Green Card

In the early hours of Wednesday morning, I was stricken by a ghastly stomach bug. By 7am, I was preparing to die quietly, curled around a bottle of Pedialyte, when Mr. Berman burst into the room.

"It's your Green Card appointment! At 8am! Come on, I'll drive you!"

I scowled in his general direction, somewhat petulantly, I have to confess.

"Just can't. Sod off."

"You can -- you have to. Or you won't be able to travel next month."

I remembered that I have a business trip in April, by which time I need to have renewed my Green Card. It takes months to get an appointment. I struggled to find a suitable expletive, but ran out of energy and reverted to my father's family-friendly favorite in times of stress.

"GOD give me strength." (It's really quite effective when pronounced with venom, a perfectly acceptable substitute when a meatier alternative is not readily available or appropriate. I consider it the tofu of the swearing world.)

"It'll only take you 15 minutes. My appointment was really fast. Come on."

With this, Mr. Berman hauled me to a sitting position. I pointed out that he evidently hated me and wanted me to die. He ignored me, wisely, and proceeded to assess my clothing. Having vomited all over myself a number of times in the night, I was wearing an odd assortment of garments. He pronounced the yoga pants Green Card-worthy, wrestled my feet into flip flops, and dragged a sweater over the most offensive article, a Marks & Spencer flannel pyjama top in pink plaid, circa 1985, now encrusted with traces of vomit. Since I was gnashing my teeth in a threatening manner throughout this process, he decided against enforced tooth brushing, and dragged me out to the car.

"What about Ted?" I whimpered.

The same stomach bug had also hit my youngest son 24 hours before, and he was off school, lying prone with his head positioned over a bowl in precautionary fashion. He is not a morning person under the best of circumstances, which these decidedly were not. My husband ran back to fetch him, and emerged from the house five minutes later, bearing a limp and pasty-faced Ted, who was also wearing mismatched pyjamas, with snowboots.

"Come on," Mr. Berman said encouragingly. "Let's get it over with -- we'll have you home and back in bed soon."

I lay in the reclined passenger seat with a plastic bag hooked over my ears as we hurtled through rush-hour streets. (During this time, I reconsidered my hardcore eco stance. Plastic may be the devil's substance, but it does have its uses. You couldn't rely on a reusable hessian bag for this task.) Upon arrival at the Citizenship and Immigration Office, I lurched out of the car, and staggered towards the door.

"Why does mummy look like an old lady?" I heard my son ask, as I disappeared into the bowels of the government. It struck me that I did not look like the kind of person you'd want to be granting permanent resident status to. In panic, I wondered if those were the last words I would hear him say. What if they determined I looked infectious (which I most certainly was), or crazy (which I most certainly looked, with my pink plaid flannel, vomit-encrusted pyjama shirt dangling below my sweater) and put me back on the boat? Do they still have boats, for people like me?

Good god -- was I in danger of deportation?

Deported I was not, but the interminable line was almost the end of me. I silently cursed Mr. Berman and his 15-minute promise, and consigned all 23 people on line in front of me to burn in hell, as I stood feverishly, on trembling legs, for almost an hour, with frequent dashes to the restroom. Eventually, an official fingerprinted me (which took a while, on account of my dripping palms), photographed me (which also took a while, on account of the fact that I looked dead on every try), and approved me (and we wonder why the country is in the state it's in).

As I was leaving, I was asked to fill in a customer satisfaction survey. I refrained from complaint, given that I had just infected everyone within a 5-mile radius with what I was beginning to think must be Ebola.

My conscience is somewhat alleviated when I remember that they'll all have the last laugh.

We will live, and our stomachs will recover. But only I will have to live with an official ID for the next 10 years that is a Feverish-Looking, Dear-God-Why-Didn't-I-At-Least Apply-Blush, Exceedingly-Green Card.

Day of Rest

I love Sunday evenings. I find that those last few precious hours of the wekend set the tone for my whole week. Get it right and I retain a modicum of calm organization through Wednesday at least. Get it wrong, and my life goes to hell in a handbasket by 6am Monday morning.

This week does not look good.

Sunday started out pretty well. Realigned my disgruntled chakras at yoga. Got kids out biking and running for familial fresh air and exercise. Planned menu for the week, got groceries, and tidied bills and paperwork into a neat pile (thereby continuing the self-delusion that I am On Top Of It).

The evening continued in a similar vein -- boys persuaded into shower/hairwash/nail clipping routine with only their usual degree of recalcitrance. Older son made dinner. Wrangled boys into bed at a reasonable hour.

How did it all go so wrong?

I was contemplating a leisurely bath and glass of wine, when Mr. Berman noticed that one of our cats was missing. Worse still, we realized that we had not set eyes on her since Saturday morning. Wracked with guilt, I tried not to panic. I persuaded myself that since she was a stray we had taken in, she was used to the mean streets of New York, where god knows there is plenty of vermin for her to go at if she gets peckish.

