Reason # 576 that baby boomers are needy, pathetic losers.

I know. I AM a baby boomer but that doesn't stop me from realizing we are a generation of whiny, entitled brats. That has to be true; otherwise there is no explanation for something like this.

Yes, I've been posting several pieces about my own misgivings and fears about having all my sons out of the house this fall for the first time. But that doesn't mean I'm inclined to sign up for an "empty nest workshop." How is it that our parents were able to send their children off without the "benefit" of counselors who promised to help them cope? Were they just that much smarter or just that much more sensible?

There are choices here. You can attend a seminar in person; you can take a course on how to overcome your angst. One of the couples teaching a course just happens to have a book ready to sell you, one conveniently titled 10 Great Dates for Empty Nesters. It gives a couple helpful little exercises to do together in what I'm guessing is an effort to reclaim their couplehood. Fun, right? Sure, if confronting each other about money, sex and anger is your idea of a good time. And if that doesn't sound like quite enough fun packed into a date for you, you can spend time reassigning the tasks that seem to be going undone since your children left home. Sounds like a dream date to me.

This entire article is aggravating on a lot of levels but one of my favorite parts discusses a phone service empty nest moms (particularly "stay-at-home empty nest" moms, the most tragic figures in this scenario) can call for some help. Please don't misunderstand me. I am not opposed to therapy; I am opposed to elitist, exclusionary therapy that seems directed toward a certain demographic (women with considerable disposable income.) Their pain must be more acute than the loss and anxiety experienced by other women. If you take this article at face value, it would seem that lower middle class or women living right on the poverty line do not seem to experience a moment or two of the empty nest syndrome. And if they do, they're out of luck. I guess they don't have the resources to take advantage of this "counseling." After all, this is how the service is described (bold my own):

Empty Nest Support Services offers private phone sessions and seminars that rely on art therapy and journaling. "This is a grieving process for some parents," says Caine, who in October will counsel empty nesters at a spa retreat in California. "They can't just 'get over it.' " (One suggestion for moms in mourning: throw a party and ask the guests to bring a card on which they've written what their empty-nester pal would be "fabulous at giving the world now.")

I'm almost speechless. Turning to artistic pursuits sometimes helps people navigate a new chapter in their lives. (I'm threatening my own "Mommy's ceramic period" to distract and engage me this fall. Everyone will get a lopsided candy dish for Christmas. They'll look at it fondly years many from now and remark: Remember when Mommy took those art classes when we all moved out, bless her heart? And remember when she gave us each one of us these?") As far as "journaling" - well, it's called blogging. You get no argument from me about putting your feelings down to try to understand them. But the rest? Honestly, you have to be living on another planet in order to even conceive the idea of throwing a party where women gather to hand each other cards about what each one of the would be "fabulous at giving the world right now."

Here's my very favorite headline from the article. Take a moment before you read it because it may shock you. Here it is: turns out, parents who "feel good about the way their children have turned out" are less inclined to get all worked up about the whole idea of an empty nest. ('Turned out?' Kind of like they're a room being redecorated or a backyard deck being completed?) Parents with a little less confidence in their children are a little more worried. I'm stunned. That's very, very surprising, isn't it?

Who researches this stuff? Who writes it with such conviction? Fact: I'm having a hard time about my boys leaving because I'll miss them! Fact: I really like them! Fact: I think they "turned out" pretty darn well but that doesn't stop me from feeling sad.

Headline to anyone even thinking about taking one of these courses: not everything requires a support group. Not everything is a seminar for God's sake, complete with a workbook and exercises. I can't say exactly how I'll move through this stage but ultimately, I feel like it will all be okay. I'll turn to friends and family, and yes, I'll call the boys once in a while, and we'll all be okay. You can do the same, in your own way, with your own circle of friends and family. Without having even one private phone counseling session.

and another musical light flickers out....

I can't quite explain why I feel so sad about the death of Willy DeVille, who passed away of pancreatic cancer at the age of 58. If you don't know who he is (like me, you may have missed the defining acts and a couple of the future legends who played at CBGB's circa 1978), or think you're unfamiliar with his music, you may be wrong about that.

If you're a fan of Mickey Rourke, you may recall one of his earliest movies, The Pope of Greenwich Village. One of my favorite scenes in that movie - in a film full of favorite scenes and memorable dialog - shows two characters, Charlie and Diane, enjoying a balmy summer night in a New York City park, dancing lovingly in each other's arms to the soft alluring music coming from the local band playing nearby, who was none other than Mink DeVille featuring Willy. They played "Just to Walk that Little Girl Home" and as I watched the scene for the first time - and every time ever since - it struck me as such a gorgeous, simple, sweet little melody full of desire and love.

It's possibly the perfect combination of piano, accordian, guitar, violin, harmony and lyrics. As a woman, you want to be the woman in the song because she sounds confident, loving, and approachable. As a listener, you want the guy singing to "get the girl" and walk off into the night, arm and arm with the woman he loves.

Skip ahead a few years. The Princess Bride? A little film that may just be a touchstone for a generation? While Mark Knopfler may have performed the song that has become synonymous with ROUS's, six-fingered men, vengeful Spaniards, vile Sicilians and kind-hearted giants - and oh yes, true love - Storybook Love, the title song was another of Willy DeVille's masterpieces. Who doesn't love this song??? Who doesn't find himself or herself at least humming along, at least during the chorus???

I know. This post makes me sound like the least committed fan ever since I have almost no reference points beyond DeVille's music in films. No, I don't own his catalog and I can't claim I danced to his punk songs in the late '70s. If that prevents me from being a true DeVille fan, so be it.

His music brought me joy. Isn't that enough?

Somehow, my sense of the man and his music is that everyone is welcome, that all that mattered were the songs. That he never missed nor craved the enormous fame and everything that accompanied it; the kind of fame that found its way to contemporaries of his during his lifetime.

Just weeks after the world nearly stopped on its axis to mark the death of Michael Jackson, we have another extremely talented musician leave us with barely a minor chord struck in the media. So celebrate DeVille's life and work more quietly. Listen to "Storybook Love" or "Just to Walk That Little Girl Home" and sway in the dark with someone you love tonight. Now that's a real tribute.

Well, I guess I can earn a living titling things.

After the NYT story on Sunday that nearly drove me into a deep depression, I open the paper to read this today.

Just in case you missed it, here's the title of Lily's new CD: It's not me, it's you.

Shoot me now.

Q: When is a triangle not a triangle? A: When it becomes another way to question yourself.

I spend a lot of time on the phone every day. Not only do I work very closely with colleagues in another location, I also speak to clients in different parts of the country all day. Many times I'm actually involved in a conversation; but almost as often, I'm on a conference call with the mute button activated. And while I'm sitting, listening and trying to stay alert, I often find myself doodling in pencil (always in pencil) in my spiral notebook.

I've done this for years and years, mostly to pass the time and keep myself awake during sometimes tedious calls that I'm positive mean almost nothing to me, professionally or personally. Always - always! - I doodle triangles. The other day, because I like to torture myself with information that will likely cause me anxiety, I had to look up the meaning of doodling, particularly doodling triangles.

I checked out http://www.ruthgraphology.co.uk/doodle.html.

You ready for this? Here's how the site describes the personality of someone who doodles triangles: an aggressive personality; highly competitive. That's just super. Then I wondered: is there something inherently wrong with this definition? Is there something absolutely negative about the word "aggressive?" And what about the phrase "highly competitive?" In the following context, you would call the person being described as admirable and praiseworthy: "Her aggressive approach to pursuing those who commit crimes against children is legendary." Or what about this? "Her highly competitive streak consistently served her clients well as she aggressively pursued a fair deal for them."

Sure, those sound positive. But I was still not all that pleased. Maybe it's the idea of an "aggressive personality" that was so off-putting. Does that sound like code for a nasty, in-your-face person? And does "highly competitive" really describe someone who is an ambitious climber who kicks you out of the way as she climbs the corporate ladder? Maybe that's me being too sensitive to nothing but words.

But if I were really someone who is too sensitive to stuff like this, wouldn't I be doodling something other than triangles? Like hearts or flowers or circles? Seems to me, the proper response to an assessment like this would be "You said it! That's exactly what I am!" And since I didn't react that way, I'd guess that maybe I'm doodling triangles under false pretenses. Maybe I used to be aggressive and highly competitive and the triangles are lingering from that point of my life. Maybe I hit a certain age and all the aggression in me disappeared as completely as my original hair color.

So what do your doodles say about you? I'd love to know, But I'll bet mine are better than yours. (Can't help myself. That competitive streak, you now?)

In this case, no...it is you.

Unlike Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, I am not an alcoholic, or a "drunk" as Joe Queenan so perfectly terms it.

Stefanie is the celebrated mom blogger (I never head of) who apparently developed quite a following among mothers who can't wait to pop that cork or unscrew that cap everyday around cocktail hour, even with the care of their young children still front and center in their lives. Today's article in the Times informed me that there are plenty of mostly stay-at-home women out there who find motherhood dull or boring or stressful or ceaselessly repetitive and without that daily fix from a bottle, they couldn't quite bear it.

I don't know what makes me more aggravated - the fact that these poor women are acting like victims, or the fact that the title of Wilder-Taylor's upcoming book, It's Not Me, I's You, is also the title of this blog, and also the book I wrote many years ago that unfortunately remains unsold.

