New England Mamas

Good Old-fashioned Play

Something strange has been happening in my neighborhood since school let out last week, and it's got many eyebrows raised.

You see, a curiously large gaggle of kids of varying ages has come together to play - in a good, old-fashioned, spontaneous and creative, unstructured sort of way.

From dawn till dusk, children circle the block en masse on bikes and scooters. They assemble teams and play raucous games of kickball and wiffle ball. They jump on pogo sticks and shoot hoops. They collect insects  and study their squirms, then run off in bathing suits to the nearest slip-n-slide or sprinkler.

Sometimes they just linger, hanging on branches of the nearest tree or lying belly-down on the grass. 

Wanna have a lemonade stand? Hey - let's have a sleep over tonight!  Sure, I'll play badminton with you.  How high can you climb?

Of course, every day sees its fair share of drama. Knees get scraped and egos bruised, a natural consequence of group dynamics at any age.

Secrets aren't nice.  No, I don't want to.  Hey - gimme back my bike!  I 'm going home.

By dinnertime, parents round up their offspring for a quick bite before relinquishing them once again to the intoxicating draw of friends.  The final hours of daylight echo with shrieks of laughter and shouts of, "Hey!  Wait up!" 

Reluctantly, as darkness falls, children trudge home. Just 10 more minutes? Please can we just finish this game? But I don't want to go home.  

"You can play again tomorrow," the parents say.

And the next day...and the day after that, too.

Like it should be.

Honoring Tim Russert

What a terrible shock to hear of the sudden death at age 58 of Tim Russert.   I so admired his intelligence and tenacity and was particularly moved by his outward display of love toward his family - and especially for his father, son, and wife. My heart aches for them.

It aches, too, for another loss that occurred under very similar circumstances just about ten years ago.

Having just retired from a long and successful career, my father-in-law to be spent the day playing golf on his favorite course with his best friend.  Golf was his passion, and he worked at it - even going so far as to set up a mock driving range inside his garage.  (Yes - he was an engineer.)

I have imagined him on that day. His game was good - not great - but good enough for a Tuesday. I don't think he really cared too much about his scores that day, but rather spent the day enjoying time on a beautiful course - his favorite - with his very best friend.

As they walked back to the parking lot after 18-holes of good healthy fun, my father-in-law to be collapsed and died.  Heart attack.  Widow-maker.  Dead - in an instant.

He was 58.

That day, I was busy at work in corporate America when my husband-to-be called me.  "Come home now," he said. 

"Why? What's going on?" I asked, confused and a little annoyed.

"Just come home now."

Such a terrible shock and still, to this day, an ache. An ache, a sadness, a question mark for all that might have been.

I will miss you, Tim Russert, though I never knew you personally.  And I ache your loss for your dear family, who loved you so and who knew, unequivocally, your love for them.  Peace to you all.

We're Just Human in Hartford

My city's been getting a bad rap by national media this week following a heinous crime that was captured by surveillance video.  It's a frightening sight that's been hard a miss: A 78-year-old local man was struck by a speeding car traveling in the wrong lane while onlookers and passersby did absolutely nothing. 

The man lay flat on his back, unconscious, while cars momentarily slowed and then continued on their way. A few witnesses stopped and just stood there; others took a quick glance and kept on walking.

No one ran to the man's side.
No one took off in pursuit of the assailants.
No one was seen calling for help.

After a couple minutes, a Hartford police officer happened upon the scene, and the man was soon transported to the hospital where he remains today in a paralyzed state.

Since then, news reporters have run the video ad nausea and spoken to "experts" about what this brazen crime and absent response reveals about our society. Have we devolved into a bunch of self-centered, disconnected, apathetic, impotent cads? Have new media technologies dulled our senses and left us numb to horrific events that happen before our eyes?

Perhaps.

Or maybe, it's simply that we're human.

Humans make mistakes.  We don't know all the answers. We get scared. We freeze. 

Is it right? No. Is it reality? Yes - for each and every one of us at some place and time.

In the face of horrific tragedy or crime, we may fall victim to our own shock, fear, and ignorance, and paralyzed, we can do little more than breathe. 

Breathe.  Look around.  Breathe.

I know the city of Hartford to be divinely human. It's vibrant, flawed, beautiful, and complicated - just like the people who live and work there. And the victims who witnessed this heinous crime - and I do view them as victims - deserve more than snap judgments based on a two-minute video clip.