Mr Berman reacted more productively. He wandered outside at regular intervals, calling her name, each time coming back looking more concerned. I decided to skip the bath in a show of solidarity, but forged ahead with the glass of wine. One needs sustenance in times of stress, I find.

As midnight approached, there was still no sign of the cat. Mr Berman was in a tailspin of guilt by this juncture. He pointed out, in an accusatory fashion, that since she is My cat, she responds best to My voice, so would I get My ass out of the door to help look for her please. Reluctantly, I dragged on some flip flops, and headed off into the night.

I walked around 3 square blocks in my pyjamas, calling her name and muttering angrily. My personal safety did cross my mind at one point, but I looked way too crazy for anyone to mess with.

As I neared home, I passed our neighbors' house, and called the cat's name one last time. In response, I heard a plaintive mew. I tried it again -- and again, she answered back. I'd found her...but where the hell was she?

I tore into the house, and grabbed Mr Berman. We tiptoed into our neighbors' yard, and realized that the mewing was coming from their basement, where it appeared the cat had been stuck for 2 days without food or water. We would have to ring the bell and wake them up.

At this point, I should mention that my neighbors are a lovely family, new to the neighborhood. They are most likely not used to having crazy, barely-dressed, foul-mouthed people ringing their bell at midnight. They are most certainly not used to living next door to us.

They were incredibly gracious, and showed us into their partially-renovated basement. The cat was stuck in a 2-foot high crawl space under the kitchen, so Mrs Neighbor fetched a can of tuna with which to tempt her out. 

The cat was not tempted. 

There was nothing for it -- I had to crawl in after her. It involved a fair amount of wriggling through dirt, and I ended up hanging ass-first out of the crawl space, calling "Here kitty kitty" through gritted teeth.

The cat crawled over to sniff at the tuna. I made a grab for her but missed, hurling the entire can of tuna all over Mrs Neighbor in the process. The cat followed with a yowl, embedding all 10 claws firmly into Mrs Neighbor's back. Mrs Neighbor, quite understandably, started to scream. After a mad chase around the basement, we caught the terrified animal, apologized profusely, and slunk back home, leaving Mrs Neighbor to pick the tuna out of her hair while Mr Neighbor cleaned the blood off her back.

We are awash in shame.

And this was Sunday evening. My lovely, peaceful, organized Sunday evening.

Roll on Monday. I'm ready.

Kids N Action

Today, I found myself in an indoor amusement park.

That alone would be bad enough. But my time in this neon hell coincided with the very window of time in which I was expected to review a considerable volume of work and provide meaningful feedback to my colleagues.

How, you might ask, did I get myself into this?

Guilt.

I am on vacation this week. However, we are in the throes of kitchen renovation, so rather than expanding my kids' experience by trekking through the rainforests of West Africa or visiting monasteries in Tibet, I have been dragging them around Home Depot, Lowes, and shady tile warehouses in the industrial nether regions of Brooklyn. This, coupled with the fact that there are projects at work that I cannot just walk away from, means that downtime with my kids has been somewhat challenged.

During this afternoon's home-improvement excursion, we passed Kids N Action, and my youngest asked, very nicely, if we might go in. Considering that I had recently plied them with a 2-pound cinnamon bun apiece to keep them quiet in Ikea, I should have known better. But I caved. 

Kids N Action, I discovered, is a glatt kosher version of Chuck E Cheese. There were play tunnels, a ball pit, go carts, and -- la pièce de no-parental-resistance -- an indoor roller coaster. A cacophonic whirl of sensory overstimulation, the place might aptly be renamed Parents N Purgatory.

There was not, unfortunately, a bar. 

I managed to find a seat in the cafe, and opened up my laptop. Before switching on, I glanced over to check on the boys, and realized that they were already on their fifth roller coaster ride, which considering the cinnamon buns they had recently put away, could only end badly. Feeling faintly guilty that I had unleashed my over-sugared kids on the other inhabitants of this brightly-colored plastic jungle, I dutifully ignored my gut, and started reviewing work. 

Two cups of bad coffee later, I eventually sent feedback, which may or may not have been meaningful. I had one of my heads coming on, and could not wait to get home and take 3 Excedrin (migraine-strength) with a glass of wine. I extracted my kids from the ball pit, with considerable difficulty.

"Mummy, this place is FANTASTIC!"
"Mmm-hmm."
"I mean, I can't believe we've never been here before!"
"Mmm-hmm."
"Do you like it mummy?"

Silence, as I wondered how to answer.

My youngest answered for me.

"I bet you do mummy, because you have fun when you see us having fun, right?"

There it is, in a nutshell. The reason places like Parents N Purgatory exist. We have fun when we see them having fun. No matter how miserable we are.

Presentation skills

My son recently had to give a speech at his graduation. He was the salutatorian (I had to look it up), and so was asked to inspire his fellow graduates and their families with erudite, pithy, and amusing words of wisdom.

