rick Dempsey--as Series MVP.  My family never made the hour-long drive to Baltimore to watch a game in person, as my parents pretty much symbolized the idea of "homebodies." But...when I happened to attend Loyola College...in Charm City...within walking-distance of old Memorial Stadium (okay, it was a loooong stroll, through some sketchy neighborhoods, but we were young and foolish, so we did it anyway), I learned what it meant to bask in the ballpark atmosphere. (Ahem, even though at the concrete giant that was Memorial Stadium, this generally meant "greasy hotdogs, watered-down soda, and sloshed, vociferously profane Upper Deck denizens".  Ah, good times...)

Then the Orioles moved into their swanky new digs at Camden Yards, and we had a jewel-of-a-ballpark in which to cheer on our team. As an adult, I had the means and motivation to get to games whenever the spirit moved me--hour-long drive be darned! Husband (then Boyfriend) and I were in the stands for Playoff games in '96 and '97, bundled against the Fall nighttime air, unable to even talk to each other over the noise of a jammed-to-the-rafters stadium screaming its collective lungs out for the Os. It was mayhem. It was exhilarating. Who could have predicted at the time that it would be the absolute end of the Orioles contending...or even posting a winning record...for a decade-and-a-half? Suddenly the loyal constituency of Birdland had to come to grips with a team that year after year finished in the cellar of the American League East. 20 games under .500, 30 games...it got to the point where even those of us with Orange and Black in our blood couldn't bear to watch. Sometimes I gave up by the All-Star Break, and just quit paying attention for the rest of the pathetic season. Team WestEnders still made the trek to the Yard on occasion, more for the nostalgia of the still-beautiful stadium and the longing for a live game, than any actual interest in the Os down on the field.

Husband and I even dutifully introduced our kids to the glory of the American Pastime, and tried to drum up interest in the Baltimore nine. The boys happily scarfed down soft pretzels and drank cold lemonade and did their best to root for the home team...but eventually even their youthful idealism was beaten down by the endless futility of losing. It saddened me, but I couldn't blame them--not when I myself had trouble rah-rah-ing for the last-place Os. And then, finally, at long last, out of nowhere stormed the 2012 Orioles. Now, keep in mind, this is a club that has not once posted a winning record since before my kids were born, so forgive us if we approached the early success of the season with a little--make that a huge heaping keg of--skepticism. "We'll just see what happens," we cautiously repeated...in April...and May...and June...and July...and, well, you get the picture. It felt alien to us to actually set aside time after dinner to sit down and view the games together...to hold lively discussions about various players' stats...to look up the scores and standings every day lest we miss anything. Even into late Summer, though, it still seemed too fragile a thing, this "Oriole Magic" to truly believe. I think I finally realized I'd given in when we were on vacation in Mexico...and checking the SportsCenter ticker (in Spanish, no less) each morning to see what had transpired in the AL East in our absence. This collection of mostly no-names that wasn't even supposed to be relevant-- much less good--just kept rolling along, pulling out wins in one-run contests, putting away an astonishing number of extra-inning victories, climbing into the unfamiliar "over .500" territory and staying there, even with a negative Run Differential that left Sports Experts scratching their heads. It was improbable, if not downright impossible, by all rational explanation...but yeah, we're in, make space for us on the bandwagon...

The four of us, along with a group of friends, went to the very last home game of the season at Camden Yards. On a bright, sunny, coolish Sunday, the stands were packed shoulder-to-shoulder with animated, energized fans. There was supportive yelling after every strike from our pitcher. There was a huge roar after a base hit...a home run...or even just a long fly ball that might have a chance to go out. It was like Playoff adrenaline, and it was amazing. So the boys got the whole package: crunchy chicken tenders, icy root beer, memorable souvenirs, and a fantastic game--which the Os incidentally won. Whatever happens from here on out in the Postseason, I'd have to say we are one satisfied, newly-excited family of Os fans. Now excuse me,  the Wild Card game is in full swing, Os vs Rangers, and I've gotta go check the score...

The Runaway Boy Brain...