Have we devolved into a bunch of self-centered, disconnected, apathetic, impotent cads? Have new media technologies dulled our senses and left us numb to horrific events that happen before our eyes?

Perhaps.

Are we human?

Yes.  For better and for worse.

Cross-posted on Ruthless in the Suburbs.

Day Tripping in Western Connecticut

Looking for a great day trip? Do you love quaint small towns, leisurely bike rides, and ice cream cones? Well load your bikes onto the car and begin your journey with a scenic drive that leads you through the meandering roads of Connecticut's Litchfield County. 

Just a stone's throw past the town of Sharon on Connecticut's western edge sits the Harlem Valley River Trail, a paved bike trail that was constructed on abandoned rail beds.  The trail has grown incrementally since it first opened in 1996 and now boasts 15 miles of flat, paved trail bordered by fragrant wild honeysuckle, low bogs, farmland, and forest.

Simply beautiful, and a treat for all ages and abilities.

Follow up your bike adventures with a stop in Millerton, NY, one of the "coolest small towns" around. Of course, if you're so fortunate as to take an easterly route back home, you should detour through the lovely town of Cornwall, CT.

Drive across the historic West Cornwall bridge, grab an outside table at the cool and casual Wandering Moose Cafe, and soak it all in: the fly fishermen casting their lines, the gardens at nearby homes, the sights and sounds of all things New England.

This is why we live here.  Enjoy!

Sickness Rivalry and Maternal Guilt

Last night I called home enroute from work to an evening retirement dinner to check in with my sitter du jour, a.k.a. my mother-in-law, to inquire about my offspring and apologize for the state of my house, which FEMA might categorize as a Disaster Zone and flag for government relief if only FEMA would ever pay me a visit.

"Daughter's not feeling well at all," my mother-in-law stated quietly into the phone lest my daughter overhear.  "She's been complaining of a headache and a sore throat since she got home from school, and she's got this awful barking cough."

Of course she does.

It only figures that my indefatigable daughter would succumb to a virus when her beloved Grammie was in charge and here to witness all my failings as mother, wife, hostess, and basic human person. The very fact that she acknowledged my daughter's symptoms was Significant, as my mother-in-law does not readily acknowledge minor medical blips like, oh, gangrenous wounds or 115 degree fevers.
So this morning, even before my daughter considered rousing for school, I decided to keep her  home for the day.  "You're staying home today to rest," I whispered to closed eyelids that curiously started to twitch. "I'll be right back. I'm taking your brother to the bus stop."

When I informed my son that his sister would be staying home from school because she was sick, he screamed, "WHATTTTT?" with furious indignation.

"She's sick," I explained.

"Well I'm sick too!"  He stomped his feet, turned his back to me, and croaked, "You don't love me."

No one ever said parenting would be logical.

"Look, son, if you're not feeling well at school, just go to the nurse. If you're sick, I'll stop whatever it is I'm doing and come to pick you up."

Unlike most days when my son waves frenetically as his bus drives away, today he deliberately slumped in his seat, face down, and didn't wave.

You don't love me.

When I arrived back home, my daughter was snuggled in my bed watching cartoons. She did not have a fever, but when asked how she felt, she was quick to cough and make a painful grimace.

I served her pancakes in bed.

At about 1:30PM, the school called. Son had gone to the nurse's office and did not have a fever, but he wanted to speak to me.

"I feel sick," he said in a small voice.  "My tummy hurts."

I promised to pick him up right away, but first checked in with daughter.

"Your brother doesn't feel well and I need to pick him up from school," I reported.

""WHATTTTT?" she responded with furious indignation.

On the way home from school with my son, I made sure to clarify the rules. "Now since you're feeling too sick for school, you realize that you can't go outside to play this afternoon, right?"

"WHATTTTT?" he screamed, again with furious indignation.

At about 3:30PM, all the neighborhood children started cruising around on their bikes and scooters, a few ringing our bell to see if their friends could come out to play.

"Mom, I feel much better," my daughter reported convincingly. "Is it OK for me to go outside?"

"No," I replied. "Not today."

"WHATTTTT?"

My son's requests were soon to follow.

"Mom, can I go ride my scooter now? Puh leeeeeeeeze?"

"No. Not today."

"WHATTTTT?"

From 4-8PM  in intervals that ranged from 10-20 minutes, my children and I continued playing the game of "Can I?/No/WHATTTTT?" with varying degrees of humor, frustration, and annoyance.

I think we're all onto each other now.

