Socks

The divorce rate among socks in my house has consistently been around 25 percent.  No matter how hard I try, some socks just can't stay together. I know I'm not alone in this endeavor. I know many choose to immediately toss the sock widows in the trash, with no chance in finding its mate in the next load or two (or 32) of laundry. While I have many, much more significant and life-altering issues to focus on, I choose to dwell on this one as frequently as possible.  There's nothing more rewarding that reuniting socks with their mates when a load of laundry is done, and having no singles left behind.  I have, for years, kept what I call my "sock widow box" which I periodically pull out, dump on the bed, have a sock social and try to find mates for every one. It's a really good time until I have to put those who remain widows back in the box. It's just sad.  Especially for the really unique socks, like Cole's camo print socks or truck socks, or some of Katie's really wild prints and colorful ones. I mean, really. How in the world do those guys get separated!! Soon I think I'm going to just buy everyone the exact same size, color and style so no matter what, we'll always have perfectly matched pairs of socks every day.  There will still be a huge box of widows left, which will undoubtedly stress me out until every last one of them has found either its original mate, or moved on and hooked up with a new one.

A few months ago, we found what is (hopefully) the last addition to our family.



Her name is Hershey, and she's a chocolate lab.  Darn it she was so cute as a puppy. She had (well, still has actually) a beautiful shiny chocolate coat, green eyes that change with her mood, and just the tiniest spot of white fur in exactly the middle of her chest.  She was like a little magician with super powers, drawing every passer-by to her, winning over people of every age.  When she was really little, her entire coat was as soft as silk. As she has grown, some of her coat has become a little coarser, but her head and ears are still very silky.  Like most puppies, she had tons of "puppy skin," which fell around her when she laid down, and begged to be squeezed.  She immediately slept through the night (thank GAWD or I might have had to hurt someone [Dan]), and never barked. We even thought for a while she might be a mute.  WRONG!!!  Her bark is deep and throaty, and jars your entire skull.  If you are close enough, you'll have to plug your ears.  Fortunately, she doesn't use it unless she's desperate.  Translate: she wants to play and you're ignoring her.

I knew as a puppy she would like to chew on things. We bought her every conceivable kind of toy, all of which she has EATEN.  Well, except for one - a Kong that we can't find.  I suppose it's possible she did eat it, but 1) since we can't find proof and 2) since Kong advertises it is "un-edible" I'll give Hershey the benefit of the doubt that this is the one toy she has not digested. You may be wondering how I know she has actually eaten these toys and not just chewed them to pieces. I know this because I see parts of the toys later, like, in the poop.  Ugh. Red nylon, blue plastic, yellow felt, black rubber, pink yarn, whatever. It all comes out later.

With socks, however, they will come back in one of two ways.  We've learned, unfortunately through multiple experiences, that if she eats just one, it comes out the back end. If she eats more than one (at a time), she pukes 'em up.  In perfectly-formed bullet shapes.  Let that image sink in now...

If you don't get it fast enough, she - get ready - EATS. THEM. AGAIN. Got that image now too? Good. Misery loves company.

What's more, she knows we particularly hate it when she gets socks because she makes sure to make eye contact when she has a sock (or - gasp! - two socks) in her chomper.  Tail wagging furiously, she lowers her head, front legs splayed out, and she's ready to bolt.  Not surprisingly, Hershey can run significantly faster than any one in this family.  Her favorite place from which to taunt someone when she has a sock-in-custody is under the foosball table in the boys' room. It's the perfect amount of space that provides just enough cover that if you try to navigate around the bars and reach under to grab her, she darts out and around before you heave your big butt off the floor.  By this time, whoever is chasing her is calling for back up.

If you are called for back up, your job is to block entry into one of the other rooms and the stairs. It's not exactly an easy job, since Hershey has twice as many legs, and 200 times the energy.  When she's really serious about that particular sock, she'll just sit down under the foosball, look at you, and swallow.  Grrr....

Once I caught her mid-swallow, which I wish I hadn't.  The sock I pulled out looked like Dr. Venkman from Ghostbusters after a run-in with Slimer.












Now the divorce rate among socks in my house is, oh, I'd say closing in on 50 percent.  The old shoe box that served as my sock widow box for years has been replaced with a another bigger box. Next is one of those large plastic storage tubs they sell in WalMart and Target in clear and seasonal colors.

This all leads to me my newest, most concerning problem to date: how to possibly find mates for those socks Hershey has permanently widowed!!