I'm sure this will come as quite a shock to those who know me (go ahead, brace yourselves), but I loooooved my School Days. (Pausing for sarcastic laughter to subside...) I thrived on learning new things, I lived to give correct answers, and I thrilled to receive Report Cards filled with good grades. (Yes, I was a geek...before there was even a word for it.) But I had no idea if any of this would rub off on my own children when it came time for them to leap into the academic world. Was my Inner Type-A Scholar genetically transferable? Would I need to painstakingly teach good scholastic habits? Up to now, I've considered myself very lucky that my sons seemed to be developing into fine, upstanding students. (Maybe it's due to all the repeated beating-them-over-the-head with "the importance of education" and "our high parental expectations for success" and "the value of putting forth your best effort" blah blah blah...On second thought, maybe we should lighten the heck up a little bit, before they crack from the strain and decide to run away and live in the school-free wilderness with Gypsies...) Anyway...I do sometimes get a bit of grumbling related to the amount and complexity of homework, or a few complaints about a particular subject that may not be so much fun to study. But by-and-large, the work gets done, the quality is acceptable, and the grades reflect appropriate progress and mastery.

Sooooo, just when I settled into a comfortable rhythm, thinking Team WestEnders was functioning like a well-oiled machine, the proverbial School Bus hit a speed bump in the First Quarter Road. Actually, a couple of bounces...more like a bunch of potholes, and the bus is pounding through them, flinging the passengers wildly about...oh, never mind. Let me explain: in a nutshell, 7th Grade is thus far kicking Derek's...butt. Now, we were warned by various parental friends--who themselves have older children--that the 7th Grade year for some unknown reason offers a whole collection of challenges to overcome. Derek also heard this informally from neighborhood kids who had weathered Middle School already, so it's accurate to say that we felt somewhat informed about the....onslaught? However, what I failed to factor into my School Management Paradigm for this year was Derek's new adolescent hormonal situation. It appears that whatever...male...stuff...is currently floating through his body and brain negatively affects his higher-order cognitive skills. That is, such basic-yet-crucial operations as: decision-making, problem-solving, planning, organization, critical-thinking...and even attention. These areas have never posed a problem of any kind for Derek in the past, but suddenly he's a different boy...one who drifts around in a kind of mental fog, utilizing extremely filtered "selective hearing", forgetting things immediately after you've told him, making uncharacteristically poor choices, demonstrating a sudden lack of impulse control...OY.

The boy who diligently, continuously handled his own school responsibilities last year abruptly vanished, to be replaced by a scatterbrained individual who instead, in the space of a couple of short weeks, did all of the following:
--came home one day and anxiously announced he had to make a model of a cell...and he needed me to go out and obtain modeling clay..."for tomorrow!"
--took advantage of every minute of his allowed video game time over the weekend, then dug out his backpack on Sunday night and seemed utterly astonished at the amount of homework he had avoided to that point, and still needed to accomplish before bedtime.
--spent an unusual amount of time after school in his room one day later that week, reading intently. When I interrupted to tell him to go to bed, he admitted that the book was due...tomorrow. I stared at him with a complete lack of comprehension: "You mean to tell me, all those hours you were playing PS3, or checking scores on your iTouch, or...just goofing off...you could have been working on your assignment?" (Can you just hear my voice rising in both volume and pitch toward the end of that rhetorical question?) After I railed at him for squandering his time and leaving the important task for the last minute, I imposed the first ever Electronics Ban--and also allowed him to stay up a little late and finish the doggone book. (And trust me, that particular punishment reeeealllly hit hard, as Derek--in order to have any video game stimulation at all--was reduced to watching over his brother's shoulder as Riley amused himself with his 3DS. Derek hated every minute of it...and will remember for next time, I'll wager...unless the Preteen Brain Freeze is still in effect...sigh...)

Clearly, the updated school routine is going to require a return to more stringent Parental Oversight...at least until his faculties--I don't know, calm down? kick back into gear? That should happen by the time he goes away to college, right? Until then, we're buckling up...