I'm not completely heartless about problem drinking. In fact, I'm more attuned to it than many, having grown up with too many demons and too much alcohol in my house and in my life. I have girlhood memories I prefer not to dredge up because about forty years later, they are still very painful.

But poor Stefanie. She found success writing about her motherhood angst, celebrated her "I'm me..I'm more than my children's mother!!" outlook with her online happy hour blog, surrounded by like-minded women, and now she has had her come-to-Jesus moment and confessed she has a problem with alcohol. And, like all good moralistic tales, her loyal readers are now writing to her, thanking her for inspiring them to quit, too.

God help me I can't stand this. As noted in the article, her blog "now includes passages of her sobriety related tenderness." That's just charming, isn't it? In other words, "Whoops kids! I guess it's no fun to have mommy laying around with a hangover or passing out for the night in the living room." Excerpt: "On May 23, I awoke on the couch dressed. [Note: I interpret 'awoke on the couch dressed' as 'passed out the night before.'] I thought, 'I have these kids who are depending on me," she said, weeping on the phone, 'and I have a bad problem...' "

Well, thank god. Just in time for her third book to be published, she figured it out. But won't that put her in the category of every other mother on the planet who publishes a book [and it is every other mother on the planet, except me] about just how darn fun and rewarding it is to be a mother, sans alcohol? Wasn't her belief in the sanctity of 'mommy and merlot' the platform upon which she built her printed and virtual empire? What now?

She admits as much. "It's embarrassing to be all rah Rah Rah! Goooo BOOZE! only to zip off with my tail between my legs saying, 'never mind, I've joined the other team,' but that's what I had to do."

Excuse me? It's embarrassing? That's what it is? I'd call it pathetic. Or self-indulgent and narcissistic. Or entitled and selfish. You're 'embarrassed' because you've realized that drinking and being a mom are probably not a great combination? (I'm sure you still cash those royalty checks from your publisher, though, right? Or is that embarrassing, too?)

And what do you mean: the other team? The team of moms who don't get drunk every night to ease the idea of staying home with their children by having "cocktail play dates?" The ones who don't cheer each other on and have their own private jokes about the stupifying yet uplifting effects of alcohol?

If I know publishing, which I probably don't, given my unpublished book, we can count on a follow up where she slips back into her former celebrated bad habits and how she deals with that whole episode in her life.

I don't have the stamina to actually go online and read her blog. I'm too aggravated right now. But I wonder how her kids are doing. I wonder what they thought about their mother and how what they did factored into her daily drinking and the panic she felt if she didn't have chilled bottle waiting for her every night and instead she "had to grit her teeth and wait until [her] husband came home at 8..."

I have a guess: maybe it wasn't so fun for them. Maybe leaving play dates with a mommy who is a little less attentive than when they arrived was slightly disconcerting. Maybe they've started to equate a wine bottle sitting on the kitchen counter at 4 pm with an evening that's not going to end well. I don't know, as I said, I'm guessing.

Maybe "It's Not Me, It's You" will find the perfect audience. Assuming they're all sober enough to crack it open and read it one night.

and another thing....

On Sunday, I met up with a friend of the family after Church and we chatted on our walk down the center aisle as we left. Like our family, he and his wife have children leaving for college this fall, children that are only one year apart in age. Their older daughter started last fall; their younger girl starts in a few weeks.

We joked about our kids being gone and I couldn't help it; I admitted I was brooding about it and would soon begin a deep depression. Without missing a beat, he said, "That's because you have sons. Every mother of daughters I know is absolutely ready for them to leave."

Hmmm. As the mother of not one daughter, I have no idea if that's true. I do know many women who have confirmed that as their daughters trudged through that horror show called adolescence, they drove them "spare," to borrow a word favored by British a colleague of mine. I do think that despite their own unique challenges - like when they claim that they've been showering for weeks and weeks but the bar of soap in their shower never seems to get any smaller, like the incomprehensible fact that the same boys who can see a flash of light lasting one millisecond and indicates an enemy about to attack in Halo 3 are blind to a single, unblinking green "finished" light on the dishwasher, and like having no clue about things like checking in with prospective roommates to see who has a mini fridge and who has a TV - boys seem much less complicated than girls. (The girls I know who are about to leave for college have color-coordinated their dorm rooms with the roommates they haven't yet met.) These kind of quirks make me crazy. Can you imagine what I'd be like if I had daughters? Exactly. That's why I was positive I'd never make a good mother for girls and have endless admiration for mothers who have raised delightful young women. God bless.

But I wonder: could what Tom said be true? Are most mothers of daughters absolutely ready to give them a hug and then kick them out the door? Are most mothers of sons quietly weeping into the towels they find in heaps all over the bathroom floor?

How could that possibly be true if you believe in that sad old saying: "A son is a son until he takes a wife; a daughter is your daughter all her life." Believe me, that also gives me pause. I picture scenes ten years from now. Some woman - okay, my daughter-in-law - somewhere is sitting next to one of my sons while he gives me a call: "We're going to ___'s mom's house for the Thanksgiving...we'll see you soon though, alright?" My friend Mary and I joke about spending holidays together in the years ahead - she also has a son. Just bracing for the inevitable, I guess.

That's the thing about parenthood. It promises to delight you but mostly confounds you. You read about breast-feeding, and end up expressing milk into the bathroom sink one night to relieve the pressure and then live through thrush. You get over three rounds of chicken pox in a matter twelve weeks and then face something called Fifth Disease, whatever that is. Yesterday's banged up skateboard turns into the car with a dented front end that will run about $1800 to straighten out.

So now what? You spend almost two decades raising your kids and they make you nuts and make you cry and make you proud and then all of a sudden they're moving out. You're staring into space, trying to remember that this is all good, it's all as it should be, it's all just super.

Maybe. Ask me in about ten years.

the myth of the empty nest

We're at T-minus something like 18 days until my younger sons leave for college. (My older son started at a university last fall and I'm still not quite over that but I took enormous comfort in continuing daily hugs with my younger boys who remained under our roof for one more year of high school.)

Part of the problem I'm having is the age difference in our children. Our older son is only 16 months older than his twin brothers. Even to us, it feels almost like all three of them have always been around. As a result, I have no "buffer," no adjustment period and no "new normal" we all live for several years before the next life stage change takes place under our roof. The closeness of our children's ages means we covered a lot of baby and toddler stages in a matter of only a few years, not a decade, before moving onto the next stage with all our children at once. Sure, we had a lot of diapers for a few years but the good news was that almost all at once, that same closet of diapers was empty, never to get refilled.

That kind of "speed-parenting" worked nicely when it came to Amoxicillin, training wheels and Tiger Cubs. It doesn't work so well right about now, when it feels like the boys are "speed-growing" out of my life. Their impending departure for college this fall means that in something like T-minus 19 days, I will very likely find myself in a coma. I know I'm not the first mother to experience the "empty nest" - a title I despise by the way - it just feels like I am.

Empty nests conjure up images of determined mother birds nudging their tiny birds over the edge and into flight, encouraging them to soar into a welcoming sky. Wonderful; good for them. I guess they know what they're doing but what if they don't? How many baby birds just fall to their death because they weren't ready to fly? I'll bet we never read that statistic in Nat Geo.

I looked up the story on Mourning Doves - plentiful in our backyard - and found that the baby birds spend all of 12 - 15 days in their nests. Newly hatched Robins spend 13 days in their nests before taking off. Crows are much more inclined to hang around home, for something like 20 - 40 days.

I also found this little snippet on All About Birds.com: "People tend to think of nests as safe, cozy little homes. But predators have a pretty easy time finding a nest full of loud baby birds, and nests can be hotbeds of parasites. So parent birds work from sunrise to sunset every day to get their young grown and out of the nest as quickly as possible."

Honest to god: "...from sunrise to sunset to get their young grown and out of the nest as quickly as possible."

So much for security and warmth and togetherness. Turns out that birds aren't encouraging bravery and self-reliance when they push their offspring to fly away. They're trying to offload their babies as quickly as possible to protect them and help live longer lives. Exactly why most mothers I know try to keep their children close to home.

I guess I wouldn't make a good mother bird. I don't want to nudge my boys "out of the nest" as quickly as possible. I can't imagine them not being here. But I will admit that I'm confused. Theoretically anyway, I love the concept of their self-reliance and confidence, but wow it's really difficult to watch myself become irrelevant.

Okay, even I know that's a harsh way to view this whole thing but in my worst moments, it feels very true. (More to come on this as I try to find the positive in it.) Sure, I'm hopeful this new stage will lead to wonderful and rewarding new experiences for the boys. The last thing I want for them is regret and disappointment. And yes, it's easy to conjure up images of a bathroom that never has towels scattered on the floor; bedrooms that remain fresh and clean and a sink that stays empty of a dozen juice glasses at once.

Tonight, those moments of order feel insignificant. What feels much more significant tonight are those flapping wings around me. They're beating just a little stronger, and sound just a little louder than they did just yesterday.

file under: if you can't beat 'em, join 'em...almost literally.

Okay, not many things I read make me laugh out loud. In fact, I can think of only a few: some (most?) Roz Chast cartoons, Andy Borowitz, Dave Barry, Joe Queenan and selected Zits comics. But I read a story in the newspaper today - well, in the screen-paper today - and found this.

The Church of England has begun what can kindly be termed a two-for-one promotion: "Come to Church and with just one visit, we'll perform your marriage ceremony and baptize your children." I suppose that's making lemonade out of lemons, where the Church takes the rather unsavory state of an unmarried couple who is raising their child(ren) without the benefits of marriage and in the space of just one visit to their sanctuary, turns them into a whole new family: Wife, Husband and Children.

