Little Lightbulbs

I've never been good at endings. It's something most of my closest friends know about me. And it goes way back. I remember in elementary school, when I finished my last day of sixth grade at the school I'd attended my whole life. Depression hit me like a sack of sadness, and I couldn't move on from the fact that I'd never darken those doors again. Instead, childhood was being shed like a too-tight skin to make way for pre-teendome. And I was not a fan. To this day, I won't watch the series finale when I stream my favorite shows because it's too sad. In my twisted little world, as long as I don't watch Monica, Chandler, Pheobe, Ross, Joey and Rachel walk down that hallway one last time, then they continue on as they always have ... sipping coffee at Central Perk and living their quirky, mid-90s lives. There's comfort in that for me. Even if I know it isn't true. Today, I'm facing one of those endings that I know will hurt like my first...

You shall therefore impress these words of mine on your heart and on your soul; and you shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontals on your forehead.  “You shall teach them to your sons, talking of them when you sit in your house and when you walk along the road and when you lie down and when you rise up. I have spent six years in a blissful Norman Rockwell-esque existence with my two boys. But yesterday, the bubble popped around my fragile world. That's right. My oldest son is now an official middle-schooler. He graduated, despite the fact that I was all but shackling his ankles to his desk in an effort to keep him in his safe little cocoon. You see, I live in a sweet front-porch community where the elementary school sits smack dab in the middle of my neighborhood. Every temperate morning, I walk my kids to school and then back again at the end of the day. We literally stop and smell the roses growing alongside my neighbor's picket fence a...

I'm not sure when I first heard the word "cool" in reference to my social standing. I know it was a factor, though. After all, I did grow up attending school with a large group much more affluent than I during the eighties, when Guess was king of denim and wearing a Swatch meant you had arrived. Still, those were my pre-teen years. I don't ever remember thinking of such things as a young elementary school child. So, when my kindergartner came home from school downtrodden because his friends didn't think something he was wearing was cool, I was a little stunned.  I listened as J.T. poured out the tale of his classmates poking fun at his camouflage sunglasses. "Only DJs are cool!" he moaned. Through our discussion, I came to understand that a "DJ"  was someone with a backwards hat and slim dark shades. This all came about on a day when the kids were allowed to wear hats and sunglasses to school as part of a special program week.  My husband drove...

There are things about this motherhood gig I do not, nor will I ever, understand. For instance, why is it that children refuse to go to bed on time, yet also refuse to let you sleep in the next morning? It is as if they have some stockpile of energy they plug into at every possible interval. But, do we parents get even a hit of this elusive magic potion? No. Take, for instance, my oldest. A new kindergartner, he is eager to start each day (at least until it is actually time for him to drag his tired carcass from beneath his sheets).  Each night, it's the same routine. Shower, brush teeth, read books, bed. Then in 10 minute intervals for the following hour, he putters down the hall for another hug, another question, another complaint, another demand. Which usually means he hits the actual sack around 8:30 instead of 7:30 as intended. That makes it all the more boggling that I felt his morning breath on my face at 4 a.m., startling me awake as he, whispering, asked, "Mommy, when...

I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels this way. In fact, I've heard other work-at-home moms talk about the see-saw effect of "having the best of both worlds." Still, I feel alone when I have my fleeting "I wish I still worked outside the home" thoughts. There are occasions when I just can't hear a pleading "Mommy" one more time, no matter how adorable the face is that it's coming out of. Instead, I long for those days when I could drop my children off at day care and retreat to my mound of work for the day, leaving someone else to wipe the poop, drool, food remnants and milk from their bodies. But, again, those are very fleeting and rare moments.  Usually they are brought on by a week like the one I just had, when, in the feast-or-famine world of self-employment, I experienced the feast. Not normally something I'd complain about, it came on the heels of a long weekend with the family, after which I returned home without a spouse t...