The Metal Age

Today an extended (for all of us), expensive (for Mom and Dad), excruciating (for Derek, at times) journey finally drew to a close. With a momentous visit to the Orthodontist, my older son got to put his Era of Braces behind him. Believe me when I say this counts as a major life event--the kid has had some form of metal in his mouth since he was 7-1/2 years old. Husband and I always knew it was inevitable; after all, both of us suffered through the traintrack-years ourselves. And if we did harbor any doubts, they were decisively dispelled when the Pediatric Dentist warned us at a routine cleaning that Derek would be a likely candidate for orthodontic correction...and he was TWO at the time. It seems our child inherited his Dad's...rather large....teeth, and also his narrow face, so the poor boy was doubly doomed from the beginning with a severely overcrowded mouth.

Now, when people of my generation were growing up, and presented the Dental Professional with a profile of "too many teeth and not enough space", the standard response was to start yanking those suckers out to create room. Husband and I both "benefited" from this strategy, each having 4 of our pearly-whites removed in somewhat traumatic childhood operations. However, procedures have changed over the past several...decades...and the 21st-century plan of attack involves: palate expanders. The idea is that--if you start early enough (before age 10)--the roof of the mouth hasn't fully hardened yet, so you can gently push it outward to allow the teeth to fit in, without having to extract any. Thus Derek got a big hunk of metal glued to his upper teeth, stretching across the top of his mouth, moving things slowly across a span of many months. (Um...whoo hoo? Probably better than sacrificing teeth...but still not a whole lot of fun, yeah?) The Orthodontist then bracketed the front teeth only, to hold them in place while the rest of the late-eruptors showed up to the party.

When all of his teeth had at last made an appearance, it was time for the full-mouthful: brackets, wires, rubber bands, the works. We would dutifully make appointments for every 8 weeks or so, and the Orthodontist would poke and prod and tighten. Through all of this, Derek was an absolute trooper. He literally grinned and bore it, even though we got used to planning menus full of "soft foods" for a few days after his visits, since he was sure to have discomfort when chewing. He rarely complained; he followed the rules; and he was sooooo very patient. He even weathered a huge, disappointing "tease"--when the hardware was taken off (yaaayyy!) only to be replaced later for the mysterious "Phase 2" that we had conveniently blocked out of our collective memory way back in the beginning of the process. (boooo!) He stoically endured an extension of his treatment plan, as his original Orthodontist retired, and the doctor who took over wanted to "fine tune some things" before signing off on Derek's smile. During the final few months, he even dealt graciously with tiny rubber bands that he had to wear in triangles between the upper and lower teeth, and which had to be changed each time he ate. (ie: 5 times a day for a growing 12-year old...frankly, these looked like some kind of colorful-yet-sadistic dental torture devices to me, but what do I know? I just write the checks...)

And now, the payoff: perfectly straight, shiny teeth. During his appointment today, he practiced with his retainers...the ones he'd been allowed to design...one orange (Orioles) and one purple (Ravens). The education continued for me, as the hygienist explained that for the first 4 months post-brace, Derek should wear them for 12 hours...a night. I stared at her blankly for a moment while I processed that tidbit. "Um, and during the day?" She shook her head firmly, "No, only at night!" I nodded intelligently to show I understood, but in my head I was giddy with excitement: "You mean he doesn't have to wear them to school, and leave them in a napkin on the lunch table, and throw them away, and search the trash? Like we ALL did at least once during Middle or High School? Yippppeeeee!" It turns out the new recommendation is to wear them while sleeping...forever. Yep, those chompers remember their old positions, and keep wanting to move back, but evidently if you rein them in while you sleep, that's enough to protect your new grin. Okey-dokey, then, we're on board with that!

For the rest of the day, I frequently caught Derek wearing a little smirk, running his tongue over his smooth teeth. He admitted that whenever he ate anything, he habitually kept trying to pick food out of his nonexistent metal-food-trappers. I think it's safe to say he's thrilled to have survived the Metalmouth Years. Just in time, too...since Riley already sports his own expander, and next month will probably get fitted for brackets! Sigh. At least it's one down, one to go, right?

