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I’ve mentioned before that my style of parenting is somewhere between helicopter and free-range. I call it Satellite Parenting, because if there’s one thing I like, it’s making up terms for concepts that probably already have terms for them.

I grew up pretty free range, but because of addiction and single, working parent necessity rather than anything like a choice on my parents’ part. I turned out fine. Sure, I got hit by a van while riding my bike on a highway once, and sure, I fell through the ice into the St. Lawrence River once, and sure I…hmmm….

Actually, I was pretty lucky to survive being a Free Range Kid.

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The last day of school has arrived. Summer vacation starts next week.

Wait. Right there.

Stop and identify exactly how you felt when you read that notice. Did your heart lighten? Or did your stomach drop? A little of both?

My heart absolutely lightened. And then my stomach dropped.

We are standing at the edge of a water sprinkler, glorious sun warming our skin, lighting up the water droplets as they fly through the air, and all I can think is that I have work to do. I want to jump right in (yes! let’s do it!) but then I’d have to dry off and get dressed all over again and, just ugh.

I love summer at home with my kids. I realize that not all parents feel this way. I’m not, then, one of those parents that dread the kids being home. We do all we can to embrace every day off, deliberately spinning moments into memories lest the entire summer slip away. That’s the thing – if I didn’t stop myself and appreciate the gift of time we’ve been handed, the entire summer would evaporate with nothing but lots of hours on the couch to show for it.

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One of my daughters was born two pounds at almost 34 weeks gestation. I had something called IUGR which stands for Intrauterine Growth Restriction which can produce a baby who is SGA or small for gestational age. Sadie is four and a half years old and weighs twenty-eight pounds –when weighed at night, on a full stomach, with socks on. She’s also a full head shorter than her twin sister Matilda and Matilda weighs forty-two pounds (in the morning, naked -if that gives you a better comparison).

What I’m saying is that if you don’t know Sadie, she can seem startlingly tiny. But Sadie is my child so when I see her, I see so much more than her small packaging. I see her curly, silly haircut (grown out from a DIY job she did after some alone time with a pair of safety scissors). I see her smile and her attitude and usually some stray glitter.

This kid has been through a lot: NICU, a bijillion doctor visits not to mention a g-tube for a year and a half, severe reflux, and almost daily therapy. Let’s just say we’ve traveled the bumpy highway of medical issues and we carry the road rash to prove it. But, we’ve moved beyond her size – so why can’t everyone else?

When I’m out with my twins, I have never been able to avoid people’s comments. Standing together, the girls look so much alike in hair, eyes and coloring but possibly eighteen-months to two years apart in age. And when people find out they’re twins, chaos ensues. Read more »

Oh dear Lord, it’s almost Mother’s Day. This is one of those “holidays” that’s fraught with unrealistic expectation and pressure on everyone. Maybe it’s me, maybe I’m the holiday Scrooge but it feels like so many of these forced commercial holidays like Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day and obviously Tu B’ Shevat  only benefit Hallmark but leave everyone else feeling like it’s just another opportunity to screw up.

Okay, it’s really adorable when my kids make me something in school and present it to me on Mother’s Day morning all smiles and love and making me feel like the kind of mom who always makes fresh baked cookies and never ever raises her voice. As far as that goes, keep it coming. What I’m talking about the pressure that men feel to make Mother’s Day special or risk being thought of as unfeeling, insensitive and ungrateful of all their wives do.

Most husbands, even if they do remember the day, just give you a card and move on. It’s not that they don’t love us, ladies, they do! It’s that they don’t have gift giving in their DNA. That’s why so many TV commercials are aimed at men who don’t know how to shop for women. And that’s why so many women are sporting stupid drop heart diamond pendants around their neck- because their husband only understands that every kiss begins with Kay.

So, let’s forget about waiting for the fellows to give us our gifts and give them the gift of not having to shop for us. Men love it when you express your needs clearly. Help them help you have a great Mother’s Day.