Maybe next time they'll think twice before playing the "sick" card, and maybe I'll think twice before letting my own guilt drive my actions. 

"WHATTTTT?"

Blades of Glory Make Soup for the Soul

I got a food processor for Mother's Day and it's changed my life.

In my wildest dreams I never imagined that a food processor could be life-changing - barring some terrible culinary mishap, of course - like chopping off a couple fingers while slicing carrots.  That would definitely change one's life. (And how ironic, too, to be rendered fingerless by the very appliance you would then need to slice your carrots.)

Fortunately, I have suffered no such tragedy (y e t) - just the blessing of Possibility that my new food processor represents.

I am feeling the power. 

I can slice. I can dice. I can mince, grate, and shred.   I can chop til' I drop, and then stand up and chop some more. I can even make dough.

And I can do all this at the touch of a button, without knives or cutting boards or band-aids, faster than you can say, " Wow! Looks like someone's making a big vat of vegetable soup!"

And faster than you can say, "No really I must be go..." I'll have filled a bowl with steamy hot goodness, chock full of fresh garden vegetables that have been sliced, diced, minced, grated, shredded and chopped to perfection. I'll cut thick slices of the bread I made, still warm from the oven, and put them on a plate.

I'll place the bowl and the plate on the table, pull out a chair, and gesture for you to sit.  "Sit," I'll say. "Sit and have some soup."

And together, thanks to my new food processor, we'll sit and have some soup.

Ode to Stop and Shop from the Hummus VIP

Surprising and remarkable things always seem to happen to me while patronizing my local, less-than-perfect grocery store.

Oh, I've written about this black sheep of the Stop & Shop family before, a store I continue to visit almost daily despite its shortcomings. You've all read ad nausea about how I "take it where I can get it" from my bagger lady friend.  Believe me, her "You look pretty" compliments - regardless of how haphazardly or infrequently dispensed to one and all - keep me lining up with my basket of expired dairy products and wilted broccoli rabe, hoping that maybe, just maybe, today will be the day.

Or maybe, today will be the day that some random person does or says  something so nice, so beautiful, it stops me dead in my tracks.

Or maybe, today I will discover that my very favorite brand of hummus is now being carried by the store - the same hummus I publicly declared my love for many moons ago...the only hummus I will eat while watching Marat Safin play tennis (satisfying on so many levels).

Well, friends, today was the day.

While deciding which delicious flavor of Sabra Hummus to buy, I happened to notice a woman with a clipboard checking food product inventory nearby. I started rambling at her immediately.

"I just want you to know how THRILLED I was to see that you are now carrying Sabra Hummus.  I LOVE this hummus. I used to drive fifteen minutes down the road simply to buy this hummus from your competitor, but now that you're carrying it I don't have to do that. It's just so creamy and delicious and I am very very very happy.  So thank you!"

The poor woman probably thought I was completely nuts, but she was gracious and even shared with me some insider hummus information.

"We'll be carrying the Luscious Lemon flavor soon, too."

I may have drooled as I thanked her again and wandered off. About 30-minutes later, after I had unloaded my grocery bags into the car, I looked up and noticed that someone was walking straight toward me at a fast pace.

It was the woman with the insider hummus information.

She handed me this.
It turns out that she really was a Hummus Insider.  She represented the company and wanted to give me a VIP coupon that she had in her car.  What luck!  Such fortune!  Who knew???

Call me Ruth Dynamite, VIP of Hummus.

You know, I've been very excited about my town's plans to demolish this little Stop & Shop and build a brand new, bigger version in its place.  And as I write, construction of the new building is moving along full speed ahead.

Which leaves me with a lump in  my throat.  (Or is that an unidentifiable clump from that yogurt I just bought?)

I'm going to miss this stinky little store...where I always feel "pretty" and I never know what I'm going to get (whether it's a kind compliment, a VIP coupon for my favorite food, or a big tub of mold).

Cross-posted on Ruthless in the Suburbs.

Dad's Week Off

I have been officially de-throned. 

In the span of one short week, my husband has managed to achieve Rock Star status in the eyes of our children.   While he's been home on vacation this week and the rest of us Dynamites had work and school, do you think he sat down for a minute and put his feet up? Or got lost on a golf course for hours? Or slept in? Stayed out late?

No.  My husband used his vacation for one purpose and one purpose only: to show me up.