Boys in...Hoods

Ready for yet another entry in the neverending saga called "My Sons are Goofballs"? (If not, you've been warned: run away now!) So, last night they were goofing around together (NOT arguing or poking or tackling or shoving or any of the other obnoxious ways they interact these days...thus I seized the rare and delightful opportunity to just let them do their thing) when suddenly one of them decided it would be a splendid idea to put on fleecy winter hats. (Because, naturally, nothing really completes your...pajama ensemble...quite like a ski cap. Those boys, they sure do know how to accessorize, right?) Derek then proceeded to strut around, arms folded, chest puffed out (as much as possible for a boy whose ribs are countable...through his tee-shirt), and declared himself "Sooooo swag!" (For those unfortunate souls who are sadly deprived of a Middle School child in their lives, (you can borrow mine anytime...wait, was that out loud? oops...) this currently-popular, totally overused slang term simply means "cool".

Anyway, it took me a while to get a handle on my hysterical laughter--watching my suburban middle-class son, with his twinkling eyes, ear-to-ear grin, studious-looking glasses and small lock of hair escaping to curl innocently on his forehead...trying to promote his...I don't know...Inner Gangsta? Oh, it was QUITE the spectacle, I tell ya. I reached into my (very very shallow) pool of rap music knowledge and came up with, "What, you and Snoop Dogg are gonna hang out now?" (Yeah, that's all I could come up with...I'm not even pretending to know what I'm talking about, here...) But he instantly leaped to his feet and sprinted from the room, shouting, "Yes, we are!" I should have seen this coming...a moment later he returned, triumphantly carrying Snoop...y...Dog and wearing a pleased-as-punch expression. Sigh. You win that one, my son. Well played.

But hold on--the one that actually brought the house down was yet to come. I was still chuckling, teasing both of them about needing some serious work on their "street cred".  A few minutes later (of continuing to prance and parade around the house, acting utterly ridiculous for our entertainment), Riley announced with absolute conviction that he was busy working on his (Wait. For. It.) STREET CURD. That just about finished Derek--he commenced rolling around on the floor in spasms of glee, until he calmed down enough to interject, "Yeah, you like tofu...so maybe you have bean curd!" Which cracked him up anew, until Riley capped the whole preposterous discussion off by asking in exasperation, "Okay, then, what is it really? Street...crud?" Yes, my sweet child, that's exactly what it is, in this case. You and your brother are positively full-up-to-your-eyeballs with...street crud. (And I can only hope that comes off in the shower...)

The (Young) People Have Spoken...

What with all the political commercials and billboards and signs in people's yards these days, it seems that we've come to that very special time once more: Tune Out the Politicians Month....no, that's not it...oh, yeah "Election Season"! Tragically, you can't escape all the swirling debate and rhetoric, especially when they have the incredible nerve to air ads during sacred events like baseball games, for crying out loud. So the boys have unwittingly been exposed to lots of information--one sound bite at a time--which has led to an unprecedented increase in the political discussion around the dinner table in our house (since the "normal amount" is roughly equal to...NONE).

There has been some educational background-knowledge building, like when we touched on such topics as: the voting process, the rights and responsibilities of citizens to help choose leaders, the makeup of Congress, blah blah blah. (I actually had to jump up and leave the kitchen to Google "how many Representatives are there" because the number had slipped my mind. Utterly mortifying to have forgotten, yet instantly gratifying to locate the answer so quickly. I truly do not know how a fatally impatient--I mean "scholastically inquisitive"--person like me EVER survived without the blessed internet. "You can go to the Library tomorrow, honey, and look that up." Can you imagine? Oh wait...that was what my Mom told me a few decades ago...in the Dark Ages...aka "the 70s"!)