He is 10. And while I am a firm believer in allowing kids to do their own work and make their own mistakes, I couldn't let the lad fail in front of 500 people. So I became, for two brief weeks, a stage mom.

We brainstormed ideas for his speech. ("You need one idea. No rambling nonsense. If you tell them more than one thing, you've told them too much.")

He wrote it, and I reviewed it. Ruthlessly. ("Where's the structure? It's all about structure. Repetition and structure.")

And then we rehearsed. And rehearsed. And rehearsed again.

I had the poor fellow recite it in the kitchen. ("Slow down.") On the stairs looking down at a family audience of 3 people and 2 cats. ("Slower.")  With his notes. ("Pause between each sentence.") Without his notes. ("You need to know this inside and out so you can think on your feet.")

I was unbearable. Because I do this a lot. And I know that you had better be prepared, because things don't always go according to plan.

Just yesterday, we had a presentation at work. There were 30 people squeezed into a conference room that bulges at the seams with 20. My jacket was tight. It was hot. I was thirsty. I stood up to present, and realized to my horror that I was quite unable to draw a breath. I gasped. I spluttered a sentence. I sipped some water. I took a shallow breath, in order not to burst the buttons on my jacket, and spluttered some more. It was the most uncomfortable presentation experience of my life.

Afterwards, a colleague mentioned that she liked the way I took my time, and drew deep, thoughtful breaths between each point. I disabused her of this notion, and explained that I was in fact hyperventilating, and had almost died for want of a paper bag to breathe into.

"Oh," she replied. "I thought you were doing it for emotional effect."

At least they didn't see the whites of my eyes.

On graduation day, my son was spiffy and smart in his new suit and shiny shoes. He climbed up to the podium, where he had to stand on a stool so he could see over the top. He looked around calmly (just like mummy told him to), smiled (ditto), and took a deep breath (ditto, although he was in no danger of losing his buttons). Then he began...

He did a lovely, lovely job. I commented that he looked so comfortable up there, as if he presented to 500 people on a regular basis.

"Were you nervous?"
"Yes. My trousers were shaking."

Bless his heart.

I was so proud. Because even with shaking trousers, he didn't let us see the whites of his eyes.

Off the rails

Last week I did not see much of my family. We were hosting a meeting for Indigenus, our global agency network. They are a warm and wonderful group of people, who love to Go Out. So go out we did, night after night after night.

I warned the boys I would be "working late" every night, so it would be best to pretend mummy is traveling. Mr Berman obligingly agreed to manage the morning bus routine, as long as I promised not to wake everyone up by stumbling round the house singing Disco Inferno at 2am.

Although it was just a week, I missed them terribly.

Every morning, they were ushered into my bedroom for an audience, before they went out for the bus. My husband would issue instructions as they trooped up the stairs."Don't speak to mummy or make any noise. Hug her very gently. And for god's sake don't smell her breath."

They tiptoed in. I opened an eye and managed a hug. They were reverent and respectful, as if I was an ailing monarch lying in state, as opposed to a toxic sponge.

"If nothing else," I pointed out to Mr Berman, 'I am providing a lesson in how one suffers if one overdoes things."

He rolled his eyes.

While he was kind enough to relieve me of my parental responsibilities for a week, it's not a long-term strategy for success. Mr Berman was totally over having to feign sympathy and bring me endless glasses of water by the week's end.

Our lives are now back to normal (if there really is such a thing), and I realize what a positive influence the boys have on my life.

Let's face it, if I didn't have to behave like a grown up, I totally wouldn't. But as I discovered morning after morning after morning, (wo)man cannot live by Alka Seltzer alone. It was those quiet, reverential little hugs that kept me going.

Car sick

We took a family vacation in Mexico last week. As part of the trip, we were planning to drive around to various points of interest in the Yucatan. The last time we attempted this kind of excursion in Costa Rica, there was -- naturally -- a considerable amount of drama.

We were starting to make our way back to the airport, which involved a long and winding road downhill from the Arenal volcano area. The kids were playing DS in the back seat, looking up at the scenery and grunting appreciatively whenever I pointed something out.

“Look guys! Coati mundis!”

“Hrmp.”

“Wow! The volcano is smoking!”

“Hrmp.”

“Up there! Quick! A toucan!”

“Hrmp.”

This went on for some time, until suddenly, there was an extra loud “Hrmp” from the back seat.

“Is everything OK?”

“Mummy, my tummy hurts…”

Mr Berman and I looked at each other in panic. For my youngest son Ted, this is code for “I am going to vomit, just about now…”

There was no time to react. There never is. A hose of spew came roaring from the back seat. The jaws of satan couldn’t have done a better job. We were covered.

I turned around in horror. Ted was ashen, swaying, and sobbing. “I’m going to be sick agai….nrpaaarrrrrgghhhh.”

I blinked away the carrots.

“Pull over! Pull over!”

“I can’t pull over!”

“What?”