A Momma's Pain

Pain takes too many forms, and motherhood is just a catch-all term for most of them.  I foolishly thought the first trimester of my first pregnancy was a bad pain. Then I thought the last few months were an even worse pain, what with the searing knife-like blinding bring-me-to-my-knees pain when Jack shifted to hang out on my sciatic nerve for a while, and a sensation my OB dismissively labeled "heartburn" that felt mysteriously like my esophagus was soaked in gasoline and then set on fire.  Then, I thought labor was a pain, along with my husband who put me in this situation. An epidural changed my mind briefly.  It was apparently during this time that something like a scene from the darkest pit of Stephen King's mind happened to my body.  Unfortunately, the epidural wore off and I had yet many new pains.  These went on for weeks.  While I had this wonderful little screaming bundle of joy to temper these pains, I was convinced these several weeks immediately after his birth were the worst of all pains.  Some of my girly parts were Pretty. Mad.  You'd think I'd learn my lesson, but no, I was doomed to repeat this process twice more before shutting down production permanently.  My mother gave me some of her best advice during the first process: It WILL get better.  I did not believe her at the time, and thought she was 50 shades of cray cray, but it did actually get better over time. Eventually the little screaming bundle slept all night. I began putting on a bra every day.  It was the little victories that counted the most.  So when I went through the process twice more, I remembered this, and clung dearly to the truth that it would get better.

I went through the pains of babyhood, toddlerhood, and am now enjoying the multiple and varied pains of elementary-school-hood.  This brings with it pain in the form of disciplining your child when it truly does hurt you more than it hurts them. For example, when I take away the Wii, DSi, iPad and iPod, and have to actually talk to them.  There's the pain of accidents, illness or just plain boo-boos where you play triage nurse and dispense critical advice along with bandaids, icepacks or Benadryl.  Even worse are the pains of emergency room visits because of serious injury or something they were born with, wishing desperately to take away their physical pain, and while blaming yourself handing your baby over to terse, hurried, masked but well-meaning strangers who are going to anesthetize them, cut on their tiny bodies and hopefully bring them back up from the deep deep slumber you agreed to in writing on no less than 43 forms with all their parts in the right places.   

Another pain that I'm having right now is third grade math. I mean, What The Hell.  Didn't I learn this crap 30 years ago?? As you should all know very well, I am not very math-y at all. However, I know enough to know "they" didn't invent new numbers in the last few decades. It's 1 - 9 and then 0.  That's it.  You can add, subtract, divide and multiply with those numbers.  I think there may be a couple other functions, however, that the super smart nerds do in the advanced calculus classes, but since those weren't required for my degrees, I'm not totally sure.  Thankfully, my husband has an excellent mathematical brain and helps with those difficult third-grade math worksheets. I gratefully await my turn to assist with diagramming sentences or writing essays, which I can do in my sleep with 105 degree fever.  With bamboo shoots shoved under my nails.  In an Arkansas summer and no air conditioning or "Off" spray with extra-concentrated Deet.  If you are from Arkansas or anywhere close by you know what I mean.  If not, say 25 Hail Mary's and shut the Hell up.  

How.Ev.Er.  Today I realized a new pain.  I am not sure what it's name is.  If it has a name, I do not know that I want to know it.  We will never be friends, so it's probably for the best we aren't formally introduced. Let me explain...

Recently Dan's company, Endo Pharmaceuticals, down-sized by almost 30 percent. There is a recent George Clooney movie that you might have seen which closely resembles this situation.  No, I don't remember the name of the movie because, I mean, why bother? It's 105 minutes of watching George Clooney!!! I'm sorry...I got distracted.

Just like the movie, Endo hired some outside consulting group to come in and assess how they could save money. No one from this company ever met with the people from Endo who were down-sized, of course.  Again, I'm not very math-y, but even I know t30 percent is A LOT.  Obviously, Dan's position was eliminated.  Long story short, it was decided weto move back to Arkansas in the middle of October.  The people met this news with mixed reactions, and admittedly I was not happy.  Over a very short period of time, I think we all began to mentally prepare for the move. I looked forward to the close proximity to family and friends, decent and even great barbecue, people knowing what I mean when I use the word "tump," and pre-Bobby Petrino motorcycle-wreck Razorback football.  But a curveball was coming our way.  Last Friday, Endo offered him a sales rep position in Philly. After an agonizing weekend, we decided he had to take it. When we told the people we were not, in fact, moving back to Arkansas just yet, Jack became very upset. He was despondent.  This is the pain I want to tell you about.

Backtrack two weeks ago...the people are sitting on the couch in the den stoic and un-knowing. Dan tells them we have to move back to Arkansas in a month. Katie shrieks in happiness, Cole's expression remains the same, but Jack is visibly upset.  He immediately begins listing the ways we have ruined his 5th grade year, such as missing the end-of-year field trip to Washington, D.C.  I forget the other reasons, but the point is he was very disappointed and mad at both of us.  So fast forward to present time. When Jack found out yesterday his dad took a job here and we would not be moving back right now, he was even more upset than when he thought we were moving back. Did I ever predict this one wrong or what. 

Apparently Jack had been absorbing the move back to Arkansas more than I thought.  I think he and his dad had been having some conversations about "huntin' camp," Razorback football, being close to old friends, and, of course family.  His despondency now made two weeks ago look like a picnic. He launched into a dissertation on how all we cared about was money (well, yeah...actually we do care quite a bit about it...), and how we should have consulted him first before "lying" to him about moving back to Arkansas in the first place.  He is very good at arguing and is increasingly better at proving his point. For example, he said that if Dan has to drive all the way to North Philly for his new job then the cost of gas will take away from any extra money he would earn. Hmmm....the boy is really thinking this through and could have an excellent point...EXCEPT that Endo will be providing him with a car and paying for the gas. After I told that to Jack, he thought about it for a minute and then said, "Well, why did Dad just swipe HIS credit card in the gas machine when he got gas today??" I laughed (probably not the appropriate response). "Because he was filling up OUR car, and he doesn't even have the company car yet."