1. Have your husband keep the kids in the other room while you watch two Lifetime movies in a row. Try The Baby Dance with Laura Dern and Stockard Channing. It’s all about a woman trying to adopt and getting taken advantage of at every turn. Happy Mother’s Day! Or you can escape from parenting and go with my person fave “Another Woman’s Husband” starring Lifetime movie great Lisa Rinna!
2. Get your husband’s credit card (yes I know it’s yours too but for the sake of “treating yourself” use his copy) and order in every meal. Yes, including breakfast. Or go out for breakfast but order in lunch and dinner. How about pizza for lunch and Chinese for dinner? No? Well get whatever you want then. Jesus, I’m trying to help you.
3. By yourself that cute white Michael Kors watch you’ve had your eye on for two years. You know the one with the diamonds and the clear band. You deserve it. Go on and do it. Or just order it for yourself on eBay. Don’t worry about the cost, he’d want you to have it.
4. Lay on the couch and play Angry Birds on your phone while the kids fight. Refuse to budge until you’ve made it at least six levels. Or does this only sound fun to me?
5. Opposite of spa day: eat a ton of candy and potato chips. In fact, do not even eat a single morsel of   anything that’s “grilled” “poached” “fresh” or in any way healthy sounding. It’s your day. And don’t share any of it with your children. They may have broccoli and they’d better be happy about it because God damn it, it’s Mother’s Day!

Life has a way of sneaking up on you if you aren’t paying attention and apparently, I haven’t been. Which is why I was rather surprised when my husband texted me the other day and asked if there was anything special I’d like for mother’s day this year.

I had completely spaced on the fact Mother’s day is this weekend. Whoops.

While it’s lovely to know my husband is on the ball and thinking of me on behalf of our youngest son(s), I have a bigger problem at the moment. What do I get MY mother for her special day?

I really wish I was one of those people who are either hyper organized and have all their gifts purchased for all holidays a year in advance or one of those people who think buying half wilted gas station roses at the last minute is entirely acceptable. However, I am neither.

I am gift-less and in a bit of a time crunch. And when that happens, there is only one thing to do: Turn to the Internet for inspiration.

I found none of that.

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When Quinn was born, I quietly swore to myself that I would not be that “know it all” new mother. I rubbed my roundly pregnant belly and promised myself that I would be open-minded with the simpletons who insisted on giving me advice, even if I knew better. I’d welcome The Village and nod in deference.

I also promised that I wouldn’t let those same people chuckle to themselves for my being overprotective or over-researched. None of that, “Isn’t she cute? Not letting him eat off the floor! Just wait til she has her next kid. No more bubble-wrapping her babies then. Silly little girl playing Mommy.”

I would hit the ground running with kid #1 as though he were kid #5! Just watch me!

Oh, I would strike all the right chords, let me tell you. I would be well-researched on all of the latest child development studies AND let my kid eat off the floor.  Just confuse the bones out of all of my lookers-on, that’s right! You think you have me pegged? Ha! Watch me feed my child exclusively organic food in his hemp jumper AND vaccinate him to the hilt while letting him watch TV.

You don’t know me. (insert Z-snap here)

For good measure, I might find a study that stated letting kids eat off the floor is a good thing. Something about building immunity. Cover my bases.

In short, I had read too many magazine articles and absorbed too many modern parenting books. I imagined an army of strangers and loved ones poking their nose in my business (seriously, that’s what all of the articles swore would happen) and so I prepared. I would be graceful… while still knowing better. I would pull it off.

I absolutely wouldn’t do my all-time favorite thing in all of the whole wide world and SET THESE PEOPLE STRAIGHT.

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Spring fever, I have it.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been freaking out lately that later this year I’ll be 37 years old. Maybe it’s because my oldest daughter only has two more years of high school left and we’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time sifting through university catalogues.  Or maybe it’s because lately I’ve been feeling a little bit bored.

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It’s no secret that once upon a time I was a real dork. According to my children, I still am. Hah! If only they knew me back in the day. I’d show them what a real dork was. That would teach them.

Wait a second….

My point is I wasn’t exactly a shining example of a cool teenager. John Hughes wasn’t writing his movies about my teenaged years. I spent the bulk of my adolescence hiding in the industrial wing of my large urban high school, carrying around a notebook and refusing to make eye contact with the general student body. The only people who knew I existed were the ones who mocked my slippers and the stoners who tried to steal them.

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I’ve been having some strange dreams lately. They’re either stress-induced or I have some serious mental issues. I’m going with the stress theory. I’m pretty good at managing stress during the day. At least I think I’m pretty good at it. Any day I don’t wind up on the floor, rocking back and forth in a fetal position is good in my book, anyway.

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When I was nine years old I met a girl who had spiked blue hair and the biggest cornflower blue eyes I’d ever seen.

I caught her peering into my bedroom window just as I had stripped off my clothes and was standing in the middle of my bedroom wearing a pair of pink polka dotted granny panties.

I screamed, she smiled and my brother, who had set up the entire prank, laughed until he almost peed himself.

My blue-eyed spy turned into my bestest friend. We were inseparable, even when her parents moved from one location to the next; we managed to find a way to spend weekends and summers together.

She was my maid of honor at my wedding and I thought we’d be best friends until the day we died.

I was wrong.

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