Anyway, we also talked a little bit about campaigning, and some ways the candidates might try to persuade you to elect them. Derek took this in a personal direction, turning to Husband and me and inquiring, "So, if you want the position of Preferred Parent, what can you offer me?" (Spontaneously applying a theoretical framework to a self-constructed hypothetical-real-life situation--I love my Middle School nerdling!) Husband sincerely and enthusiastically replied, "More televised sporting events on Saturdays! More salted-snack-chips on Sundays! And more grilled meat selections on Tuesdays!" Derek's eyes lit up as he contemplated life under Dictator Dad, but in fairness he turned to me and allowed me a chance to counter. "I will provide a consistent, early bedtime to ensure enough rest. A variety of nutritious and tasty meals. And (big finish) desserts on the weekends!"

Well...you can just imagine how well my platform went over with the electorate. Actually, Derek instantly turned to Husband and firmly declared, "I'm definitely voting for you!" Riley, on the other hand, came over to hug me and said, "I choose Mom, because she says she'll do the right things to keep us healthy!" Wow. He might have been sucking up (quite skillfully, I might add, as I bought it hook, line, and sinker), but I thought that was pretty darn insightful...for a 4th-grader. Husband then took the opportunity to explain to Mr. Impulsive Hedonist--I mean Derek--that people in the midst of running for office sometimes phrase their policies and promises in such as way as to make them more enticing...but they might also leave out or gloss over the less enjoyable aspects. (Yeah, try to explain the subtle difference between "lying" and "spin-doctoring" to 9 and 12-year olds...that was fun...) "For example, after I win the election, I might do exactly what Mom proposed, because it's good for you, but I didn't want to have to convince you of that until afterwards!"

Derek looked...perturbed...at being manipulated by a scheming, semi-truthful political figure. So I suspect that when the votes are counted (all two of them) I will actually win in a landslide. A mandate, if you will! Welcome to the Mom-archy! Now, in keeping with the agenda outlined in my campaign, I would like you all to: finish your lowfat, vegetarian lasagna; do your homework; and be in bed by 9. I'm your mother, and I approved this message!

Fish Tales

So we're revisiting the whole "pet situation" (because I stalled and waffled and procrastinated and made excuses for as long as I could, but eventually my grace period ran out) and it turns out that Riley would be totally content with...(drum roll) a fish. Whew! Nothing complicated to set up, or expensive, or difficult to maintain...just a simple little fishie. How hard could that be, right? Everyone has memories of winning a goldfish at the local carnival, proudly toting it home in a bag, and gaining an instant pet. Oh yeah...I almost forgot that those "beloved companions" tended to suffer from an extremely short life span...about 3 days from "welcome to the family" to "unceremonious exit via toilet bowl" as I recall (or "backyard funeral", for the more sentimental...or classier...among us).

Nevertheless, we approached impending fish-ownership with great anticipation and high hopes. First we made an initial recon trip to PetSmart to scope out the options. After chatting with the knowledgeable employees, and educating ourselves a bit about tropical fish...we firmly decided NOT to go that route. Heaters and special aquarium lights and whatnot--no thanks! A nice, low-maintenance betta seemed a much better choice. (Heck, you can't even get two of them--they'll fight each other to the death!) But before committing to anything, we returned home to complete the very crucial next step: research! (Yay! Just call us the Nature Nerd Squad!) We combed the internet for information on bettas' preferred living conditions (besides the obvious "solitary"), nutrition, and care. We (okay, "I") printed the most legitimate-sounding articles, highlighted the important points (not kidding about that), and finally felt prepared to make the leap into actually establishing our betta habitat (which sounds much fancier and more involved than "fishbowl").

Back to PetSmart we went, armed with all of our newfound facts, and feeling confident. Riley quickly chose a small tank (2.5 gallons), some gravel for the bottom (plain black--for the fish with sophisticated, understated taste, apparently), and one decoration. (A ceramic turtle...so the solo inhabitant doesn't feel lonely? I don't know what the rationale was, there...) Then we snagged a clerk to ask some vital questions: are plants recommended? (Yes, and they like bamboo. Got it: two stalks, please.) Is it advisable and/or safe to have a snail in the tank, to help filter the water? (Yes and yes. Add one Ivory Snail to the tally.) Food flakes, water conditioner...have we forgotten anything? Oops, the FISH! Riley selected a red one, whom he immediately dubbed "Neptune", and our fishing expedition was complete!