“There is no ‘over’! It’s a (insert expletive) precipice!”

We careened around the corner, and spotted a little town in the distance. When we reached its lone store, we screeched to a halt. Mr Berman tore inside.

“Agua por favor – mucho agua!”

So far, so good. But his Spanglish was about to be put to the test.

“Kitchen rollio?”

Blank stares from the locals.

“Papier de cucina? Por vomitio?”

After much miming, Mr Berman stomped back to the car and we commenced clean up operations.

“The car still stinks. Can you go see if they have any Pine Sol?”

Cursing heartily, Mr Berman braced himself and headed back into the store. Several minutes later he emerged, sweating profusely, clutching a bottle of el bleachio. Apparently, his Spanglish had failed him, so he had been forced to mime out the scene to the entire town, who were gathering in the store to see what the commotion was about.

Of course, by this point, we were late, so late, for our flight. We drove like bats out of hellio, retching all the way from the smell. When we eventually got to the airport, we discovered that Ted’s passport had expired, so we would be unable to re-enter the US. But that’s another story.

I have learned that "relaxing" and "family vacation" just don't belong in the same sentence. You work your ass off all year to pay for adventure, and you get it, in bloody spades.

So I steeled myself for Mexico. This time, I packed my own kitchen rollio.

To run or not to run?

I recently received the email that tells me I am in the NY marathon this year.

I should be delighted.

It takes 9 races and a volunteer event to qualify -- that's a lot of ghastly Sunday mornings.

But I am conflicted. Am I really going to manage it this year?

I decided to bow out last year -- not exactly gracefully -- in the middle of a 19-mile training run. I was trotting down the boardwalk at Coney Island, and had an unexpected epiphany, in the shape of a taco.

I was passing the stand that does lovely soft corn tortillas with homemade hot sauce, fresh lime, and cotija cheese.

"Screw this." I thought. "Gel packs are the work of Satan. I want a taco."

I sat and munched the taco. I watched the waves. I thought for a bit. I had twisted my ankle and missed the first 4 weeks of training. I had a lot going on at work. I just wasn't ready. Sometimes, quitting is the smart thing to do.

"I'm knackered, I want a bath, and I want to see my boys." 

So I got the bus home. And that was that.

What with one thing and another (work, boys, sleep, life, breathing), it has become harder to keep running marathons of late. I know I need to. Without that big, scary goal, there is no way I will get out of bed at 5:30 am to get 8 miles in. Who the hell would?

So...2011.

To run, or not to run?

That is the question.

Karate smackdown

Last Sunday, I got up at 6am and drove my son 30 miles to watch him fight another child in front of approximately 400 people.

It was his first karate tournament.

And mine.

We were, of course, late, my GPS losing its mind somewhere in the middle of Long Island. We arrived at a gallop, sweating and swearing as usual, and found ourselves in a scene straight from Dante. There were 8 combat rings. Masses of competitors. And hundreds of parents lining the hall, seated on bleachers, hollering up a storm.

I pointed my tiny little baby (OK, OK, quite tough 8-year old) in the direction of his ring, and climbed on shaky legs to the top of the bleachers.

I managed to remain tolerably calm, until the first punch was thrown.

It took every ounce of self-control I possess not to throw myself into the ring, grab the other kid by the pants and hurl him to the mat in an unexpected Mama B Smackdown.

Instead I took a breath.

My son goes to a great karate school, run by wonderful people, who place a real emphasis on encouraging positive character development. He has to complete homework assignments about confidence, perseverence, self-control. He is fit and strong. He is not afraid. And, best of all, he gets to do really cool-looking karate moves that he practices day after day.

So I sat on my hands. Shut my mouth. And tried really, really hard not to pee my pants.

He did rather well. As he proudly clutched his trophy, he explained his strategy for success. He noticed that the other kid didn't have on a face guard, just a head guard, so he aimed straight for the nose.

"Marvellous!" I heard myself saying. "Smart move! Next time, make sure you follow through with an axe kick to the chest."

This is his sport, and he loves it. 

And while I haven't quite got the hollering bit down yet, I will be there on the bleachers, cheering him on.

P.S. For karate classes in Brooklyn, check out urbandojo.com

Comedy of Errors

My oldest son recently asked if he could go to see some Shakespeare.

Given that the boys usually request a trip to Chuck E Cheese's when in need of cultural stimulation, I leapt on his suggestion. And I was delighted at potentially having a fellow fan in the family. Mr Berman gallantly comes to Shakespeare with me, but would really rather be blowing up zombies on his Playstation 3 of a Saturday night.

So I whipped out my credit card with trembling hands, and went shopping.

Both BAM and the Lincoln Center have great seasons this year. My son chose Romeo and Juliet (because he'd heard of it). I parried with Macbeth (much more exciting). Then I decided he'd be better off with a comedy appetizer, so The Comedy of Errors was added to the shopping cart. At this point I was giddy with enthusiasm, so threw in As You Like It as well. When I checked out, sticker shock rapidly brought me to my senses.