On Monday the aroma of chocolate chip pancakes roused my children from slumber.  They got out of their beds without being harangued by their mother, dressed themselves without being harangued by their mother, brushed their teeth without being harangued by their mother, and walked like zombies toward the kitchen whereupon they were greeted with warm hugs from their father and a steaming plate of syrupy, chocolatey goodness - a far cry from the eat-whatever-you-can-scrounge-and-hurry-up advice their mother usually dishes out in frantic screams from another part of the house.

Dad packed their snacks and water bottles, checked their homework, and then leisurely walked them to school.  At school day's end, he greeted them at the bus stop with a smile and played outside with them for several hours - badminton, kickball, bikes, scooters - before retreating into the house to make dinner and fold the last of the five loads of laundry he did that day.  By the time Mom rolled in the door, the kids - both showered and wearing pajamas - were quietly doing their homework as Dad washed the dinner dishes.

On Tuesday, Earth Day, Dad walked the kids to school after another calm and organized display of parenting skill and finesse.  With the grace and aplomb of Mikhail Baryshnikov, he seemingly pirouetted through the motions of rousing and feeding the children, packing backpacks, and checking homework.  After singlehandedly stopping global climate change, discovering a plentiful renewable energy source, and ridding the world of plastic, Dad greeted the kids at the bus stop, spent another fun-filled afternoon doing kid-centric activities, cooked dinner, and then waited patiently for Mom to arrive home.  After a family dinner, Dad guided the kids through homework and showers and reading and bedtime while mom wrote a blog and sipped cabernet.

On Wednesday, when Mom tried to gently rouse the children before school, she was met with harrumphs, snarls, and impatient requests for Dad. "Where's Dad? Dad always wakes us up."  Always?

When Mom made an appearance in the kitchen at breakfast time and asked, "Would you like cereal? A bagel? Eggs?" her children quietly mumbled, "Dad usually has breakfast made for us already."

In addition to delighting the children once again in every way, Dad also found the time to end world hunger and restore peace in the Middle East.

On Thursday, the kids crowned Dad Best Dad Ever in the History of Dads, but not before Dad cured the sick, sheltered the homeless, and fixed the economy.

On Friday, world leaders - including the Pope - gathered in Geneva Switzerland and officially declared Dad Divine Lord of Fatherhood, to be addressed from this point forward as His Most Awesome Highness.

It's a real shame that His Most Awesome Highness has to go back to work next week. Yep.  A real shame.

                                    Cross-posted on  Ruthless in the Suburbs.

Civic Responsibility

Last weekend I caught sight of my next door neighbor down on his hands and knees scrubbing the street with a hand-sized scrub brush.  Beside him were about a dozen cans of scouring powder and a few scattered rags. 

It was a peculiar sight.  I grabbed my coffee and stood by the window and watched as my neighbor worked the scrub brush back and forth, back and forth, leaving a gray, frothy path in his wake.

Apparently, his car had leaked a large swath of oil on the road leading from his driveway to the end of the street.  Ever the good neighbor and conscientious citizen, he approached the Sisyphean task of removing motor oil from the street as if he were David facing Goliath.

Other neighbors joined the crusade.  They brought pressure washers and caution tape, cat litter and condolences, and together they did their best to clean up the street.

In this age where bad news out-trumps good on seemingly every front, it's nice to see a person taking responsibility for his actions - even when they're accidents - and for communities to rally to his aid.

April Fool

For as long as I can remember, I've been an April Fool.  Nothing brings me greater joy than pulling ridiculous shenanigans like putting salt in the sugar bowl and sugar in the salt shaker, or draping the toilet bowl in Saran Wrap.

When my husband and I were dating, I happened to have this very realistic looking rubbery plastic slug.  (I happen to have things like this.) My then-boyfriend was a conservative eater, so I always encouraged him to try new things.  One day I told him I had a surprise for him and that he needed an open mind.  Like the steeliest of Iron chefs, I had rinsed my plastic slug in water and then placed it, glistening, on a plate covered with romaine lettuce and topped with a lemon wedge, a small fork, and a knife.

As I recall, he actually tried to cut the slug. (I was so proud.)

This year, after urging my kids off to school with rubber worms, I picked up the phone and proceeded to tell my mother I was in jail.

Sadly, she believed me.

Afterwards, she said something about "crying jail" and ever since, I've been thinking about how ironic it would be if I was somehow thrown in the slammer in the next few weeks and had just one call to make.

No one would believe me.

How funny would that be? 

Not so funny for me, I suppose, but very funny for everyone else.  Very funny indeed.