Back home, we followed the detailed instructions for preparing the tank, which mostly advises allowing the water to sit for 24-hours before you plop the fish in and shock its fragile little system. In the meantime, we had fun arranging the rest of the decor. And since we were told the snail wouldn't mind tap water at all, we went ahead and slid him into his new digs right away. (It crawled up the wall to a spot near the waterline...and parked. This appears to be a permanent situation, but if he's happy, so be it.) When Riley arrived home from school the next day, we planned to ceremonially introduce Neptune to his ph-neutral, water-creature-supportive environment. Hmm...I suddenly noticed a potential problem as I glanced at the very small cup he was currently swimming in...how exactly to effect the transfer? I certainly didn't want to add the by-now-filthy water he came in to his fresh clean tank...but I lacked a small enough net to dip him out of it. After a few minutes of intense brainstorming, I decided to try a very technical, delicate procedure...using a wooden spoon from the kitchen. Well, you can just imagine how smoothly that went, yes? Oh, he got scooped up into my makeshift fish-relocation-device just fine...and then took an energetic flip-flop right onto Riley's dresser.

So to review: fish out of water, Mom standing by on alert wielding her spoon (staring quizzically at the blasted betta, wondering frantically what to do, but remaining remarkably calm on the outside, so as to refrain from alarming her sensitive son), Riley beginning to cry in despair behind me, certain that his new pet had met its untimely demise already, at the hand of his well-meaning but inept parent. (Yeah, "Mommy Fish Killer"--who needs that on their Parental Resume, as fodder for their child's future therapy sessions?) But not to worry--since I'd actually had the foresight (read: "dumb luck") to bring TWO spoons upstairs, I managed to gently slide the wayward creature onto my "sling" and drop his fishy butt into the tank where he belonged. Aquatic Crisis averted. Then we were able to relax and enjoy watching him glide around his watery home, checking out the scene, darting around the turtle statue, glaring at the snail (or that may just have been my interpretation). He appeared for all intents and purposes to be happy and well-adjusted...for a fish. (What do I know, I'm clearly not the Fish Whisperer...but we'll just go with it, yeah?)

But wait: we're not done with the melodrama just yet. Riley, feeling protective and nurturing toward the little guy who was now his responsibility, wanted to get started on a daily care routine. In a word: food. So he gently sprinkled a few flakes into the water and stood by...while Neptune completely ignored it. Eventually the soggy pieces sunk to the bottom and Riley became distraught. "He's not eating! He's going to DIE! I should never have gotten a fish! Let's give him to someone who can take better care of him!" (I am not exaggerating any of this--the boy can pitch a heck of a fit when motivated.) I did what I always do--tried to talk him off the Hysteria Ledge and back into Reasonable Land by suggesting that the fish is still acclimating to his new situation, or he's simply not hungry right now, or perhaps he doesn't care for the brand of freeze-dried...gunk....we bought and we can try a different variety, blah blah blah. (This all sounds quite logical and intelligent, right? I have no earthly clue why the silly thing won't eat, either, I'm just making stuff up as I go along...shhh!) I don't think I entirely convinced him, but if Neptune is alive in the morning I'll call that a "win" and we'll move on from there.

And this is the "easy, no fuss" pet we settled on--jeesh! On second thought, maybe it's just my precious child who's high-strung. (I could try giving BOTH of them different food...or sedatives...) Stay tuned for the continuing saga of A Boy and His Betta!