The part that made me laugh was the quote from John Broadhurst, the Bishop of Fulham, who sounds like someone I'd like to meet. His take on the Church's decision was somewhat less gracious than others: "It is a pity they have not put in a funeral for grandma as well," he said.

Apparently, many couples in the UK are opting for a civil ceremony and the Church wants them back. Through this program, they are simply trying to make it easier for people to enter (or re-enter) the Church to sanctify their union.

Turns out that 44% of the children born in Britain are to single moms. Forty-four percent!!! And 20% of couples who marry have one or more child together or from a previous relationship. I can see why the Church has opened its arms, that's a lot of people to risk losing, just because you want to hold onto archaic ideas like getting married before you have children.

Honestly, though, I don't know why this is even a news story. About a week ago, Beliefnet.com ran a story on the Top 10 celebrity "soulmate" couples. Two of these soulmate couples never bothered with anything as prosaic as a wedding ceremony, at least to each other. They had kids and never had any kind of "joining ceremony" for their families as far as I know. One of the couples (Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward) hit the fifty-year mark in their marriage before Newman's death.

Look, I know marriage isn't for the weak. And I also know that a failed marriage doesn't make you a failed person. But for God's sake, do we have to ignore the idea that making a marriage commitment is probably - probably! - a better choice for almost everyone who has children and raises them together?

And sure, religious tradition has us celebrating the return of one lost sheep to the fold. I get that. After all, where would religion be without sinners? Answer: Out of business.

It's just funny to me that in the space of about one generation, we've gone from one extreme to the other in terms of how we view co-habitation and children born to unmarried people. What used to be something of an embarrassment, something you coped with as best you could and then you moved on, and tried to do the right thing...has become something that gets celebrated, it gets headlines on the gossip shows and toasted by the masses.

I'm not saying that people who found themselves pregnant and unmarried in 1972 were pariahs who deserved to be scorned and abandoned. I'm not saying that couples who live together without being married aren't loving people who care about each other. But I am saying I don't think we're headed in the right direction if even a church has to develop a new ceremony that more or less negates some of their teachings, i.e. a religious marriage ceremony is a sacrament and a promise before God that publicly acknowledges a couple's committment. Better late than never, I guess, particularly when there are children involved.

But I think I agree with Reverend Broadhurst here. Bending your own rules to get more people to take the plunge feels disingenuous at best. And kind of sad, too.

In praise of an author (and his first book) that proved this theory: life is copy.

In the mid-1990s, I had what may turn out to be one of the best jobs of my life. My official title was rights acquisitions editor. I didn't acquire books for original publication; instead I acquired the rights to sell already published or soon-to-be published books to our book club members.

Acquiring those rights involved visiting publishers - mostly in New York but in other areas of the country as well - to review their upcoming books (their pub lists) to determine what titles might make the best selections for our club members. We read galleys and proofs; we perused early pub lists to get a sense of what was coming in the next several months. We consulted Publisher's Weekly for reviews and deals made; anything that would give us a clue about the next big trends in publishing.

The coveted ancillary benefit to this job was being able to hear about up and coming authors from the editors who worked with them, hearing about the "big books" of the next season (publishers have three seasons or three "lists" a year), and, best of all, having wonderful books show up on my desk, courtesy of friends I had at various publishers.

My timing on the job was nearly perfect. Sometime during the fall of 1996, a good friend from Scribner called me at the office, during a break from a jury duty stint she was serving that week. She couldn't stop talking about this delightful new book she was reading, a surprising little memoir that came out of nowhere by an author no one ever heard of, titled Angela's Ashes. She couldn't recommend it highly enough and I couldn't wait to read it.

I bought it immediately upon publication and loved it. (I bought copies for practically everyone I knew that Christmas.) It took a little while to get into the rhythm and narrative nature of the writing but once I got there, it sounded - to my ears anyway - as beautiful as an Irish tenor. And I wasn't alone in my delight. The book went on to win the 1997 Pulitzer Prize in Biography / Autobiography.

Skip ahead about five years. In the spring of 2003, my family and I had the chance to hear the story of Angela's Ashes told to us, by the author himself, when McCourt appeared at Lafayette College with the Newman-Oltman Guitar Duo. At the time, my sons were 13, 11 and 11, and my oldest had read Angela's Ashes. [I'd made a deal with my boys as they grew up and began reading contemporary novels and other kinds of books: they could choose an author to read, as long as they also read a book by someone I recommended. Trevor wanted to read a Stephen King book - and I love Stephen King, have no quarrel at all with his work - and I told him he could pick out a King novel after he'd read Angela's Ashes.]

The music and readings that evening were lovely but the highlight had to be the book signing McCourt graciously held following the performance. Practically everyone in line had their own copies of the book; he wasn't sticking around just to sell a few more. He was approachable and charming. He looked humble and grateful for the kind words people shared with him about his work and the evening we'd all just spent together.

As we approached the author with our book in hand, McCourt asked Trevor if he'd read it. Trevor told him yes, and went on to explain my "deal" about books: that he could read a Stephen King book only after he'd read Angela's Ashes. Frank said something like, "Oh yeah, he's a popular guy; done quite well for himself, hasn't he? So who do you like better; that King fella or me?" [I could tell he was kidding around a bit, but it was an unexpected question.)

I was nervous, for about three seconds. My god, what would his answer be? Without missing a beat, Trevor told him he loved Angela's Ashes. It was the truth - he did love the book. And McCourt looked pleased that he'd met a 13-year-old who had been engaged and interested in his work, in a era of video games and electronic communication.

That short exchange has stayed with me. Watching my son connect with Frank McCourt, however briefly, remains a cherished moment.

McCourt's death last week diminishes the literary landscape. He emerged from almost no where and became the Cinderella story of publishing with his memoir. His unique narrative style and the moving story of his challenging childhood found an unlikely audience around the world, and bound us together as one, regardless of our religion, ethnic background or nationality.

The Broadway lights do not go dark when an author dies. Perhaps we should begin a tradition of lowering the lights in bookstores and libraries for one minute when we lose one of our national treasures, to remember and celebrate the contributions of authors who touch millions of readers with their words. As a book lover, I'd like that shared moment to think about the words that touched me, in the quiet dim light of remembrance. For me, Frank McCourt and his words will live on, on the page and in my mind, just as that brief moment we shared as a family at Lafayette College will remain with all of us forever.

Ten years and several thousand pages later...

I find myself anticipating the new Harry Potter movie, although in a quieter way than I have in the past.

In early 1999, we started reading the series. In 2001, our family enjoyed watching the premiere film, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, when it arrived in theaters that November, just a few years after we read the book aloud together. Somewhere along the line over the next several years, my reading every night gave way to each of the boys speeding through copies as quickly as they could, yet still savoring every adventure and every character.

There came a point in this activity where I was always the last to finish the new book, partly because I didn't stay up all night reading it as they did. Partly because they're just faster readers.

Harry was an extended moment of childhood for all of us, one we shared for years together. But Harry has grown up and my boys have, too.

Like our book solidarity, our movie togetherness seems to have reached a new stage. Tonight, my oldest son plans to join some friends to see the movie at midnight. I'm certain I'll be (very lightly) sleeping when he walks in very late tonight. My two younger sons have been spending time with friends in New York for the past few days, and will no doubt see the movie sometime this weekend.

A few days ago, I had a Facebook exchange with an old friend about her young boys, who are growing up to be avid readers. Good for her and good for them. Books were always the one "can we get this?" request we never turned down. Yes, we visited the library, too, but I could never come up with a reason to say no if one of my sons begged me to buy him a book. How could that be a bad decision?

I don't think it was. One of the best things I take away from this whole Harry experience is that fact that this series, along with dozens and dozens of other books and series of books we shared, seems to have encouraged the boys to love books. They like to read all kinds of books, by an eclectic group of authors, both fiction and non-fiction. They seem to appreciate good writing, especially good humor writing.

But the very best takeaway is, of course, my years of memories that conjure up images of three young boys, anxious and anticipating the next word, the next adventure. I'll always see a fuzzy image of them as two eight-year-olds and one nine-year-old, fresh from their baths, pajama-ed and under their covers, listening with enormous energy to that very first book. We lived through a lot of things - some nice and some quite miserable - in the intervening years between books. But regardless of what had been happening in the real world, we seemed to meet up again in a familiar place every time we started the new volume. And even once the reading aloud together was over, we shared that place again when we deconstructed each book and talked about it for hours.

I don't know exactly what they might conjure up when they think of us reading those first few books in particular. Maybe not much - maybe just the memory that they loved the stories and how the series unfolded. I'd like to think the connection we made over those characters and their story made it more fun and just a little more wonderful for each other.

And on this night especially, I find myself wondering where we'll all be in another ten years, knowing even more than ever how quickly they will pass, almost by magic.

A year? A whole year?

I grant you that I may be well out of the demographic curve that contributed to this survey, but it's hard to believe I've hit the one year mark. Then again, maybe I have.

According to the Daily Telegraph, women spend about a year of their lives picking out what clothing to wear. Between the work clothes and parties and weddings and dates, the survey reports that we spend one year rifling through clothing and putting together outfits.