Jack abandoned this argument, switching instead to his perceived mistreatment at not being included in the decision-making process. I talked to him at length about the fact that he is a child, and we are the parents, and while we are certainly interested in knowing what he feels about things, it's ultimately up to the parents to make such decisions.  He did not agree.  Lord help us in a few years as he practices his persuasive argument techniques!

He finally revealed that he was particularly upset because now he could not be on the 5th grade Safety Patrol or participate in Band.  After talking about it, I discovered he believed the deadlines had passed to apply for both of these, and it was our fault because we didn't allow him to sign up earlier when we had "lied" to him about moving to Arkansas.  I grabbed his hands, and pulled him closer to me. "Jack, honey, I can fix that. I had visited with Mrs. Eberly (the principal) about our situation, and she knows our family very well. She is very understanding and I am certain she will allow you to do both. This is something I can fix." Jack's chin quivered, and tears welled in his eyes. 

Very quietly he said, "I don't want to anymore, Mom."

"Why, Jack?" I asked as softly as I could.

"Because you killed my spirit!" And with that he ran into his room, slamming the door. Normally this is a huge no-no, but I let it go. I just sat on my chair in my bedroom where he had left me, the pain resonating in my stomach, making me feel sick.  I thought I could actually feel my heart breaking. 

My inner intellect knew that this was just an emotional knee-jerk reaction that would probably pass, and he would be interested in me helping him get into one or both of these activities later. But my emotional mother's heart found this new pain to be unbearable. Never, ever, ever would I do anything I thought remotely possible that would even begin to quell his spirit, let alone kill it.  He was so earnest when he said it that I knew he truly believed it.  Now I know that any mother of a teenager (probably my own mother too, to whom I would like to AGAIN apologize for what she had to put up with when I was a teenager) will tell me that this little incident is nothing compared to the rantings and accusations I will hear in a few years from probably all three of my children. I know that, okay? But for now, this was the first time he genuinely accused me of hurting him like that.  Of intentionally doing something to hurt him. Of discounting his feelings. 

I'm seeing a trend here. The pains keep getting worse. The emotional stakes keep getting higher, and my people know it.  I am going to have to work on my pain tolerance or I won't make it through the next few years. 

You want fries with that?

The Rotary Club came to Fern Hill Elementary earlier this week and distributed paperback dictionaries to the students. While in the classroom, the Rotarians asked the students, among other things, what their parents did. Katie said she said Dad "helped make medicine and worked at Endo Pharmaceuticals." That's pretty good, Katie, I told her (he doesn't help make medicine - he's a sales training manager, but I was impressed she got the company name right). I asked her what she said about what I do.


"Nothing."


"Why, Katie? Do you know what I do?"


lonnng pause....


"Sell hamburgers."


Say what??!?


I had a good belly laugh over that - you know, the kind that takes your whole body over and you can't help it? Nothing or no one has made me laugh that hard in a long time.  


So after I composed myself, I said,


"Katie, do you really see me going to work everyday and selling hamburgers??"


She considered this for a moment and finally said cautiously that yes, she did.


Oh my. She is truly blonde down to the roots.  


"Katie," I replied in my kindest voice, "I'm a lawyer."


"No you're not."


"Yes, I am."


Face scrunched up: "No. You're not."


"Katie, yes I am. I went to school and got a special degree just in law. I work every day as a lawyer."


She shook her head, pressed her lips together in that disbelieving, skeptical, cynical kind-of-way that says "YouAreFeedingMeALoadOfCrapAndI'mNotBuyingIt," and said quietly, almost to herself, "No...you're not."


So this morning I decided I would find out what Cole thought about what Mommy does for a living.  In the car on the way to the Y, I asked him,


"Cole, do you know what Mommy does every day at work?"


In a questioning voice, he answered,


"Ask people questions every day?"


Ah, yes, finally, he gets it! This boy is SMART!


"Yes! Yes, Cole! I do!"


I went a step further:


"And what is that called when I do that?"


He considered this for two or three seconds, then said,


"Polite?"


Another great belly laugh. 


"Cole, you're right, it is polite. But I'm a lawyer, and I do ask people questions every day. That's just part of the job, though."


Family movie night this weekend will be a viewing on TNT of old episodes of Law & Order!

Out of the Mouths of (My) Babes Vol. III

Katie recently sauntered down the stairs and solemnly approached her dad.  Cautiously she approached her dad, and quietly said, 


"Daddy, what is a conscience?"