Plants vs. Riley

Remember oh-so-long ago (you know, like “2 whole weeks”) when I was lamenting the fact that in terms of health crises, "one occurrence can be considered a fluke, twice constitutes an alarming trend"? (I love quoting myself, as if I'm some kind of expert!) Well, under those parameters, it seems Riley's new "Fall thing" is going to be: Attack of the Wheezing. It happened last year--on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, which I wouldn't have recalled, until he adamantly reminded me, irrefutably proving just how much of a traumatic imprint it made on his memory. Now, that one was downright scary, as he struggled to breathe and we whisked him to the Emergency Room, where they medicated him and gave him breathing treatments to loosen up the gunk and open the passageways. Fortunately he responded immediately to the intervention, and continued to improve over the next several days. Since he'd never experienced any kind of lung issues before, we chalked it up to "random virus" and thought we'd never have to deal with it again. (Ha! Jinxed ourselves…) However, after  you’ve used a nebulizer machine, with the mask that goes over your face, they naturally give it to you to bring home. At the time, I looked blankly at the nurse when she held the box out to me, wondering "what the heck am I going to do with this contraption?" But, being the hyper-organized person that I am, I made sure the directions and all the parts were safely tucked in, and placed the whole thing in the Storage Room downstairs…where it would hopefully never be touched again.

And it really seemed that we were home free. We were cruising along, healthy except for the day-to-day allergy issues that are completely manageable (with OTC meds, that is), all the way to...September…again. (Sigh. At least it was two weeks after Labor Day this time, that counts for something, right?) One night Riley started coughing heavily, sounding congested and uncomfortable. In the morning, although his symptoms were nowhere near as bad as they were during last year’s episode, Husband and I just…didn’t like something about the sound of his breathing. (You know, Dr. Mom and PA Dad, the undisputed team of experts…at least in this house…) So we made the decision to keep him out of his soccer game (gasp!) and drag him to the (real) pediatrician instead. And whaddya know, she agreed with us—that although it wasn’t severe, there was some “tightness” in his chest, and nebulizer therapy would most likely alleviate it.

Well, good thing I carefully packed up the machine last year, yeah? When I went to retrieve it from the basement, I found even better news: not only had I stored all of the necessary pieces, but I’d kept the leftover Albuterol as well--no need to even fill the new prescription. This time we felt like old pros hooking up the apparatus and administering the solution…and once more the procedure eased Riley’s upper-respiratory distress. So what have we learned from this repeated sequence of events? First of all, Riley—although he’s never tested positive for a ragweed allergy--is evidently sensitive to the stuff, at least when it’s at peak production and swirling madly around outside our neighborhood. More importantly, next year we’re commencing a preventative extra-strength allergy drug regimen in August, and crossing our fingers that it keeps the stupid pollen dust at bay without having to resort to steroidal solutions. For now, everyone’s breathing easier (literally AND metaphorically) and looking forward to the more pleasing aspects of the Fall season, like cooler temperatures, colorful leaves, and crisp apples. We’re definitely not allergic to any of these!

The Education Continues...

Aah, the beginning of another school year--the excitement of fresh pencils and notebooks (Hello, nice to meet you, you may call me "Office Supply Nerd"), the joy of new Fall fashions (oh wait, I have sons, who will continue to wear their Summer shorts and tees until Thanksgiving. Never mind...), the torture--I mean "enlightenment and entertainment" of Back to School Night(s). I've been dutifully attending these shindigs for 7 years now, and I have to admit that this year I thought to myself "Again? Really? Don't I know enough about Elementary and Middle School by this point to at least fake my way through? But the deeply ingrained Type-A Academic in me (you know, the one who always did her homework, never turned in an assignment late, and memorized her notes before tests) just wouldn't let me skip it. What if I missed something crucially important to my child's educational success? What if all the other parents got more brownie points with my kid's teacher by showing up? Ooh, and speaking of brownies: what if there were extra-stupendous snacks the one year I failed to put in an appearance? Clearly, I couldn't let this happen. So I heaved an inner sigh and resigned myself to nodding, smiling, and attempting to listen attentively to the spiel once more.