Newspapers love to report on studies like this one, surveys that sum up the various mundane activities that take up our lives. How many years we sleep, eat, pee...God knows what else. But two things are curious to me about this survey. The first is this: how could it take women a year to pick clothing when we all wear the same thing? If you don't believe me, you don't read Bill Cunningham every week in the NY Times.

It's not exactly like women are a pallet of eclectic tastes, colors, styles and fashion. We all read the same magazines, shop at the same stores and - surprise! - eventually come up with nearly exact replicas of each other's "looks." How could it take us a year to make those decisions?

My second thought is this: when will we ever hear about a comparable survey about men? I know when: never. And that's okay. But I wish we could just all agree that surveys like this pretty much invalidate little things we've all come to trust as absolutes. Things like, mmmm, the women's movement? Equal opportunity? Here's a quote from the report:

"What you wear has a direct impact on how you feel about yourself and it is important a woman feels exceptional in her outfit.

"Whatever the occasion your clothes portray an image and we understand this is fundamentally important to women."

I agree! You do feel better is a great outfit and sure, it's important to women! It's just not important to men and in spite of the quickly departed metrosexual man, it never will be. It's impossible for me to believe that what a man wears has to make him feel exceptional. Please. Men don't spend 52 minutes choosing holiday clothing. Men don't try on two things every morning before deciding what to wear.

So why? Is it all about our own confidence? Is it wanting to be attractive? Is it wanting to be envied by the women around us and desired by the men? We've come a long way, baby, from work boots and work shirts. True to our nature, we now admit out loud that clothing matters to us and spending time on what we wear is worthwhile.

The mistake the women's movement made all those years ago was positing that women are just like men and should get absolutely equal treatment in all ways, particularly in the workplace. The first part of that statement is ridiculous; the second part is admirable and there's no reason it can't happen. But articles and surveys like this set us back a good fifty years or so in terms of our fight for "equality." Good God, if something as simple as what to wear that day sets you back twenty minutes every day, how can you manage a multi-million dollar budget? I know those two tasks are incongruous but I guarantee you that some man, some where had that exact thought after reading this report.

Independence? Or selfishness? Hmmmm..

I just don't know quite what to think about this.

In summary, this first person essay describes the experience of Bridget Kevane, and what some people perceive as her poor choices as a mother. Very briefly, Ms. Kevane gave her daughter, and a friend of her daughter's (both age 12), permission to visit the local mall near their home in Bozeman, Montana, with one caveat: they had to take their younger siblings with them, ages 8, 7 and 3.

Yes, the older girls were seemingly responsible, trained babysitters. The kids all grew up around each other and were very familiar with each other. Everyone knew the mall and it was a "safe" place for them to hang out. Dad's office was only a few minutes away and they had Mom's cell phone number.

So what went wrong? The 12-year-olds decided to try on some clothing in Macy's and basically "parked" the younger kids in the purse / cosmetics area. (This kind of activity was strictly forbidden by Ms. Kevane when she laid down the rules but the allure of the mall and the clothing in it can be too much for a 12-year-old to ignore.) Macy's employees, no doubt trained to look for problem situations, particularly involving children, alerted mall security that three young children appeared to be unattended and they needed assistance.

Ms. Kevane and her husband reached the mall after receiving a call, whereupon Ms. Kevane was told she would be charged with endangering the welfare of her children.

The rest of the article gives the details on how she handled that charge and the outcome of her case.

Here's my take: two young girls, no matter how responsible or how much babysitting they've done, don't have nearly the skills required to keep track of three younger children at a mall, no matter how well the children know each other and even if one of the children in their care is strapped into a stroller. Watching three children as they wander around a mall is quite different than watching them in their own home or in their own backyard. Distractions - for all the kids - are just too numerous. Even adults sometimes lose track of their children while shopping. Expecting these girls to deal with any situation that came up - including the unlikely but no less frightening scenario of encountering an adult intent on doing one of them harm - is ridiculous.

I know we don't plan for emergencies; that's why they're called emergencies.

And I feel for Ms. Kevane. I do. I once wrote an essay about how my children were home alone (for about two hours one day after school until I got home from work.) They were 11, 10 and 10 at the time. I heard from all kinds of people who informed me that I should be ashamed or worried or arrested for neglect. And they were in their own home!!

But this situation is different in several ways. The idea of 12-year-olds "watching" three younger children in a mall environment is flawed. And, it turns out, there's good reason for that. Despite knowing the rules, these responsible young girls left the children alone and went off by themselves to do what young girls do: shop for clothes. It's doesn't really matter that they returned to the younger children in "less than five minutes." They left the kids alone. Who couldn't have predicted that was possible? Even probable?

The debate is this: what about personal responsibility? What about Independence? What about self-reliance? What about all the chores and responsibilities children used to take on by age 12? What about trusting your own instincts as a mother about what your children can handle?

One of Ms. Kevane's admitted reasons for approving this outing to the mall was her own need for some down time and some quiet at home. I get that. I do. I clearly remember spending a winter Sunday with the boys when my husband was working out of town. At 8 am, I looked at the clock and thought: "Twelve hours. Twelve hours and everyone will be asleep again." That was very long day. I felt tired from the moment I opened my eyes that day and simply had to hold it together and tend to their needs until the children had settled into their beds that night.

That doesn't mean I never tried to get a break when I felt the need. I usually turned to my husband (or my parents) for help. And speaking of husbands, Ms. Kevane's husband returned home "about an hour" after the kids departed for the mall. If she was so exhausted, why not just wait for him to get home and let him do the child care? Maybe his arrival was a surprise; I don't know.

For me, this isn't the story of an abusive, neglectful mother. It's the story of a tired woman who made a bad choice. In fact, Ms. Kevane admits to many of the not so admirable behaviors good mothers everywhere exhibit when trying to juggle hectic lives. But the fact that she refuses to own up to this particularly poor decision doesn't reflect well on her. She did put her children in harm's way. She should own that, thank God that everyone returned home safely, and give her daughter another couple of years before expecting her to handle this kind of responsibility.

empty arms...sort of.

Okay, I may be a little slow about many things but honest to God, I never thought something like this – the almost inevitable conclusion of my sons’ childhoods - would find me this clueless.

Clueless because it was JUST yesterday I remember having this thought, and it’s as clear as freshly Windexed glass (well, as clear as what I imagine freshly Windexed glass looks like – it’s been a while): “Someday, I swear I’ll get out of this car at the end of the day and NOT have my arms full of ‘kid stuff.’ ” You remember what that is: the sippy cups, toys, books, extra little clothing, hats, gloves, a bag of groceries, and assorted plastic figures.

This seemed so very important to me, the idea that one day I would simply pull the car into the garage, open my door, and emerge, with nothing to show for myself but a purse and perhaps a magazine or two.

It wasn’t really the details of the “stuff” that was so exhausting. It was – and I mean this in the kindest way – the relentlessness of it all. I think it’s the year-on-year-on-year, day in, day out nature of motherhood that is the most surprising part. It’s the unnamed bit of being a mom that not one person acknowledges when they write their poetic, moving, charming little descriptions of motherhood.

Sure, you have a child and intellectually, you understand what that means: that barring tragedy, you’ll be a mother for a very long time. It also means you’ll be needed – in fact, demanded – for almost everything, for what feels like almost forever. And that becomes the new normal. You begin to anticipate the on-call nature of the position and respond accordingly. But I can admit this: that doesn’t mean it always comes naturally or with a smile.

Because for every day you carry stuff out of the car; you have a dozen days where you carry around things that are much heavier. Like the despair over how much your son hated playing baseball but you pushed the idea of “sticking it out” and not quitting. Like the horrible year your son spent enduring his ninth grade Science teacher - an experience you assured him will help build “character.” (Turns out the teacher was truly kind of insane and lost her job at the end of the school year.) Like the seven-thousandth time you wonder if this whole ‘career- daycare-whirlwind weekend’ life is the right path for all concerned.

But then, just like that, all of that relentlessness, all of that needfulness exhibited by your children on a daily basis for years disappears, in what feels like exactly one day. Yes, I know it’s more gradual than that but the signs are subtle, and sporadic and don’t really build to critical mass until it’s too late to turn back.

But even after the physical neediness dissipates, the “carrying around the stuff” doesn’t. Maybe it’s just me, but for years I was the primary owner of all paperwork, including permissions slips, medical forms, school supplies (including various pieces of poster board I was supposed to conjure up at a moment’s notice on Sunday night at approximately 9:30 pm, just in time to start the 3-d project due the next day during first period), and checks for various dues, purchases, and payments. I was also the person who could name exactly where someone’s backpack was or where he left his snow boots. I kept track of Tiger Cub meetings, orthodontist appointments, cello lessons and soccer practice. It wasn’t an armful of toys, but it felt pretty cumbersome from time to time.

And suddenly here I am. My “dreams” of freedom have come to life right in front of me and I wonder why the notion being so unencumbered felt so attractive all those years ago. The good news is that finally, yes, I do get out of the car with empty arms. That’s super. The bad news: I usually walk into an empty house.

I’m not one of those parents who claim they can’t wait to wave them off and begin really living!! My problem is I really like my kids and wish I could spend more time with them. I realize this exodus is the natural order of things. I watch the boys leave the house to go to work, to see friends, to attend to their very busy lives. I get it: they’re adults. Young adults yes; but still, adults.

I miss them. With each day that passes, each day that brings me one day closer to the day they have all moved out, spending time at college and never quite feeling the same about being “home” again, I’m trying to reconcile the feelings I have. Someone once said a successful parent is one who makes himself or herself obsolete. That sounds little too bleak, even for me, the Queen of Bleak.