My son had better bloody enjoy this.

Last night was our opening night, with Edward Hall's Propeller Company and their all-male production of The Comedy of Errors.

The first scene was rocky. There's not nearly enough action for a 10-year old. My son shifted in his seat and picked his nose. But when the two sets of long-lost twins hit the stage in this farcical tale of mistaken identity, he perked up considerably. Particularly when we got to the scene with the Lady of Ill Repute, in this instance played by a bloke with plastic knockers and 6 inch heels. Now I was shifting in my seat.

As the "Lady" mimed out bawdy shenanigans, my son hissed "Mummy, what IS she doing?". Everyone -- including the actors -- turned and looked in our direction. I suddenly felt very irresponsible.

Things only got worse.

At one point, a naked man burst across the stage with a lit firework up his arse. My son looked at me in shock. I had not prepared him for this. The man ran off, screaming.

"Mummy, does he explode?"

"No. It's only a sparkler. But that doesn't mean you can do it to your brother."

On the way home my son was quiet, thoughful even. Then,

"I like The Comedy of Errors", he said casually. 

I almost wept.

You see, he is growing up so fast. His trousers are all half-mast (I haven't had time to buy him new ones since he was 6). He is moving on to middle school. And he's not going to want to hang out with me for very much longer.

I had been feeling a little melancholy about this. But now I realize that although we may not snuggle up every night for a Thomas the Tank Engine story, we might share a night out at the theater once in a while.

We've traded Thomas for the bard. I'll take it.

Bear attack

I have been hanging by the phone, waiting for my son to call.

He is away from home for the first time, at an outdoor adventure center in the Poconos. I had the usual low-grade anxiety such an event might occasion (Will he clean his teeth? Wake up in the night? Change his socks?) but there was no real fear involved.

Until I spoke to Thaddeus.

Thaddeus is a colleague of mine. I mentioned my son's trip to him. He looked at me, shock in his eyes, hesitated for a moment, and then started laughing.

Fear was now very much involved.

Thaddeus began his tale.

"I went on one of those trips. Bears attacked the camp. Went for a pee in the woods, turned around and there's a bear, staring me straight in the eye. We all had to run for it. Tore my pants in the panic. Berman, there are TONS of black bears upstate."

My stomach acid lurched into immediate overdrive. But Thaddeus wasn't finished.

"Best thing was, all the girls were so frightened, they were allowed to sleep in the guys tents that night..."

At this point I almost vomited. My son is 10. If the bears don't get him, the girls will.

Since this worrisome download, I have been sitting by the phone waiting for a call. Preferably from my son, but most likely from the police or the principal.

Eventually it rang.

"Hello mummy."
"Hello love! I was hoping it was you! Are you alive? I mean, having fun?"
"Yeah."
"Is the food OK?"
"Yeah."
"Are staying within sight of a teacher, a parent chaperone, and an armed forest ranger at all times?"
"Er, yeah."
"And you're definitely still alive?"
"Yeah."

I let it go.

There will be bears. There will be girls. There will be many other things to turn my hair white and put holes in my stomach lining. I may not be ready for them. But he will be.

Still, there will be no peeing in the forest. Ever. That's just asking for it.

Wine shop

I am fond of wine. Almost every situation life hurls at me can be improved by a sip or two of the right varietal.

There are two wine stores in my Brooklyn neighborhood. One tends to the upscale. They host regular tastings, and I never cease to be entertained and infuriated in equal parts by the pretentious nonsense that comes out of the manager's mouth. The other is a liquor store. The only tastings here happen on the street right outside. The cabernet vies for shelf space with Mystique (a fruity aperitif), lottery tickets, and a telling selection of miniatures, but the owner is knowledgeable and down-to-earth, and has a surprisingly good range of wine.

I usually dash into one of these establishments on the weekend with children in tow. For me, this is just part of getting the weekly essentials, along with toilet paper and tea bags. The boys know not to partake of the tastings in the first store, and not to block the lottery line in the second.

But we sometimes get Looks. Not from the staff. They know us all by name (make of this what you will). No, the Looks are from other members of the clientele. How someone buying a quarter bottle of Jack for immediate street-side consumption has the gall to look at me askance for allowing my kids within sniffing distance of wine amazes me. But Look they do.

So I was doubly delighted to happen upon a wine store near work on 20th Street in Manhattan just recently. It has a fine collection across multiple price points (from "God I need a drink, it won't touch the sides so I don't want to spend more than $15", to "I work damn hard and I damn well deserve this").

But fine as the wine is, there is something even finer. A play area. In a wine store. For kids. It has blocks, and balls, and books, to keep little ones occupied while parents shop. Brilliant.

The message to parents is "Come in! Linger! Do not be ashamed that you cannot do this shit sober! None of us can!"

That's my kind of message.