I could see Dan's wheels turning.  He thought for just a second before replying,


"Well, it's like inside your head, the voice inside your head that tells you something is right or wrong.  You know it, and you recognize whether something you did or are about to say or do is right or wrong."


Katie took this in, and for a good five seconds she considered his answer.  Finally she threw her arms around his neck as she said,


"My conscience says you're gross, but I don't think so."


                   *******************************

The true product of a lawyer, Jack believes in the Constitution.   He believes in rules, regulations, policies, laws, codes of conduct, and any other maxims governing human behavior. He is always on alert for any breach of said rules, and stresses when someone close to him is the culprit.  He is quick to point out these breaches, as well as suggested consequences. We have often envisioned him as a federal agent interrogating a suspect on the multiple and varied ways he broke the law (these conversations always segue into how, on the other hand, Cole will be the one-man SEAL team six, and could very well be the man on the opposite side of the table from Jack.  When Putin or Obama hits that red button and stuff hits the fan, I want Cole in the fox hole with me and you should too.). 


How. Ev. Er.  Whether Jack adheres to said rules, regulations, policies, laws, codes or conduct or maxims may be another matter.  Admittedly, he's pretty strict about following school rules and such, but it's mom and dad's rules he apt to break. For example, no whining (nothing can make me snap quicker. NOTHING.  I have long asserted that we could have discerned bin Laden's whereabouts on September 12, 2001 if we had locked him in a windowless room with a five-year-old whining endlessly about why he can't have that pack of gum in the check out line at the grocery store. After only 10 minutes of that, throw in the nine-year-old b******g about why he can't get that new pair of $85 cleats and BINGO BANGO. I swear.  bin Laden would be singing like a canary!!  We'd have Interpol's top 10 wanted list rounded up by noon tomorrow. Well, Cole would anyways.).  Take out the trash.  No Wii on school nights.  No sodas.  And the mother load - Mom and Dad retain the right to enter your room and inspect your things at all times with no notice whatsoever.  This is the bane of Jack's existence.  He is adamant that we do not have this right, and has expended a lot of energy trying to convince us as much.  Rest assured, we are not even remotely swayed by his emotional arguments, but are always greatly amused when he says,


"But it's a free country!  The Constitution says we can do whatever we WANT!" 


My response? Well, in general, it goes something like this:


"I'm sorry. You live in a communist house. You CANNOT do whatever you want.  I will take what you have and distribute it as I see fit.  And do NOT expect that to be a fair distribution in your view.  What's more, I can and will confiscate whatever I want for any purpose I want. Or no purpose at all."


So there.  Go ahead and try to vote me out of office.  

The Parental Pendulum of Emotions

I imagine it was like a scene out of the 1972 thriller classic, "Deliverance."  Venturing into the unknown and potentially dangerous, surrounded by woods, rifle-toting people who appear to be one card short of a full deck...but thankfully no one ordered anyone to "squeal like a pig."  


At the exact moment the Domino's delivery girl rounds the corner of the house with our pizzas in hand, Cole plunks down the young chipmunk he's been carrying upside down by its tail and begins stroking it with his right hand while holding onto a BB gun with his left. The right side of the chipmunk's head is bloody and mangled.  He's pawing at the table, trying to get away (imagine that!).  The gun is propped prominently against the small table but Cole still felt the need to keep one hand on it at all times.  Just in case.  It's a beautiful white wrought iron table that once belonged to my sister, who has graciously loaned it to Katie.  It's the perfect size for little girl tea parties, and has three matching white wrought iron chairs.  However, the bloody chipmunk splayed across the top of it is offensive and out-of-place.  Of course, I would venture that a bloody chipmunk is going to be offensive anywhere but I digress.  


I suppose Dan and I will eternally disagree on this, so with all due respect, from my perspective, I would say the whole right side of the poor thing's face was blown off. Dan, however, would say the BB just "penetrated his fur." In support of my position, I argue, when your head is the size of a walnut, a BB fired at almost point-blank range can inflict significant and even fatal injuries!  


Regardless, the chipmunk was desperately trying to escape, scampering all over that table. I sincerely doubt he had vision in his right eye to see where he was going. Actually, I doubt he even had his right eye at all for that matter. But Cole kept him in place, stroking his back in a very gentle and remorseful way.  


The poor delivery girl. She just stood there, mouth agape, pizzas in hand. When I finally remembered she was still there, I ran inside to grab some cash to pay her. I am certain she was grateful to get out of here, and can only imagine her coworkers' astonishment when she surely relayed her experiences.  I fervently tried to convince Dan or Jack to finish off the chipmunk.  Since Dan had shoulder surgery last week on his right side, he, of course, could not pull a trigger on a BB or any other gun. I am not sure what I thought he could do but I felt like the chipmunk was suffering and it wasn't fair.  