I suppose we’ll all start a new way of interacting with each other. (I have a feeling this will be a bit easier for them.) I suppose I’ll even get used to the idea that they won’t be down the hall, or upstairs, or listening to the car door closing outside which signals a “relaxation” mechanism inside me. I suppose when they walk in the door – less frequently than they do these days but perhaps with a little more anticipation than they feel now – they’ll carry their own loads but maybe they’ll also carry home some memories of who we were, for all those years.

I’ll carry them forever. But what a difference eighteen years makes. Now, those same moments feel more precious and untouchable and very nearly perfect.

Two words: stop talking.

The Wall Street Journal referenced a story from the Associated Press today to bring us the latest news about the long-suffering Governor Mark Sanford. To summarize: turns out that Ms. Maria Belen Chapur, of Argentina, was not the first women Governor Mark dallied with behind his wife’s back. As the AP described the situation, he “crossed lines” with some other women but he “never crossed the ultimate line.” That line would be this: engaging in sexual intercourse with them.

It hardly seems worth speculating about what exactly he would call not crossing a line. But still I can’t help but wonder how much he would actually “do” with another woman and somehow still feel virtuous. Can you say Bill and Monica?

If we believe Sanford's story, Ms. Chapur is the only woman to experience that delightful circumstance called “crossing the line” with The Governor. But make no mistake: this was no one-night stand down there in Argentina. It meant so much more. Here’s the Sanford quote that kills me: “This was a whole lot more than a simple affair, this was a love story," Sanford said. "A forbidden one, a tragic one, but a love story at the end of the day."

A love story. A forbidden love story. A tragic love story. In fact, this was a love story with a “soul mate,” another term Sanford decided to share during an interview in his office.

I wish I were the reporter conducting that interview. My next question would have been this: For God's sake! Are you out of your mind? Are you quite mad? What kind of person not only humiliates his wife, his family and his staff by lying about an overseas affair, then goes on the record about the affair by calling it a “forbidden love story” with his “soul mate?” And who is this Maria Belen Chapur...Wallis Simpson? At least in that case, the King Edward didn’t throw over a wife and family, just his country and his throne.

(Interestingly, according to Christopher Warwick in his book, Abdication, Mrs. Simpson recalls a particular cruise with then Prince Edward VIII as the moment when they “crossed the line that marks the indefinable boundary between friendship and love.” Maybe “crossing lines” has been code for screwing around on your spouse for a decades and I missed the memo.)

But let me understand this. Sanford isn’t all bad. He’s trying to do the right thing here. He’s trying to fall back in love with his wife. Isn't that just precious? What a hardship for him! In the now immortal words of Christian Bale, “Ohhhhh, gooooood for you.” That makes you quite a gentleman, doesn’t it?

About a year ago, we all watched in mixed horror and incredulity at the stoic and somber Tilda Spitzer standing by her husband, Elliott, as he confirmed his philandering ways with a prostitute. That was difficult to stomach for numerous reasons but now in light of Stafford’s admissions, Tilda can thank God for small favors. At least Elliott wasn’t mooning over his soul mate, Ashley Dupree, to an AP reporter. At least he didn’t term his $80,000 payments to the Emperor’s Club payments for a “forbidden love story.”

The Governor had an unexpected chance to back out of the spotlight and fade away in the shadow of the late Michael Jackson. Even covering the death of Billy Mays would have been enough of a story to distract the reporters. But here's today's lesson. Use “soul mate, or say “forbidden love story” and there you are: Right back on the front page.

I’m guessing Jenny Sanford is renewing her plea for a marital separation right about now. If they get the papers filed soon, Mark can be back on plane in time to spend the long holiday weekend “hiking the Appalachian Trail.”

Apparently, $335,000 today equals $59,000 in 1987.

This is what passes for austerity these days. God help us.

My husband says I’m stuck in the 80’s. Back then we were a younger couple buying our first home. We acted very conservatively when we purchased our home, and bought an older twin home that served our needs nicely for several years, until our family grew from two to five in sixteen months. Even then, we stayed in our first (small) home for another year and a half, and moved in to our present home seventeen years ago.

That first mortgage was a lesson in control and conspicuous consumption. We paid $59,000 for our home. Twenty-three years ago, we were approved for another $75,000 on our mortgage (maybe even more). Despite the temptation that goes along with spending more money, we stayed on the low end of the buying scale and as a result, made extremely comfortable mortgage payments.

When we traded up to a larger home, we did the same thing. The sale of our first home netted us a $30,000 profit, and with the additional money we’d saved, we were able to put a down payment of almost $50,000 on our second home.

Once again, our principle, interest, and escrow payments were comfortable. Too comfortable? I guess that’s debatable. Yes, if we had stretched ourselves all those years ago and counted on the fact that our incomes would rise, we’d probably find ourselves in a more valuable home today. But that was our problem: counting on a growing income. We bought our second home with three young children in tow, and the only thing we counted on was that our expenses would go up as they grew up. And since one of the incomes we generated was the result of a freelance career, which resulted in reliable but not “paycheck reliable” income, erring on the side of caution seemed prudent.

The latest advice on mortgage as a percentage of income says that spending 40% of your income on a mortgage is expected. So let’s make this simple: if you make $100,000 a year you take home $65,000. And 40% of $65,000 a year is $26,000 a year or $2,166 a month on your mortgage. Let’s see what kind of home $2,166 buys. My figures won’t include taxes or escrow payments for home insurance but let’s leave them out of this for now. Although you can’t leave them out in the real world.

Well, this is promising. You can buy a home with a price tag of $481,500 and pay a monthly principle and interest payment of $2,166. That’s based on obtaining a 5%, thirty year rate on your loan. In many places outside of Beverly Hills, a home worth almost half a million dollars is quite lovely. Good for you!

Oh, wait a minute. This calculation works only if you put down 20% on the home. That’s $77,940 in cash before you take on the mortgage. Where a young person or young couple gets almost $78,000 in cash on a $100,000 a year income is beyond me.

Which brings me back to austerity. Seems to me, there’s something to be said for deciding to spend only 30% of your income on your home, or 25%, or 20%. It’s called planning for a rainy day, or the times when income disappears, or grows unexpectedly unstable or even smaller. [Example: during our mortgage, I had a career-building opportunity come along that would mean a temporary reduction in my income. I was able to take it because we have some room to breathe with our monthly expenses. Our mortgage didn’t hold us hostage. ]

But the free market needs incentives in order to work, right? Maybe everyone who takes on a mortgage for less than their “qualified” for gets a bonus. Maybe for every 10% they “undermortage” themselves, they save a point on closing costs. Maybe they get automatic refinancing that’s funded by the mortgage company should rates drop by half a percent or more. There has to be a way to convince people that underspending is admirable, too.

I'm confused. Again.

I'll admit it. It doesn't take much to confuse me but please tell me what I'm missing here.

I do understand their message. I do believe that moral and ethical people can be found almost anywhere and that carrying around proof of baptism or having a religious text tucked under your arm are not required. I'm not questioning the message, just the greater purpose behind this campaign created by New York City Atheist Inc.

Apparently, this isn't a reaction to a Christian message of salvation (basically: you non-believers are going to hell) that previously ticked off some atheists in London who felt compelled to respond with their own message (basically: no, we're not.) My question is this: how is either party certain of their message? And if that's the case, don't they cancel each other out?

According to the atheists behind the New York campaign, the purpose of the bus placards is to end the estrangement or separateness atheists feel in our society. In fact, a successful campaign will create "atheist pride" or promote "acceptance of atheism."

This is the place where I get confused. I had no idea there was a lack of atheist pride on our country. And I had less of an idea that atheists feel estranged from society. And my sense of human nature is that for people who look down on the atheists that surround them, signs they read on the side of a bus aren't going to change their minds.

But let's go with this premise - why not? Maybe atheists do feel separate and unwelcome in many areas of our society. Maybe they don't feel quite at home at the local VFW or the corner bar or the gym or the grocery store or the Starbucks or the post office or the mall as the believers do. Maybe when they attend concerts, ballgames, movies, plays, WWF matches or the opera, they feel like everyone is staring at them, singling them out as different. Maybe when they check 'atheist' on their job applications, they feel just a little nervous about disclosing their non-beliefs. Maybe standing around with the other parents, watching their kids play soccer, is an uncomfortable experience. Maybe applying for a mortgage, or shoppng for a car or taking a vacation is always cause for alarm.

You know how everything just feels different when atheists are present. The entire atmosphere changes and never in a good way. It ruins the experience for the believers who are trying to enjoy themselves.

For God's sake (if you will): what? Is it necessary for yet another group in America to declare their need for acceptance? Are atheists the new protected class among us? Isn't it enough that there are a number of groups that deal with actual prejudice or mistreatment? Now we have to be concerned about atheists and how they're not getting a fair shake.

My favorite part of the Times article included the quote from Jane Everhart, spokesperson for New York City Atheists: “People who are religious have been advertising for generations,” she said. “But atheists never have. We have not come out, and this is part of our coming out.”

Question: Why would atheists have a desire to advertise? To convert believers into no-believers? And what do we gain by swelling the ranks of atheists?

I know that organized religion has its problems. I get that. I also know that religious groups of all kinds do an enormous amount of good work, and sure, they don't have an exclusive on doing good deeds. Once again, I'm certain that you don't have to show proof of religious affiliation to help out at the local soup kitchen.