But what I like even more is the message to kids. "Come in! Play! Mummy needs to pick up wine. And that doesn't make her a reprobate! In Europe they drink wine every day! It does not automatically mean that you will end your days slamming back quarter bottles of Jack street side! Wine is fine, in moderation!"

They don't do pretentious nonsense or lottery tickets I'm afraid. But they do deliver.

http://nymag.com/listings/stores/moore-brothers/

Cat pee

I am no longer distressed by the fact that I tear through life in a state of partial undress smelling of dirty laundry. But when one of my children suffers similar indignity, I am forced to question our perpetually dramatic life.

This morning, as usual, there was panic. My youngest went running out for the bus without his backpack, so Mr Berman, in hot pursuit, picked it up.

"It's wet...ugh...it stinks...Jesus (insert colorful expletive) Christ, the (repeat expletive) cat peed all over the (repeat expletive) backpack!"

Mr Berman dropped the backpack rather quickly.

I sprang into panic management mode.

"Find new backpack. Hurry. Homework out of backpack. Into new backpack. You don't have time to smell your hand. Go. Go. GO."

Mr Berman ran gagging out of the house with the replacement backpack, leaving me with the antibac wipes. I gingerly mopped the floor, and soon forgot the incident.

Until this afternoon, when I received a plaintive phone message from my son.

"Mummy, I need to tell you something. When I got to school, all my homework was wet. And my books. They were wet too. The teacher made me throw it all away. She made me wash my hands. Everything smells."

The shame is overwhelming.

We are the family that sends our children to school awash in cat urine.

There is, however, an upside.

We now have an original excuse that I can reprise as necessary. "The dog ate my homework" is so overused.

Special offer

I recently decided that my family needed a morning motivator. The early hours of every day are a highly charged affair in my household, with drama, panic, and bad language in abundance, all before most sensible people are awake.

Understanding the power of a special offer, I decided to motivate the kids to get downstairs faster with the promise of pancakes. Naturally, they leapt out of bed with alacrity the next morning, and sat eagerly awaiting their cooked breakfast at 6:30 am. What I had failed to think through was that I would have to be compos mentis enough to operate the stove at this ungodly hour. I shambled through however, and everyone left the house well fed, fully dressed, and on good terms.

Of course, the kids requested that the special offer be extended. We now renegotiate the terms every night. I have been whipping up boiled eggs, fried eggs, oatmeal with syrup and fixings, waffles with fruit and cream -- anything that will get them up on time with a smile on their face. If I brushed my hair, I could almost pass for Martha Stewart.

This sounds like a lot of effort. But it takes me less time to crack an egg and slam a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, than it does to persuade them out of bed, adjudicate breakfast disputes, and run around screaming like my ass is on fire.

I am secretly hoping that breakfast will eventually come full circle. I will be able to present Cheerios as the special offer of the day, and it will have the kids excited.

Novelty and nostalgia, all in one easy, get-it-while-you-can bowl.

Turbo shovel

On Saturday, my youngest announced that he needed to build a Turbo Shovel this weekend. Naturally, I assumed this would just involve Lego and imagination. But no, this was a real school project, which required a working prototype by Monday. There was even talk of a patent application.

I do not have the skill set for this kind of assignment.

My brother inherited every practical gene our family had to offer. He can build anything, fix anything, mend anything. He is amazing. In a post-apocalyptic world, he's the kind of guy you'd want to keep around. Me, you should just eat as soon as is decently possible.

Unfortunately, my brother resides in England, so was not on hand for prototype consultation. The future of the Turbo Shovel lay in my inept hands.

My son drew an incredibly detailed sketch of what he wanted to make. He sent me into the basement to find a shovel, a wooden pole, and some yarn. This I could do. Next, he asked me to make a metal hinge. This I could not do. I clearly should not be at the helm of a blowtorch.

We thought for a while.

"How about bending an old lightsaber?"
"No way."
"A Hot Wheels ramp?"
Icy glare.
"Pantyhose?"
"That is SO wrong."

After a lengthy exploration of the robot-bits box and the recycling bin, we made a surprisingly serviceable hinge from two toilet rolls and magic tape, which gave me new hope for my post-apocalypse survival.

My son then patiently told me how to attach the shovel and the pole to the hinge, and how to tie on the yarn. It was done. We welcomed the Turbo Shovel to the world.

Our young inventor picked it up, and demonstrated how he would dig it into the snow and pull the yarn -- and hey presto, snow would be effortlessly tossed up and over his shoulder.

I was amazed. Somehow, the practical gene had skipped a generation. Sure, it was made of yarn, toilet rolls, and magic tape, but the Turbo Shovel was a great idea.

I was glad to have been part of its genesis. I didn't have the skill set. But I did have good direction. Sometimes, that's all you need to get the job done.

Fruit smoothie

My 10-year old son picked up the sliver of banana and held it at arm's length.

"You want me to eat all this?"
"Yes. There is about one-sixtieth of a portion of fruit there, but it's better than nothing."
"I don't want it."
"Just eat it."
"No."