First up: Riley's BTS Night. And I must say, it went much better than I had expected or even hoped it would. You see, over the years I've picked up some valuable shortcuts...or sneaky tricks...hmm, let's just go with "Elementary School Insider Information". The first of these is: plan your arrival after the introductory PTA meeting. (Shh, you did NOT hear me say that!) During this time, the building is packed wall-to-wall with parental bodies waiting to visit classrooms. It's loud. It's overly-warm. It's simply too much of an up-close-and-personal crush of humanity for me to be dealing with. Secondly, now that Riley is my one child in this particular school, I need only sit through a single half-hour presentation instead of sticking around for both sessions. Thus by checking the schedule, I can ensure that I smoothly slide into my chair for the very last portion of the evening. Many people have vacated the premises by this point, so navigating both the miniscule parking lot and the narrow hallways becomes a breeze rather than a logistical nightmare. In short, my self-devised "BTS Night Surgical-Strike Operation" makes the whole process painless and pleasant. (And now I've given away all my secrets...drat!) Oh, and lest I forget: the actual meet-and-greet with Riley's teacher was informative and interesting as well! He should have a fun year.

Then there's Middle School. BTS Night for Derek's grade involves the delightful process of following a condensed version of your child's schedule. You find their classrooms, get introduced to each of their seven instructors, and hear a brief-but-fact-filled summary of "what they'll be learning/how they'll be graded/what I expect of them". Last year was my first shot at this, and I failed miserably at figuring out where the heck anything was located in that school. (Except the Gym, which was obvious.) I left at the end of the evening swearing (literally!) that the place was designed by...sugared-up gremlins...or something. C-Hall?  B-Hall? They all ran together in a great big circle. Fortunately the wise administrators, anticipating parents'...ineptitude? Helplessness? Confusion?...placed minions (I mean "students") at intervals throughout the school, calling out "Can I help you? What are you looking for?" Although it lent somewhat of a carnival atmosphere to the proceedings, I would never have found even one of Derek's classes without them. But that was last year. And although Derek continued to mock me for having such a hard time, and predicted I'd perform just as pathetically this year, I was determined to prove him wrong.

So, armed with the course list he'd written out for me, including the order of his subjects and the classroom numbers, I bravely set out into the wild, dangerous...Middle School jungle. Derek had also warned me that this year he had classes both upstairs and downstairs, potentially adding to the...challenge...adventure...recipe for disaster? But--shockingly--I managed to go straight to the first four periods without a hitch (one was PE in the aforementioned Gym, but it still counts). Meanwhile I was treated to a Lab Demonstration in Science, in which the teacher gleefully showed us how to operate a Bunsen burner...by torching a soap bubble as it floated toward the ceiling. Awesomely cool, yes...but this indicated two things to me: 1) that lady might enjoy her job a little too much and 2) our precious darlings are evidently authorized to play with fire this year. Let's see...twelve-year old boys--start with lack of impulse control, couple it with an excess of energetic goofiness...add open flames...does anyone else feel jittery about this?

Nevertheless, I was cruising along, gaining confidence as I tromped up and down the stairs with the thronging masses of Moms and Dads...until Math time. I knew exactly where I was going, sped calmly and surely to the correct hallway, looked up and down at the numbers...211, 213, 214,...um, my paper says "212"....which doesn't seem to exist. Now, that's disconcerting. (Maybe I should be looking for Platform 9 3/4?) Even more alarming, when I did finally spot a small sign on the wall with the correct room number, it was a (wait for it) depository for unused books. That's right, my beloved son wrote down that he studies equations and graphing and set theory...in a Storage Closet. Fortunately for me, the Principal happened to be standing there and noticed my confounded expression, so she snagged a Student Helper to guide me to the right place. As this girl and I chatted and walked, I found out that she knows Derek. When I told her about the schedule snafu, she laughed and commented, "He was joking about writing down the wrong classrooms this morning in homeroom!" That's it, he's officially grounded for life! But when I arrived home and confronted him about it, he sheepishly owned up...to being careless. "Yeah, I wasn't paying attention when I filled that out--so, sorry about that!" Okay you're forgiven...but still grounded!

The rest of the evening continued without embarrassing or confusing incident, thank goodness. But when it was over, even though I'd only been in each of his classes for a mere 9 minutes, I was as exhausted as if I'd slogged through an entire school day. Middle School, apparently, is not for the weary...or faint of heart...or directionally challenged! Oh, and Team Seventh Grade seems enthusiastic, bright, and wonderful, so Derek should have a nice year as well. Whew! I'm glad that's over for another year!