I don't want to get all Rodney King here but jeez: can't we all just get along?

You can't make this stuff up. Well, you can ... but in this case, I didn't.

A few months ago I commented about the upcoming World Business Forum and the eclectic (not really) lineup of business luminaries they'd assembled for their upcoming conference. The list of speakers included economists, business titans, artists and politicians...and one Olympic gold medal winner: Michael Phelps, giving a presentation titled "High Performance."

On the heels of this announcement came the news of Phelps' puff heard round the world and the subsequent reaction to it.

Well, the update is that the lineup has been slightly changed. I received a new mailing about the program, including a limited "Buy 1, Get 1 Free" offer and reviewed the speakers again. Surprise! No more Michael Phelps. I suppose he is now otherwise occupied in early October, or perhaps had a previous obligation come up, or maybe the people putting the conference had second thoughts. (I think it's that last one.)

Couple of thoughts: Our economy is truly in dire straits if something as prestigious as the World Business Forum begins offering 50% off tickets four months before the event takes place. It's likely that large media and investment companies supported this gathering in a big way in the past, possibly by sending some of their most valuable employees to it. I can see this type of expense being cut from a budget when someone in accounting starts reviewing then cutting expenses line by line.

And I don't know where you stand on the Phelps pot violation - maybe no where and you've long forgotten the headlines - but I have to hand it to HSM and the World Business Forum. Someone there was paying attention to ethics. And respectability. Someone decided that having Phelps deliver a combination "positive thinking" + "motivational speaker" message titled High Performance was just too much irony to bear, even for the well-heeled, cosmopolitan audience that will fill Rockefeller Center this fall.

Let's face it: Phelps filled the spot left open for the "star of the moment" for this year's event. How else could you explain having him appear on the same program as President Clinton, T. Boone Pickens, Jack Welch, Paul Krugman, Gary Hamel and Jeffrey Sachs? He was there to give the "you can do it, too" message that, in my view, is so specious it's painful.

So I say: good for you, World Business Forum. Phelps will most likely go on to additional glory in the athletic world, assuming he works out the party boy aspects of his life, at least while he's training and competing. But your program is undiminished by his absence. You can get back to your flavor of the month, 'positive thinking' speaker in time for next year. A new version of Susan Boyle should come along any day now.

How to spell "you're inadequate" with just four letters.

I know exactly what’s wrong with this country and exactly how we’ve gone down the financial path to ruin. Exactly. I’ve thought about this before (and touched on it from time to time) but last night it became more than just a notion to me: it became the absolute truth. Here it is, in four little letters: HGTV.

With all good intentions – doesn’t everyone always have only the best intentions? - HGTV has led us down the path of more, bigger, newer, and shinier? All in the name of surrounding ourselves with a living space that’s truly worthy of us? Don’t we all deserve it?

I watch way too much HGTV. I admit it. I love the makeovers and the creative solutions and the interesting decorating ideas but unlike a lot of people who have made astonishingly bad financial decisions based on dreams and wanting more than their share of the dream than they could possibly afford, I have the common sense God gave a flea. HGTV is about as real as my hair color. And that hasn’t been completely real and true for at least ten years, probably longer.

To me, the biggest offender, the biggest 30-minute version of “all this can be yours” is their show called House Hunters. (I’m not even going to touch House Hunters International which features lovely couples searching for the perfect second home abroad. Charming .) No, the domestic version of House Hunters is aggravating enough.

I must have been born too long ago. Because I simply can’t relate to the following reactions that took place in a recent episode of the show. They should change the name to Entitled House Hunters because it more clearly describes the action.

Here you go: a young couple – I’m guessing they were in their late twenties – are searching for the perfect home, in their very perfect price range of $525,000. Yes, more than half a million dollars. I’m not kidding. Not only did they have the ability to purchase a home for half a million bucks, they had the nerve to complain about the kitchen and bathrooms looking a bit “outdated” and the paint on the living room walls needing to be changed. They hated green! How could they move into a home that had walls painted green?? (The man pointed out that at an asking price of $515,000, they would have some money left over to play with; money that would help make everything more perfect for them should they make an offer. That’s very comforting, isn’t it? )

In the second home they visited, the back yard wasn’t landscaped quite as nicely as they had hoped for either. It wasn’t nearly as private as they wanted it to be. Landscaping. Please. Landscaping. Once again, I can barely relate, and I’m pretty far out of my twenties. In my twenties, I didn’t know what a boxwood was and couldn’t have cared less about knowing. Then again, this is why my backyard still doesn’t look quite the showplace I envisioned 18 years ago. Someday…just not now.

By the time they took a look at home #3 (they always choose from three on the show), I had stopped listening. I was disgusted with their attitude. God only knows what wasn’t right about the third house. Maybe the front door didn’t have the right kind of handle. How could they live with the wrong handle on the front door? Or maybe the fireplace had the wrong kind of mantle. What in the world would they do with a painted wood mantle?

Once again, I must be getting really, really old. I don’t begrudge people what they’ve earned – I really don’t. But programs like House Hunters, that repeatedly shows people whining and complaining about things like the too-small master bath, the cramped extra bedroom, the oak cabinets in the kitchen when they really wanted cherry, the wall-to-wall carpet in the dining room placed over perfectly good hardwood floors, the laundry room that doesn’t have enough space, the bonus room that won’t quite hold their pool table….this is just nuts.

So where does that leave us? The banks and the government and financial planners tell us to be logical and thrifty. Networks like HGTV offers a program that centers around people who covet only the best and look disgusted with homes that cost $515,000. Which one do you think most people will listen to?

Me too.

I'm some kind of magnet that attracts insecure loudmouths. I really am.

There’s something about sitting in an airport terminal, particularly when I’m delayed and stuck for hours in a place I’d prefer to leave, that ends up with me hating the world and every single person in it.

There’s usually a Supermom Working Parent sitting near me, carrying on some kind of superior conversation with some poor victim she has trapped in her web. In no particular order, I’ve heard these women cover the following topics: how amazing and wonderful it is to live and work in Manhattan; how amazing and wonderful her children are, particularly since neither of them (of course she has a boy and a girl – how perfect, right?) has ever so much as touched a video game remote control and would have no idea what to do with one if they had.

She then moves on to the fact that her family rarely watches anything as mindless as television – and when they do, they watch independent films together and generally find time to discuss them afterward. Of course they do. How could people as brilliant as they be engaged by anything else?

She usually finds time to describe her charming but smallish apartment on the Upper West Side but justifies it by saying: who needs another closet? Isn’t it preferable that the kids are growing up in the greatest city on the planet and aren’t we so much more than our possessions, anyway? Sure, we are; that's a wonderful attitude. That’s just great. So is a closet of your own. Must they be mutually exclusive? And if living in the city is so spectacular, why do all those people hop on Metro North at the end of every day? To go home and open up their closet doors? I don’t think so. I think maybe a patch of green they call their own factors into that trip every day.

On my latest trip, I was stuck near a Super Working Mom who shared her marvelous life story with a man originally from India. After enduring her lecture with enormous good cheer and more patience than I would have in seven lifetimes, he described his early life – in a much more low key way – and told her he grew up with his parents and six siblings in a home that consisted of three rooms: a living room, a kitchen and a bedroom. Now, believe it or not, she could relate to that. They were clearly of likes minds when it came to possessions. I don’t remember him saying this was some kind of statement his parents were making about doing more with less and connecting with things that really matter; things like IFC and competitive chess championships. In fact, I’m pretty positive the home around him as a child was all his family could hope for at that point in his life. And by the way, he doesn't live like that now with his own family.

I also found myself literally trapped on a plane directly behind or directly in front of the Super Business Woman who feels like she has to justify how brilliant and important she is. It becomes a contest between her and her conversation victim: who’s travelled where and why and how often, who knows more about a particular client, who is clearly indispensable when it comes to managing her business.

This makes me INSANE. I don’t understand people who feel the need to download their very special, very amazing, very admirable and indulgent lives to perfect strangers in a terminal lounge or in an airplane. PLEASE! Not one of us cares. Not one of us.

But I do have a few headlines for these women:
1. You’re not the only working mother on the planet. You’re really not. Millions of us have children who are just as brilliant, just as amazing, just as gifted as your own. They are talented, unique and loving. We just choose not to lecture strangers about them or about how amazing our own parenting skills are. How we’re just so enlightened. So insightful. SHUT UP! You’re just not all that special.

2. We all have work stories. We just don’t shout them from Row 9 in a plane. Not all of us feel compelled to talk about who we met, what we do or how we’re so creative and critical to the business at hand.

3. Ummmm…when you mention that your daughter is riding in a horse show tomorrow, we all get it: you’re rich. We get it. No doubt your darling is an amazing horsewoman; just amazing. So go watch her ride for god’s sake and leave the rest of us out of it.

I know this sounds incredibly bitter. Maybe it is. I just don’t understand this kind of communication. When I sit down in a plane, this is what I say to the person sitting next to me: “Hello.” I’m not kidding. That’s it. I very, very rarely engage in a personal way. I can’t understand people who do.

I think airlines would make a lot more money with one small change to their terminals and flights. If they had a silent section in the terminal, I'd go out of my way to sit there. If they offered silent flights, I'd take them, even if it meant a slightly longer trip. It would be worth it.

But it takes all kinds, right? Sure it does. I just don’t understand why they always congregate around me.