Dan insisted he would live, and in the end, Jack deposited him at the edge of the woods. It absolutely tore me up inside to put the little creature down on the ground knowing he was hurting, and making him fair game for who-knows-how-many-predators, so I feel quite certain karma will come back and bite us on the butt on this one.  I mean, really! No chipmunk deserves to run around the great outdoors half-blind and traumatized!  Somehow I should have found it inside me to finish him off! But with what?!? I could never pull the trigger on a gun - even a BB gun - on an animal. And I sure as Hell wasn't going to throw him against the side of the stone wall of the house bashing his skull in.  It was quite the moral dilemma.  After I quit sobbing, and retching, I talked with Cole about not hurting animals, and how if we have to kill an animal if the animal is attacking, or when hunting, it should be killed quickly so it doesn't suffer. We talked about how the chipmunk didn't deserve to be hurt, how he is hurting and there is no one to ease his pain.  I was pretty dramatic, and it was quite effective on Cole. Of course, I wasn't trying to be dramatic, but that's just the way it came out. Cole's initial response was that he "thought it was a squirrel or a rat." Immediately I responded that even so, the same theory applies.  Unless the squirrel or rat was attacking, it didn't deserve to be hurt like that.  It seemed to resonate with him, and he seemed truly reticent.  My tears always bother him, and he knew he shouldn't have done it. A tough lesson. We finally moved on to other activities, until Dan found the beheaded fox pup under the kitchen window...talk about a downer!  We are blaming the neighbor's cat. 


Thankfully the neighbor removed the....remains...and finally I thought things would calm down. However, it wasn't 45 minutes before Dan was yelling for me.  Having been together for almost 18 years (YIKES!!!), without thinking I knew his tone.  It was an emergency.  


I flew down the stairs, and met Cole at the front door. His mouth was bloody, and one of his front teeth was at an-almost 90 degree angle.  Apparently, Cole and his daddy were wrestling and somehow Cole managed to whack himself in the face dislodging one of his teeth.  I am no dentist, but it was very clear that tooth had to come out.  It should be no surprise that Cole was excited at this idea.  


I took a Kleenex and pulled at the tooth. I was truly stunned to feel resistance. It was bleeding profusely, but was still intact at the root.  Cole didn't appear to register any pain or fear, and so I grabbed a new Kleenex and asked him if I could try again.  Of course he said yes.  This time I pulled hard, and it snapped loose.  


Cole and I stared at each other for several seconds.  In that moment I fell in love with him all over again.  I was flooded with emotions I had not felt for him - or anyone honestly - in a long time.  It was a connection like only a mother and child could feel.  We locked eyes, and I know even though he could never verbalize it, he felt it too.  Cole and I alone shared this special moment, and no one could barge in or take it away from us.  


I felt like I had hurt my baby, though his face did not register even a scintilla of discomfort.  I also realized that he was my last, my youngest, and now we could never go back (as if we could ever do so).  This would be the last time I one of my babies would lose a 'first' tooth.  I did not expect this deluge of emotions, and I took it very hard.  Cole finally broke the silence, and said quite plainly, 


"I can't believe it."


After a second I said, "I can't either."


And I couldn't.  I really couldn't.  


Cole ran off, perfect white tooth in hand, to show Dad and Jack and Katie, while I collapsed on the kitchen floor. I could not contain myself.  I cried until I was empty, and then cried some more.  Dan told him to hug his momma, but Cole didn't need the prompting.  He hugged me and told me he loved me many times, and I just could not get enough of him.  My baby was growing up.  

The Old Guy in the White Suburban

Mom's parents, Nana and Buddy to the people, finally made it up here. It took a good year-and-a-half of coaxing, Mom seizing Buddy's credit card and booking the flights, and much anxiety on everyone's part.  All the people descended upon the airport to pick them up, and there was mayhem and melee for the rest of Sunday evening as we all made up for not having seen each other since Christmas.  Not coincidentally, Nana and Buddy were in town for spring break. This way, Mom and Dad could still go to work and Nana and Buddy could babysit!! (Translate: Mom and Dad don't have to pay for childcare FOR A WHOLE WEEK!!!). 

Monday was fairly uneventful: Nana and Buddy got to watch all three people in tae kwando class and we took them to eat at our favorite local restaurant (Iron Hill Brewery). The restaurant is loud, has an extensive kid's menu that goes well beyond your average chicken-fingers-and-fries-fare, and is reasonably priced.  The chef changes the menu with the seasons, and if the weather is remotely nice, the outdoor tables have a long wait. You may recall that it's the sight of Israel's meltdown last summer regarding an ice cream truck, and her daddy completely letting go of the purse strings and offering to take her shoe shopping if she would "cease melting" (see post from 8/20/10 , including video).  


