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.

Passenger Berman

I had to send an email. I had been trying to get to it since I staggered out of bed at 6:01am, but with a 6:45 am hotel checkout, a 7:00 am meeting time, and the laws of physics working against me, it just didn't happen.

So I found myself at LAX at 4:10 pm typing like the clappers at Wolfgang Puck's pizza emporium (don't drink the Chardonnay -- ghastly) when Winnie and Barbara, my trusty colleagues, realized we should have boarded 10 minutes ago.

"Go! Go!! GO!!! GO!!!!" I roared in panic. "Delay them! Hold the plane!! Don't let them leave without me!!!" (Increasingly feel like my life is an extended series of exclamation marks.)

For the second time this week, I delayed a plane and 327 other passengers. I ran, swearing lustily, up to the gate, trailing coats, bags, and computer cables, just as the attendant made his final announcement.

"Passenger Berman. Passenger Berman. This is your final boarding call. Please make your way IMMEDIATELY to Gate 78. Passenger Berman. This is your final chance for boarding. We all want to go now, you selfish old cow."

I will be flying again on Saturday. With my children. Had better school them in the art of No-Shame Flying, and Delaying Flights for Hysterical Mothers, fast.

Wholewheat everything

Every Friday is Bagel Friday at The CementBloc. Eating myself into a carb coma by 10:00 am has become a sacred ritual that marks the end of my week.

This morning, the kitchen at work was overflowing as usual with bagels the size of my ass -- at least, the size of my ass now, after I've been eating these super-size beauties for close on 8 years.

But there was no wholewheat everything.

I was so looking forward to scooping out the doughy inside -- not to save calories, rather to pack in more scallion cream cheese. Nibbling the toasty oniony bits on the outside. Wondering if I really could finish the whole thing, finding I could...and then wondering if a 3rd half would be overdoing it.

There was a bialy in the basket -- that was a novelty. But bialys are what I have on Sunday with the kids.

My distress isn't really about bagels. Or bialys. It's about finding comfort and safety in routine. One little island of the expected in the middle of a life that is anything but.

I used to loathe routine. New, unexpected, spur of the moment is way more appealing. I scoffed at people who vacationed in the same place every year. Balked at the notion of spaghetti every Thursday. But when my boys came along, I realized that we need a little routine. It makes life simpler, and saner.

• Brush your teeth before you come downstairs, otherwise we will be running back up 3 flights to retrieve your toothbrush when we should be at the bus stop
• Study for tests ahead of time. Remembering on Sunday at 7:00 pm that you have a statewide science test the next morning is not going to put mummy in a good mood
• Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday are "hairwash" nights. This gives me time to recover from the ordeal and steel my nerves for the next time

I hate the fact that I have embraced routine. It sounds so...dull.

I prefer ritual. It sounds more considered, foundational, spiritual even.

Hey, that means my weekly carb coma might actually be some kind of spiritual trance. Leave me alone people, I'm busy transcending.

I always knew Bagel Friday served a higher purpose.

The dilemma

It's 5:42 pm.

Do I stick it out here at the office, and plough through my backlog? I'd be out of here by 10, all caught up, breathing a little easier, ready to take on tomorrow.

Or do I head home, hug my boys, pour a big fat glass of wine (for me, not them), put them in their jammies, tuck them into bed -- and then sit up in bed til 2:00 am trying to catch up, only to get up at 6:00 am and start all over?

That's my dilemma, and this is my blog.

It's about the need -- and the desire -- to work and work well. And the desire to have a life, a really good one, one I'll be glad and proud I lived.

Welcome to the journey.

P.S. The boys and wine won.