This conversation, with the insertion of various seasonal fruits, is part of my family's cozy breakfast ritual every morning.

While my younger son will eat pretty much any fruit or veg, my older one is much less obliging in this department. When he was 3, he went grey from poor nutrition. Strawberry Starburst was his side dish of choice.

It wasn't like this when I was little. I didn't know kids who didn't like fruit and veg. Really I didn't. We had parents who grew up on rations, and who made you feel like an ingrate if so much as a pea was left on your plate. Today however, we have raised a generation of children who are encouraged to have opinions, which may be a good thing in many ways, but is an absolute bugger to manage at the breakfast table.

I considered forcing the banana issue. But this is the son who has, on more than one occasion, vomited up food he does not like all over the table. I was not equipped to deal with anything quite so theatrical this morning. Instead, I reached for the blender.

I dropped in one banana, a handful of blueberries, a questionable-looking pear, a good slug of milk, and a splash of strawberry syrup. Whizzed it up. He drank the lot.

The smoothie ploy wins every time. And while I am delighted that it prevents my son from turning an alarming shade of grey, I cannot help but be conflicted about the message I am sending.

You can get people to swallow anything. As long as you whizz it up the right way.

Frostbite

I think I'm going to lose 3 toes.

It was a bit of a morning. Mr Berman had to leave at 5:00 am to catch a flight to San Francisco. He brought me a cup of tea, bless his heart, but it was all downhill from there.

I managed to hoist myself into a sitting position, and switched on the laptop to get a head start. Time ran away with me -- suddenly, it was 6:45 am, the kids were still asleep, and we had 30 minutes to get up and out to the bus stop.

The boys were not exactly fired up and ready to go. I did manage to get us all dressed before 7:00 am, which I consider to be something of an achievement. I shoveled vitamins down their throats in lieu of more adequate sustenance. I yelled "Come ON guys" a lot.

We left the house in a scramble, I as usual, dressed in my floor-length padded down coat, to cover the offensive array of articles I had managed to grab from the dirty laundry. I did not have time to find socks, and grabbed the nearest footwear in my size.

Flip flops.

Initially, I did not realize that it was sub-arctic -- my attention was distracted when the door fell off its hinges as I closed it. I simply could not shut the damn thing. I wrestled with it and swore heartily for a minute, then had to make a split-second decision -- miss the bus and wait in for handyman, or catch the bus and return to burgled house and murdered cats. I chose the latter, and went haring off after the boys, flip flops and floor-length padded down coat flapping in the icy breeze.

As we reached the bus stop, I realized that I could not feel my feet. I mentioned this, and the boys looked down, horrified, at my flip flops.

"You're wearing flip flops."
"I know."
"That's silly."
"I know."
"It's really cold today."
"Bloody hell. I KNOW."

The bus came, and I hobbled home. Half an hour later, 3 toes on my right foot are still white. I remember with growing concern that Scott of the Antarctic perished from a combination of starvation, exhaustion, and extreme cold. While god knows I'm no danger of starving, I panic that the other two combined are very likely to cause my demise.

Mentally fast-forward to the emotional eulogy at my funeral.

"Tragic as her untimely expiration from exhaustion and frostbite may be, at least she didn't shame her sons by wearing slippers to the bus stop."

Amen.

Lying down

I'm getting bedsores.

Have been trying to get some rest in order to get over a bad cold. But instead, I have been sitting up in bed for several hours, trying to stay on top of things. I did this on Monday too. Foolish, I know.

My arse is killing me.

Lying down now.

Just remembered something else I need to take care of. Must send comments on copy.

Done. Lying down again.

Damn. Forgot to reschedule the 12 meetings I should be in right now.

Taken care of. Lying down again.

Now the kids are coming in the front door. Is it 3:00 pm already?

They want to lie down with me. So do the cats. Multi-Species Fight Club ensues. Someone stands on my hair, cat's claw gets stuck in my arm, suddenly there is a knee in my eye.

I use reprehensible language.

Send kids down to the kitchen to eat cake. This will bite me in the ass later when they come back upstairs for Sugared-Up Fight Club.

Where's my mum? I need tucking in with a nice cup of tea and a hot water bottle.

I guess I have to accept what she knew all along.

Lying down is no longer an option.

Science project

Both of my boys had to turn in a science project this morning. This year, instead of the usual experiment report, they had to do a research-based paper, and be prepared to give an oral presentation.

They are not defending their theses, I must point out. They are 8 and 10. Which means that although I am a firm believer in kids doing their own work, deciding how much effort to put in, and making their own mistakes, someone has to be there to unblock the glue tubes, help with the formatting, and drive to the store to buy all the essentials that they should have put on the shopping list 2 weeks ago.

Of course, that someone was me.

On Saturday, my 10-year old (Natural Disasters) remembered that models, diagrams, and illustrations while optional, are encouraged.