Tuesday we planned to take Nana and Buddy on a tour of Valley Forge. It's about 30 minutes from our house - an easy tour of history.  The park has an excellent collection of artifacts from the Revolutionary War - personal effects of the soldiers, such as eye glasses, a hair comb, shoes, cooking pans, utensils, a personal journal, even weapons and ammunition.  After examining the artifacts and watching a brief video about the brutalities of what the troops suffered, we took the auto tour around the park - acres and acres of beautiful countryside just blooming into spring. We kept reminding each other of how terrible it was during that winter, and the suffering so many endured to give us what we have now.  General Washington offered a cash prize ($5.00? I think) to the men who could build the first cabin in each regiment.  The cabins - replicas are all over the park - are rudimentary at best. Small, with wooden bunks, earthen floors and no windows, they reek of mildew and damp earth.  And that's just the replicas! The soldiers had so little to work with, and disease and low supplies were their worst enemies that winter. Twelve-thousand men set up camp in late 1777, but only 6,000 survived. Later, as they thawed out and spring came on, several thousand more infused their numbers, strengthening them and thereby ensuring victory against the Crown. But of course, they did not know that at the time.  No actual battles were fought on the fields at Valley Forge, but of course it is a phenomenal testament to the will, determination and character of the brave soldiers who sacrificed so much to attain our freedom.  

My people had seen Valley Forge before, but still loved seeing it again. We had the privilege of walking through the house where General Washington spent the winter - standing in the very place our first president spent that horrible winter. No matter how many times we visit, it is always a humbling experience. 


But I digress! Let's go back to earlier that afternoon, before we even left the house for Valley Forge.  I went to work as usual, but stayed late to prepare for depositions the next day. My cell phone had been ringing off the wall, and when I finally noticed it, Dan was really worked up.  Apparently, the West Chester police just left the house...


Earlier that morning, before school, I told Cole we were taking Nana and Buddy to Valley Forge after school, as a motivator for good behavior that day. Everyone was waiting on me to come home from work.  The people were outside playing, and apparently Cole could not open the front door. We had recently replaced the door knob to the front door, but it was a little cantankerous. When Cole could not open the door, he assumed everyone had left for Valley Forge without him. 

We live in the woods. Our driveway is 9/10 mile off a major highway. It's beautiful, surrounded by the woods, and our neighbors are herds of deer, foxes, a family of raccoons we have watched grow up, and innumerable annoying geese. Oh yeah - and Pepe le Pew (it's always easy to tell when he's mad)!  So Cole took off, on foot, looking for everyone. After a few minutes, Dan, Nana and Buddy began looking for him - Dan on the four-wheeler, Buddy in the Suburban.  Both were getting frantic after several minutes of no-Cole. 


The .9 mile driveway winds through the scenic woods, over a 100-year-old stone bridge, and around another 105-year-old stone building called the "Carriage House." Buddy ventured down the whole of the driveway, continually doubting Cole would walk so far on his own, but at the very second he later admitted he thought he had gone far enough and was going to turn around, he spotted Cole through the trees...walking on the highway.  A. Major. Highway.  


A few kindly souls had stopped along when they observed a six-year-old meandering along a major thoroughfare; so many times since I have said earnestly thanked God for allowing kind people to stop and not the kind we see on an episode of "Dateline." 


Needless to say, when Buddy saw his grandson strolling down a Pennsylvania highway, he got tunnel vision.  The only thing on his mind, he told me later, was to get Cole in the vehicle.  Of course, when he called to Cole, Cole immediately responded, ran to the Suburban and jumped in. Buddy recanted that one of the people who had pulled over and was standing with Cole gave him quite the nasty look. It wasn't until Dan and I exclaimed how surprised we were that the lady didn't question him and/or try to stop him that he realized she probably considered him a possible child abductor!  


Naturally, the police showed up at the house very shortly after Buddy secured the rogue child.  Cole was absolutely, completely, and thoroughly Scared. To. Death.  Cole had broken down into tears once Buddy got him into the Suburban, and by now the adrenaline of trying to go find his family had worn down, and he was terrified the police were going to take him to jail.  A subject for another post (yes, one I should have already written, I know), Cole had a very recent experience with West Chester's finest when he absconded from school.  So. He was justifiably scared when they showed up at the front door....

Speaking of...when the officer knocked on the front door...Dan of course was expecting them by now. Buddy was all too happy to let Dan field the officers' questions.  West Chester's finest asked if Dan had seen, and I quote,"an old guy in a white Suburban" with a young boy.  Restraining himself, Dan replied that yes, his father-in-law had rightfully retrieved Cole from the highway in our white Suburban, and no, there was nothing wrong. Having driven so far back into the woods, the officers were, understandably, a tad bit hesitant to take Dan at his word, but the house seemed in order, Cole was content, and they had no choice but to take Dan at his word.  


Thankfully, I worked through the whole ordeal, consumed by my responsibilities, and knew nothing about the near-disaster.  Absorbed in my work, I had ignored my cell phone. Dan finally called the office. I literally fell to my knees upon hearing that my six-year-old had been rambling down the highway like a vagabond. I raced home, no doubt breaking all kinds of laws in my earnestness to put my arms around my baby, and once home I am pretty certain I shoved Dan aside to get to Cole. His eyes were still dilated, and he was hesitant in seeing me, as if fearful I would be mad. I could not hold him hard enough or close enough. How close had we come to losing him forever! I'll never stop being thankful for the nameless kind souls who stopped on the highway in the middle of their day to see why a young child was alone on the highway.  How many times do we hear about such children being taken in the middle of the day even, in their front yards, from the playgrounds, in a shopping mall? Only to never be heard from again. My heart - normally calloused to my people's constant moanings and groanings about silly inconveniences - truly ached and ached and ached for what might have been, for the loss I might have had.  