Who knew? I'm hip.

I would have never guessed it but it turns out, I'm hip. At least as hip as today's teenagers.

Let me back up for a minute. I hug people. I hug people I know, I hug people I kind of know a little bit, I sometimes hug people I barely know. I'm not kidding. I even remind people about it even when we're not together. Ask anyone in my personal life who receives an email from me. My closing? Hugs.

I grew up with hugs and thank God for it. I can't imagine being hug-free but the boys have told me they have friends whose parents do not hug them. Is that the saddest thing ever? Yes, it is.

Sure, there are a few circumstances that warrant a handshake. I can handle that; I'm not completely off the rails about this. But in casual or in friendly business settings, I hug. No question, no hesitation.

I've always hugged my kids. Even now, when my three boys are 19, 18 and 18, I hug them daily. Several times a day, really. When we're home, when we're not home - doesn't matter. And they must have picked up at least some of their own hugging habits from me: One of my twins just won an award for giving the best hugs from the Performing Arts Club at school.

I hug my boys - and always will - and I hug their friends. Even not seeing their friends for a year at a time doesn't stop me. I run into them or they stop by the house and there I am: opening my arms to give hugs.

The thing is, they give them back. Which brings me to the topic at hand: teenagers and hugging. According to an article in The New York Times, teenagers from coast to coast are abandoning the high five for a hug. (The high five, the fist bump and other points of contact have evolved into a prelude to the hug. And there are several kinds, including the kind of hugs young men give each other.)

The article offered ideas about why today's teenagers have become so hug-friendly. Theory: This generation was raised with all kinds of parental involvement - remember the inexplicable and truly yuppie-authored activity called "playdates?" Please. As they grow up - free of parents hovering and planning and monitoring every move they make - they feel free to hug and be hugged. And good for them.

Theory: they are so heavily cyber-connected that they take any opportunity they can to reach out and hug someone. Maybe. I don't know. I suppose if the internet can claim credit for elevating the role of hugs for an entire generation, it can't truly be the end of western civilization as I usually contend.

The article also claims parents are "baffled" by this behavior. Baffled? About hugs? What's hard to understand? For God's sake, hugs are nice. They're friendly and warm and welcoming. They say so much with so little.

The only thing that baffles me about the article I read were the schools and administrators who "ban" hugging in their hallways. It's all in an effort to "maintain an atmosphere of academic seriousness and prevent unwanted touching, or even groping." Groping??? Is that a synonym for hugging?

For God's sake. This is why adults are ridiculous. We make (understandable) rules about violence in our schools and we make rules about expressing friendship with non-romantic hugs in our hallways. That's super.

No wonder kids think we're clueless.

Mother Inferior: Lesson 467

I have finally figured out something about myself. As much as I miss my little, tiny boys that used to hang on my knees and gather around me like men gather around the latest flat screen technology at Best Buy, I realize that being around my now nearly grown children may in fact be my favorite time of motherhood. Mostly because I happen to like my kids - a lot. Enough said about that - I think you'd like them, too, but this isn't about all their attributes and funny little quirks that make them amazing.

Do they make me crazy? Yes, they do. But the thing is, sometimes - okay, more than sometimes - I'm the one who contributes to the craziness. Which brings me to Lesson 467: how you can sabotage your children in school and provide precisely the distractions they need to avoid studying.

I know, I know. I'm not a complete idiot. I've read all the guides to promoting proper study habits. How you set up regular "study hours" and give your scholars a comfortable space to complete their work in relative peace and comfort. How you can help them break down the school work in manageable pieces and encourage ongoing attention to each subject, whether it involves written work, practice, memorization, reading, studying or simply reviewing. How you can help them get a jump on the year by encouraging and monitoring their summer reading habits.

Yes. I know. I've read the same brochures, books, pamphlets and websites as everyone else. An involved parent leads to a successful student. Get to know the teachers, the curriculum, and the administrators to help chart a course of success for your child.

It's not that I haven't done at least some of this stuff. I have. But as my children near the end of their public school education, I also have to admit I've been the problem from time to time. I have.

Take the other night, for example. My two seniors were studying for their last quiz of the year in one of their subjects. I suspected they were pretty well-prepared but it didn't matter. I spent ten minutes discussing their review process, worksheets, and discussion questions. I mentioned websites they should check out and how they could best prepare for this last test.

I meant it, too. I really did. Except what did I do? Instead of giving them the space they needed, I interrupted them. And why? Not because the house was on fire or I fell down some stairs. I think we can all agree that either of those events would warrant an interruption.

It wasn't either of those things. I had just finished reading the Andy Borowitz column in the latest copy of The New Yorker and thought it was one of the most hilarious things ever. I knew they would think so, too, and I just had to share it with them. So I did. And they laughed and enjoyed the piece as much as I.

I can't think of even one chapter or even one footnote in any of those guides or parenting books that encouraged interrupting your children as they study for your own pleasure or their amusement. Not one.

So I wonder this. Some years from now, will they think about those final days of high school and remember those last couple of tests? Will they think about how they studied under less than ideal circumstances: their mother hopping into the room and reading a New Yorker column aloud? Or will they just remember us taking about 9 minutes to laugh together one evening as they studied for a test?

I hope it's that last one. I hope someday the tests and the grades and GPA and class rank and every other number we use to measure people up to a certain point in their lives is a very vague memory. But maybe they'll remember the night we laughed about the Borowitz column.

Mother Inferior Lesson 467: how you can sabotage your children in school and provide precisely the distractions they need to avoid studying - by sharing a laugh. Even in the midst of senior finals, it feels like the right idea to me.

Suspending disbelief only goes so far.

I am the queen of suspending disbelief. I can prove it. I still believe - every single April - that I'll be wearing my shorts from 2003 this summer. Honestly, I do. I still believe my boys don't curse when they talk with friends. I still believe there's a chance our family could become really good, lifelong friends with the Springsteen's if only circumstances would throw us together.

But I have to say, after watching yet one more season of '24,' I've just about reached my limit. No, before you jump to the wrong conclusions, the premise of the show is not what's bothering me. I don't mind suspending my disbelief in order to watch a single day of action that identifies something in the manner of four distinct "bad guys" before we finally find out who is truly the mastermind behind all the mayhem and tragedy. I don't mind watching Jack Bauer fight off a biological lethal weapon virus-type disease that has seemingly taken hold of his central nervous system but nonetheless allows him to discharge a real metal-type lethal weapon whenever the situation warrants it.

I've reconciled the fact that by hour six, I can barely remember what characters were of primary importance to the plot during hour two. I can't tell you who did what to who in hour nine once we've hit hour thirteen. I can barely remember who got killed halfway into the day, who killed them, or why. But as I said, it's okay. I've made that choice to just go with it. To do otherwise is to defeat the purpose of watching '24,' which is basically to believe that the good guys - that would be us and our friend Jack Bauer - will always win, despite all odds.

The truth is, there are so many plots twists and meandering stories within a single day (one season), I'm convinced Fox could begin re-running the series starting all over again with Season two. I'm willing to bet not one viewer could tell you exactly how that season began or ended, even if they saw it when it originally aired.

But that aside, back to the title of this post. I think I've had it with '24.' But I'll come back on one condition. They need to make just one tiny change to the next season and I'll be right there, mocking the action relentlessly make no mistake about that, but still tuning in each week. My discomfort started this year when FBI agent Renee Walker dove off a boat to escape the bad guys. This was later in the evening, hours after she had been shot - but only a little bit,which happens several times a day on '24' to several different characters- by Jack Bauer and then fake-buried in a shallow grave for Jack's associates to unearth and more or less resuscitate into crime-fighting action again. (I think I'm remembering this correctly; I think she was escaping the boat and the people on it. Then again, she may have been pursuing the villains. See what I mean about the plot sort of fading out after a while?) Anyway, the point is that she emerged from the bay or whatever it was, situated near Washington D.C., and her hair was just as swingy and shiny and healthy as it appeared nine hours earlier that day.

That started me thinking. If the producers on '24' really want to indicate that time is passing and the team is bearing up as best they can throughout a very long and incredibly challenging day, they'd better start making some wardrobe and make-up concessions. Specifically: They'd better start handing out scrunchies. And the women in the cast better start using them.

I don't know one woman alive (assuming her hair is shoulder-length or longer) who doesn't do the following under duress: pulls her hair back, into a knot or a ponytail when she's at her limit, or she needs to dig deep and keep going, or she has about had it with everyone and everything around her.

I find myself pulling my hair up or back by about 4 pm daily, and I don't have nearly the excuses Renee had on '24.' I'm just sort of cranky at my clients by that time everyday and realize I'm running out of time to do the forty-seven things left on my to do list. And don't get me started on Chloe or Janis. If this series wants to retain a shred of credibility with me or with the thousands of women who watch, they'd better start getting real about hair and the how it looks and feels after a very long day. I mean, my hair didn't look as good by the end of my wedding reception as Renee Walker's did by the end of her '24' day, for God's sake. And I didn't have to shoot anyone, tackle anyone, swim for my life or struggle with the death of a good friend and mentor that day.

So do whatever. Have Jack save the world one more time and I'll be there. As long as the women are in scrunchies by about hour five, I'll believe anything.

"No good deed..."

You know the rest of that phrase. I'm going to wait and see who punishes Pfizer Inc. for the announcement I read in The New York Times on Monday. I'm sure people much smarter than I have already figured out why this is really nothing but underhanded trickery that will ultimately lead to little more than additional profits for Pfizer. The nerve.