"I want to make a tsunami."
"Why did you not mention this sooner? "
"I want to make it out of modeling clay."
"We do not have the supplies."
"I want it to be 3-feet high."

At this point, I suggested he change his project to heart attacks, because I was pretty sure I was having one. He'd have a live model.

Of course, this exchange inspired my 8-year old (Global Warming).

"I want to make a factory."
"Can you do a nice picture instead?"
"I want it to have 3 chimneys."
"How about a diagram?"
"I want it to pump real CO2 into the atmosphere."

I pointed out that, while not poisonous, COtton wool would make an acceptable substitute for CO2. So they made their models. My initially churlish response to these last-minute additions did not discourage them, and it was wonderful to see them pour heart, soul, and lots of glue into their work.

On Sunday, my 8-year old remembered that rather than a research paper, he could present his work on a board.

"So which do you want to do?"
"I want to do both."
"Choose one."
"I want to do both."
"Honey, Mummy is so stressed she can taste her own bile."
"I still want to do both."

He did both. I expected him to get bored halfway through, leaving me to paste and stick as his proxy. But he worked on it for hours. I just checked his spelling, helped him arrange the board, and discouraged the more violent illustrations. He positioned the board on the dining room table, arranged the model and the research paper, and said "Look mummy. Can you believe I did all that myself?"

I am never excited to hear it is science project time. But when you let them run with it, it pushes kids a little further, makes them try a little harder. It allows them to amaze themselves, when they try.

I have, against all odds, decided that I like science projects. We all need to amaze ourselves once in a while.

Military precision

I am facing a weekend that quite frankly, terrifies me.

On Saturday, I have about half-a-day's work to catch up on. At 8:00 am, I am running a 4-mile race with Will and a group of colleagues (in a tornado, the weather advisory tells me). At 11:00 am, Ted has karate. At 3:15 pm, both boys have swimming. At 7:00 pm, I will be in bed.

On Sunday, Mr. Berman has to go to work. At 7:30 am, I am racing up 66 flights of the Rockefeller Center with a group of colleagues to raise money for MS. At 12:00 pm, both boys have to complete PhD-level science projects that are complex and draining (at least for me). At 7:00 pm, we are meeting out-of-town friends for dinner.

Somewhere along the way, I have to fit in groceries and laundry. God forbid I find time to breathe.

To get through it, I need to pause, and rewind 8 years.

To a time when I had a 6-month old. A 2-year old starting preschool. A new job. And serious sleep-deprivation.

Of course, the preschool was not in our neighborhood. That would have been too easy. It was a subway ride and a half-mile walk away. I had also sworn off strollers. (Hate them, particularly double ones, they make kids lazy, no kid should be in them once they turn 2.)

So the walk took a while. Then back to the subway, and onto work.

This is when we developed military precision as a family. We had to. I taped a list of tasks to the refrigerator, which had to be accomplished before we left the house in the morning. It ran to about 30 lines. Here is a sampling:

5:32 Feed baby
5:58 Find somewhat clean clothes in bottom of laundry hamper
6:07 Shower
6:21 Get dressed
6:32 Get kids dressed
6:43 Make sure husband is dressed
6:52 Brush teeth (all)
7:01 Make beds
7:15 Feed baby again
7:29 Change diaper
7:34 Feed toddler
7:39 Feed cat
7:40 Feed self
7:40:30 Clear table
7:43 Brush hair (all)
7:47 Argue toddler into coat
7:51 Get toddler out of coat for potty
8:03 Argue toddler back into coat
8:11 Pack cheerios for preschool voyage...

The list went on.

But it saved my life. Without it, there was a real danger I would turn up at work wearing nothing but my knickers on my head.

So now, I fast-forward back to the present. And I realize I've come a long way.

I do not need a list on the refrigerator. I am no longer sleep-deprived. I am not in danger of wearing my knickers as headgear.

So this weekend starts to look manageable. As long as I break it down into minute-by-minute parcels of time, we'll be OK.

Chocolate milk

My 8-year old is an adventurous eater. He eats tofu for breakfast (I like tofu as much as the next liberal-minded, vegetarian, organic granola-eating hippie, but for breakfast?) He noshes down on Indian, Thai, Sushi. And he practically drinks Frank's Red Hot Sauce.

But he won't drink milk.

I worry about his bones. So I decided to splash a little chocolate syrup in his milk.

Being a liberal-minded, vegetarian, organic granola-eating hippie, I struggled with it. Sugar is The Enemy. Obesity a Growing Epidemic.

But bones are important. So we splashed on.

Then my 10-year old began demanding chocolate syrup in his milk. What next -- Froot Loops?

I let it slide. And still, we splashed on.

So far, their teeth have not fallen out (apart from the usual tooth-fairy business one would expect from young men of their age). Their nails look good. And I trust their bones are growing stronger.

Because for once, I didn't let perfect get in the way of pretty damn good. We need to remember that sometimes.

Be good with being pretty damn good. Splash on.