Dan and I, along with Nana and Buddy, talked to Cole on and off all day about why you should never walk off like that, never walk down such a busy highway, look to see the car in the driveway, go to the neighbor's house, stay where you are if you are lost.  He soaked it all in with wide eyes and a look on his face that I swear was beyond his years.  He sensed the danger, our fear, and his mistake.  He understood.


On another level, we hounded Buddy all day, and the rest of the week, about being the "old guy in the white Suburban." 

"Watch out! There's a cop - he's probably got an APB on the old guy in a white Suburban." Or - "Why is that guy staring at you? Oh yeah, he probably heard the radio make the announcement for the "old guy in the Suburban."  And on and on it went. He took it all in quite a good humor, which hopefully is intact, as one should not waste such a great moniker! 
 

Say What??

Recently Dan was asking a clerk at the local Acme (a grocery store) where he could find ice. He had to repeat this no less than four times, and with each request, he became louder and louder. It was becoming embarrassing. Yet she never understood his request. It seems like the veins in his neck stood at attention as he desperately tried to make this simple clerk understand he Just. Wanted. Ice. She was looking at him like he had two heads, but after five or six attempts practically screaming at her he wanted "ICE," she pointed towards the rear of the store. She had quite the nasty look on her face. We walked off steaming, wondering aloud how the clerk could be such an idiot. We talked all through the store about how could that moron possibly not understand what he was saying! Finally, we finally laughed it off, checked out and went home. The next morning, I was relaying this story to my office mate. He listened quietly with a really irritating smirk. Finally I stopped after talking about how stupid she must be, my office mate paused for a few seconds. Finally he said, "Heather, it sounds like Dan was saying ass...where could he find ass..."

Ahhh...now I understand what they mean when they say we have an accent...

I had to stop a minute to let it sink in...and then I couldn't stop laughing. No wonder she looked at him with such disgust!! She thought he was asking for sexual favors!

If you are from the South, close your eyes...say "ice" out loud...be honest...a Southerner coming to the Northeast asking for ice could easily be mistaken for asking for ass!

The Great Persuader

Even at six, Cole can be a great persuader. While he makes great arguments, his success rate at this age is fairly low...like, in the single digits. This is perfectly illustrated by his recent inheritance of his big brother's Heelys. If you are muttering "Heelys" under your breath with a furrowed brow, clearly you have been living in a cave and do not know that Heelys are skate shoes. They have wheels in the heels. Every school in the western hemisphere bans them, as do most malls, shopping centers, and any parents living indoors. The wheels are removable, but this renders them boring and useless to their owner.

The first morning after the inheritance, he came into the kitchen ready to leave for school. However, I noticed he had the Heelys on, wheels in of course. Very calmly I told him he could not wear his Heelys to school. He thought about this for a minute instead of screaming like a banshee - a frequent reaction to anything he doesn't like. He cocked his head slightly, put one hand on his hip, and I see the veritable wheels turning in his mind. After a couple of seconds, he said slowly,

"Well, Mrs. Parise (his kindergarten teacher) said today is Heelys and socks day." His blue eyes always betray him when he is either lying or about to come off his hinges, and this was no exception. Even though no parent with a scintilla of intelligence would believe the school would host such a ridiculous day, his eyes still reminded me of this fabrication.

Early on in the school year, as is common in every school, the school began celebrating the occasional days such as "Hero Day," when the students were encouraged to dress as their favorite heroes, or "Pajama Day," when the students could wear their pajamas to school if they gave one dollar to such-and-such cancer fund, or the day in every school when the students all wear red to promote a drug-free community. This concept apparently resonated with Cole, and he now readily uses it to promote whatever he wants to do that day. Whatever he wants to do, or wear, or take to school, he does an excellent job of attempting to persuade us that this day just happens to be the day for it.

This is even further illustrated by yesterday's events, when he found a piece of metal in the front yard en route from house to car. In the legal field, this would be called a shiv. Legal field or not, it would likely result in his suspension, which he has already had, but I digress...it's another story for another post.

I saw him shove it in his coat pocket, and glance at me questioningly. I told him he could not take whatever it was in his pocket to school. Very earnestly he told me it was "show-and-tell day, and that he was supposed to take a piece of metal to school!" AS. IF. Shockingly, I did not believe this! In an incredible show of restraint, I paused and counted to ten. Well, ok, three (I was in a hurry). Never-minding the fact that his kindergarten class only has ONE show-and-tell day PER. YEAR., I calmly told him that under no circumstances could he ever take such a piece of metal to school. I was struggling to keep myself under control and not slapping him into next year. I have always supposed that this is what separates me from the derelicts of society - while I recognize in a moment of extreme frustration that I want to slap the holy ever-loving life out of one of my children, I don't. I. Can. Step. Away.