Like auto companies and others that are empathetic toward consumers who have found themselves out of work and in trouble (or potentially) in trouble financially, Pfizer has made an offer to those who have lost their jobs as a result of our "troubled" economy. They announced a program, one that includes more than 70 of their most popular prescription drugs, which offers the medications free to people who have been taking them for three months or more and now find themselves without the means to continue filling their prescriptions. Consumers need to provide evidence that they have in fact been taking a particular Pfizer drug (or drugs) and proof that they have lost their jobs. The program is retroactive to January 1 of this year and will continue through December 31. Pfizer will continue to provide your necessary prescription drugs for up to twelve months after approval - or until a person becomes employed again. Which means it has the potential to be close to a 24-month program of free prescription drugs. During a downturned economy with no end in sight.

I won't go into all the details - just click on the Times link if you want more background. Suffice it to say, yes, of course there are financial benefits to Pfizer for enacting this program. Yes, they'll get tax credit for making these "donations" to consumers throughout the year. Yes, they'll be able to maintain their production capacity and, by the way, keep many, many people working, from their own employees to the bio-chemical companies and others that count Pfizer among their own customer lists.

All of these details will become the story for everyone who refuses to acknowledge an act of goodness. They'll scream the "what's in it for them" headline, not the "what's in it for the rest of us" news. Regardless of the strings attached or the inherent benefits to Pfizer, the bottom line is this. I'm sure they're rather sell these drugs than give them away. I'm positive about that. But as anyone in business will tell you, it's easier to keep a customer than find a new one. And when you're talking about possibly having to find millions of new customers who drop their prescriptions because they can no longer afford them, or who switch to a lower priced generic of your own name brand drug, that would be even more devastating to your bottom line than a program with built in tax breaks.

I'm going to wait and see who will be the first person to shine a degrading light on this program. Yes: it will gain Pfizer headlines and publicity. Yes: it will give them tax breaks. But it will also provide necessary prescriptions to millions of Americans in a time of need. And for that, they have earned high marks from me.

It seems drug companies are in the headlines when one of their products gets recalled, or otherwise questioned for its efficacy or side effects. As someone who has worked with several large drug companies over the course of my career, I have nothing but respect for the difficult, extraordinarily expensive and important work pharmaceutical companies do. The people I've met in any number of companies are committed to patient care and making strides against numerous diseases and conditions.

Are they profitable? Yes. Is there such a thing as "too profitable?" I don't know. I do know it costs many, many millions of dollars to get a drug as far as the clinical trials phase, and millions and millions to get a drug not nearly that far in it's design cycle. That un-usable formula falls clearly into the COGs line: cost of goods. Even if those goods never even reach the market. Too bad for you. Back to the lab and try again. You still owe the scientists and researchers their salaries, even if their drug didn't make it to the shelves.

Drug companies invest in research so they can come up with the next "new" thing. Or with the next improved formula. Their reward is a period of exclusivity for sales, before other companies can create and market generic versions, piggybacked on their initial R & D.

But let's wait and see, shall we? Let's see who give a shout out to Pfizer for their efforts to help customers through a difficult time. I have a feeling the silence will be overwhelming.

Please, please, please: can we stop with the co-parenting articles?

I can't stand it. I really can't stand it anymore.

Does anyone have a calendar? Does anyone read it? Last time I checked, we were nearly ten years into the new century. Must we constantly rehash the same tired topics over and over again? Why? Some thing never change, despite the experts telling us they must.

Or better: does anyone reading a calendar realize that no matter how many books are published, no matter how many articles are written, no matter how many sincere and well-intentioned professionals appear on talk shows, this whole idea of "co-parenting" isn't going to fly. [And while we're discussing it, I hate it when writers or speakers turn a noun into a verb. Parent is a noun. Parenting is a made up verb that means you're in the act of raising your children. It's annoying and somehow phony and intellectually superior.]

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. I didn't say both mother and father can't play important roles in the lives of their children. They can. They should. And by the way, in the very best circumstances, they pretty much love doing it, at least most of the time.

But here's my problem: they're not the same people. Moms are not Dads and Dads are not Moms. When did it become wrong for each parent to bring her or his own specific and wonderful skills to the decades long venture of raising a family? Why must they be interchangeable people?

An article in USA Today prompted me to ponder this phenomenon. It's title: Parents share the workload: But first, mothers have to learn to let go. In other words, the reason men aren't good parents is because women are shrill harpies who just can't stand to have someone interfere with her philosophy or activities when it comes to her children.

Wrong. Most mothers I know would dearly love to let go but in most cases, their husbands are not available to "babysit" their own children. Honest to God, I've never heard one woman ever refer to spending time with her children while her spouse was not home as baby-sitting. Not ever. I've heard men say it countless times. And the experts wonder why women won't let go.

***

Important sidebar: Apparently, my husband and I are something of trendsetters here. Almost twenty years ago, we began raising a family. Twenty years ago, I don't remember hearing about or reading one article about co-parenting. I held a job with full benefits; my husband had been working freelance for several years with exactly no health benefits. I went back to work after each of my pregnancies; my husband stayed home with our first and then our second and third sons at least two days a week, more if his work was slow. (And when I say second and third sons, I really mean second+third. We were the parents of a 16-month old son when our twin sons were born. So for several months, we had three boys in the house under the age of two. That's a lot of diapers, and bottles and Cheerios.)

Much of that early time with a family of three babies or toddlers is a blur to me. I remember at least one night when I walked in to the house, and upon hearing my entrance, my husband called this out: "Get in here NOW." It was the end of a long day and he needed some relief.

I remember spending more than just a few nights walking around in the house with my coat still on as I transitioned the kids from daycare to home without my husbands help because he was away.

I remember going out of town on business trips and returning to the airport to find my husband standing there with three little guys who were wresting around and jumping up and down, waiting for me to appear at the end of the corridor in an airport.

***

But here's the thing. I never once remember remarking to my husband something like this: isn't this "co-parenting" great? Please. We did what we did because the situation and our lives required it. I never once asked him what he fed the boys while I was out of town. He never asked me what time the boys got to bed when he was away. I never once asked him if they wore clothing that matched. He never asked me whether or not they had their baths. I never nagged him once about high-fructose corn syrup, or "play dates" or any other nonsense that seems to grab the attention of parents from coast to coast these days.

We just did it. We didn't make a big deal about each playing a role in raising our children. We also did not make a big deal about one of us being better at something - or more naturally inclined toward something - than the other. It was just how we lived. Everyday. For years and years.

It struck me that the USA Today article quoted couples who were obviously middle to upper middle class. Two English professors in college, both in their mid-thirties and a pharmacist and a market researcher, both in their mid-forties. There is a whiff of elitism baked into this whole notion of co-parenting if you ask me. In my experience, we spent years just doing the job, doing what needed doing, loving the kids, taking our turn at the helm.

Apparently, we were "peer parenting" and didn't even know it. We gave our children "shared care" by accident. If only we had known this was something of a phenomenon. We might have been a little more smug about it, just as the couples and experts quoted in the article I read appeared to be.

No matter. Our boys are now 19, 18 and 18. They appear to have survived the best and the worst of both of us. And we didn't read even one book about co-parenting along the way. Imagine that.

Could it be a bad case of red eye??

Here’s a quick question: What’s worse than the government spending almost $329,000 to shoot photos of Air Force One flying very low over lower Manhattan?

I can only think of one thing: the government spending almost $329,000 to shoot photos of Air Force One flying very low over lower Manhattan and then deciding the photos would not be released.

You can’t make this stuff up. According to The New York Post, The White House has confirmed that the now infamous outcome of that photo shoot will not be shown to the public. (That means us; the American people who fund Air Force One as well as the fighter jets that trailed it that day.)

Quote: "We have no plans to release them," an aide to President Obama told The Post, refusing to comment further.

Well, that aide may have no further comment but I do. Why did you take them if you aren’t going to use them? And if you aren’t going to use them, tell us why. How is it that you can get away with issuing a statement like this, after all the uproar over the incident itself, and simply end the discussion by “refusing further comment?”

The White House has stopped short of calling the photos “classified.” They are however, “being kept from public view.” What is the difference? Information or documents the government withholds from the public at large are "classified" documents, available for review only by selected and "cleared" people. Doesn't this story meet that definition?

Maybe it's much simpler than that. Maybe the photos are terrible. Maybe whoever shot the images is a rotten photographer. Maybe he or she is a friend of someone in Washington and took the opportunity to fly on or near Air Force One under the guise of shooting publicity shots. That would be a reason to keep them from public view.

Maybe once they were released people would mock them endlessly and start asking who shot them. Someone in the administration would then have to come clean with an explanation that sounded something like this: “My niece shot them. She’s taking a photography course in her high school.”

This all sounds incredibly murky to me. The truth is, I’m not sure many people would have been clamoring to view these photos anyway … until now that is. I’ve learned that when something doesn’t sound right; when it doesn’t quite hang together; when you find yourself unsure of the story, it’s because you don’t have all the facts. Then, once you do, it all makes enormous sense.

I’m feeling that way about this story. It didn’t make sense to shoot them; it doesn’t make sense to now withhold them. We’ll probably never learn about the missing bit of fact that will clear this up – but it’s out there. And if I had to guess, I'd say the people who know the answers have all been appropriately rewarded for keeping them to themselves.