So we are standing in the front yard, freezing, in a rush to get the people to school on time, and Cole's blue eyes change in an instant. Not for the first time, I saw the determination in his eyes to triumph over me and get his way. He tightened his grasp on the metal, and shoved his hands even deeper into his pockets. It was an impasse, and I would have to delicately negotiate my way out of this, as Cole's innocent six years have not yet provided him with these skills. I again counted to three and managed to quietly tell Cole that the school does not allow us to take those kinds of things to the school as they can be considered weapons. Cole, practicing those great powers of persuasion, countered with his argument that Mrs. Parise expected him to bring something for this show-and-tell, that she told him to bring THIS piece of metal, and that if he didn't, he would be the ONLY. ONE. without something for show-and-tell. I did immediately think about how remarkable it was that he could come up with such a justification for anything on the spot like that, but instead focused on what my response would be.

I bent down and eye-to-eye, and affirmed to him in the calmest voice I could muster, that not only could he not take this piece of metal to school, but that he was going to immediately drop that piece of metal right then and there and we were going to get in the Suburban and go to school. We stared at each other for a long three seconds, and finally I won. He dropped it, and I breathed an enormous sigh of relief as I realized my unusual exhibition of control.

And this was all before nine o'clock...just another day in paradise, right??

Creativity

So one night last week Cole had been in the bathroom an extraordinarily long time, and I asked his dad to go check on him. A few seconds later, Dan calls out to me,

"Heather get up here and bring your camera!!"

Anytime Dan wants me to memorialize something on film I get worried.

My camera is charged, miraculously, which I turn on as I run up the stairs.

Dan is standing by the open bathroom door, and steam is pouring out. He is laughing uncontrollably. And I laughed too, when I saw what he was looking at:




No, he wasn't throwing it...yes, we talked to him about not playing with the toilet plunger.

Why do I love thee, Philly? Let me count the ways...

Never a week goes by without someone asking,
"Where are you from?"

No one freaks out over a couple of flakes of snow...or even a couple of feet...

What?!? You say you want to go out to eat?! The restaurant choices are unending.

Food trucks.

...so George sat here...and Ben was over here...Thomas liked this chair...and John? Well, Mr. Hancock preferred this spot...

People actually think my "accent" is endearing!

A former Arkansas Razorback is a PITCHING MA-CHINE for the Philadelphia Phillies, and He. Rocks (No, I will NOT tell you who he is. I can't help the perpetually ignorant. Figure it out, that's what Google is for).

Phillies are red. Razorbacks are red. Read: don't have to get a new wardrobe.

Our country was born here - need I say more?

There are four - count them, FOUR - seasons! Who knew!!

You can enjoy outdoors without flies carrying off your food...or mosquitos the size of the American bald eagle sucking your blood dry.

No one knows what a "tornado drill" is. Or maybe even a tornado...

Those exotic things in that new recipe you want to try you can actually find on the shelves at any local market.

Similarly, that new product advertised on tv or in the magazines is actually available for purchase in your neighborhood. At the same time it's being advertised. And - products you've NEVER seen advertised are also available.

It's not just a concrete jungle. There are beautiful trees, landscapes, parks, rivers, creeks - everywhere.

People from other parts of the country have heard of your city. In fact, people from OTHER COUNTRIES know where your city is and why it's important.

Opportunity, opportunity, opportunity. You want it, you can find it here.

Herr's Potato Chips.

Hershey Chocolates.

Two hours from NYC!!!!

Wawa.

Wawa Deli.

The Phillies. The Eagles. The Flyers. The 'Sixers.

Actually going to Phillies games.

Penn's Landing.

The Liberty Bell. Independence Hall. The Constitution.

A few miles from my house is the Battlefield of Brandywine, which we lost. George Washington said at the end of his life that that battle was one of the five greatest disappointments of his life. I walked where our first president walked.
PHILLY CHEESESTEAKS!!!! Geno's vs. Pats....we choose Geno's. Wiz wit-out.

Cheesesteaks in general...

Rita's Ice (my favorite flavor - peanut butter and jelly).

We're really close to Delaware, where there is no sales tax.

Two hours from the boardwalk and beach at Ocean City, NJ.

Even if we weren't close to DE, PA has no sales tax on food or clothing. Year-round. BOO-Ya!

We say, "10 of 2," instead of "10 til 2." Much cooler - don't you think?? And you will be corrected if you don't use the correct phrasing.

Events get cancelled when the heat index approaches 90 degrees. That includes evening baseball practices for little league. And school.

All Star Baseball Academy for my boys - they hire guys who have played with or coached in the major leagues (Phillies included!). They know how to play, how to teach, and love what they do. Plus, their facilities are top-notch.

Rittenhouse Square.

Amoroso's breads and rolls.

The Philadelphia Museum of Art (we ran the same steps Sly did!!).

Streets made of bricks. Really old bricks.

Federal Doughnuts.

Seeing the skyline as I drive into the city.

My kids are learning about other cultures. A veritable melting pot, and being different doesn't make one stand out in a bad way.

I. LOVE. THE. CITY.