An Irish Blessing

I don’t know why, but this year, despite my best intentions and my beautifully organized, updated-as-of-yesterday Christmas spreadsheet, I’m frazzled. I’ve got so many gifts and to do’s and not-necessarily-have-to-do’s-but-want-to-do’s in my head that I feel like any moment now, something could short-circuit. And it’s the Christmas cards that are pushing me right over the edge.

These should not have been an issue. I ordered them in September (and was pretty smug about it) and had every intention of prepping them so that on the day after Thanksgiving, I could hold my head up high and proudly walk into the post office to send them on their way. Best laid plans…that didn’t happen.

So I’ve decided that 2010 will be the year of my cutting down on the card list. It just has to be done. I’m quite sure that no one’s self-esteem will crumble if they don’t receive The Boy’s picture in the mail, nor will their world fall apart if they don’t peer at my “xo Michelle” sign-off. Instead, I’m taking a moment now to send these beautiful words out to all those who touch my life. If you don’t get my card in the mail, please don’t take it personally. I love you. I think you’re fabulous. I just don’t have the organization or sense of calm needed right now to be as productive as I should be. Instead, I send these well wishes for your Christmas or holiday season, in the form of an Irish Blessing, which I found today in “The Catholic Home” by Meredith Gould:

“The light of the Christmas star to you

The warmth of home and hearth to you

The cheer and goodwill of friends to you

The hope of a childlike heart to you

The joy of a thousand angels to you

The love of the Son and

God’s peace to you.”

 

How are you making your holiday season less stressful this year? Share your secret, and let’s all enjoy letting ourselves off the hook!

Let The Week Begin With A Double Shot

Good morning, friends…Happy Monday! I’m looking forward to a day of preschool drop-off; bathrobe-hunting (The Boy’s a shepherd in the Christmas pageant; costuming requirements = one bathrobe and one small towel); mid-morning meet-up with a dear friend; afternoon play date; and then perhaps a run to Old Navy for a new Christmas sweater. None of that can happen, of course, if this doesn’t…

Off to caffeinate. Enjoy your day…we’ll talk soon!

Ode to A Fine Lady

This little one was born some time ago: my grandfather’s younger sister, Lena. She lived a wonderful life, married a good man, had four great kids, who had great kids, who’ve since had great kids. She passed recently, ending her time here with one family, and reuniting with another. Perpetual light shall no doubt shine upon her, but boy, will she be missed. She had a beautiful smile, an effervescent personality, and an energy that put gals half her age to shame (including me).

Aunt Lee, Friday afternoons, circa 1975, at your fancy small-town hair salon, will always remain dear to my heart. While waiting for my Nonni and Nonna (Aunt Lee’s sister-in-law and mom) to get all gussied up for bingo, my Aunt Lee always let me creep up to her private bathroom and select one of her personal stash of nail polishes for my mini-manicure. Here's to you, Auntie Lee. You have my heart.

It's A Marshmallow World

Aaaaah, December. How I love thee. And not because I skate like Dorothy Hamill (does that reference date me?) or navigate a slope like...ah, who's that kid?...oh yeah, Shaun White. If I put on a pair of blades I'd be down in a nanosecond. And snowboarding? I figure if the Good Lord wanted me to race down a mountain at any sort of speed, he'd have made my feet wider and flatter. No, I love you because I'm lazy.

I'm ready to hibernate, and I'm waiting for the first snowy day to turn my world into that "marshmallow" snow globe that Sir Deano sings about on my favorite holiday album. Yes, I want to wake up to see soft flakes falling on a Saturday morning. I don't have to haul my, ah, backside anywhere early on a Saturday, so I can flop around in my slippers just that much longer.



I want to bring out any candle that goes by the name of "Holiday Cookie," "Evergreen," or "Apple Wreath," touch it lightly with a small flame, and let its scent fill up the hallways of my home.

If I venture outside, it will be in my big fuzzy boots and my warm winter jacket. My car will point in the direction of the nearest Dunkaccino, which I will pick up, pop in my cup-holder, and drive directly home lest it get cold. "Holly Jolly Christmas" and "Do You Hear What I Hear?" will play in the background throughout the afternoon while I wrap all my presents with real ribbon.

I will string sparkly silver ornaments along my mantle and roll pine cones (thank you, Kristin) in white glitter to bring all the wonder inside. Some warm, hearty stew will be simmering in the crockpot because on this perfect day, I have thought of everything.

That first snowy night, I will curl up on the sofa with a hot cup of coffee (oh, don't doubt it: I've built up such a caffeine tolerance that I can pretty much have a cup just before 8 and still be out by 9:30) and "The Shop Around the Corner," my favorite classic Christmas flick, on the tele.

Where's The Boy through all of this, you ask? Well, of course, he's out with The Husband picking out the absolute perfect, most meaningful Christmas gift for Mom. Well, let's just leave it at "they're out."

So c'mon, snow. Let's go. I'm ready for you.

It Is Good To Be Thankful!

Sa-weeeeet! It's Thanksgiving Day, and I'm in heaven. I'd consider this my favorite holiday: everyone's warm-and-fuzzy (well, at least until the afternoon cocktails kick in); there's no anxiety involved over gift-giving; and it marks the beginning of the Christmas season! I love all that Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree and Holly Jolly stuff. And of course, there's the STUFFING and mashed potatoes with butter and GRAVY! I have about an hour before THE parade starts (and yes, I'm a sucker for it every year), so I'm going to quickly show a bit of gratitude for some of the things that keep me going and put a smile on my face throughout the year. This is just a sampling...I have much to be thankful for.

• The Man and The Boy. Love, love, love that dynamic duo. I guess that makes me thankful for the Sugar Shack, too, circa 1996, where it aaaallll started. Bet he didn't know that spilling a drink on a gal would actually work.
• Friends who know my history. Love that I can look at these gals' faces and see the little girls they once were. Of course, that's not difficult...they've aged pretty well. I bet they could still fit into their pegged jeans.
• Friends who know my present. What would I do without the beautiful posse who keeps me laughing, helps me navigate motherhood, and saves my sanity on a sometimes daily basis?
• Also quite thankful that there are no friends who know my future. That would be creepy.
• Coffee. Any form of it. I'd suck on a bean if I needed to.
• Everyone who's hit a "like" or "follow" button in response to this blog. It's been a form of therapy for me, and I really appreciate every man, woman, and child who's hopped on for any part of the ride.
• Stay-and-Play. That one's a no-brainer. And Miss Michelle, Miss Caren, Miss Nancy, Miss Shelly, Miss Kathy, Miss Denise, Miss Donna. Angels, I tell you. Angels.
• The Grand Trifecta of Homegoods, TJs, and Marshalls. Seriously, thanks for feeding my decorating habit. You've been chockful of goodies lately.
• The mango-scented shampoo smell of The Boy's hair, post-shower.
• Vintage magazine ads. I love the look but also the commentary. Like how good-quality slippers can keep a woman from having a nervous breakdown. Yes, I really read that once.
• My BodyJam and Hip Hop Funk classes. I may have two left feet, but I'm not afraid to move 'em. Those classes just make me smile.
• And I'll throw in a shout-out for The Crazy Dog Ruby. Yes, she may be loco, but she sits at my feet every time I write a post, and that should count for something.

That's all for now. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving everyone! Enjoy the day, eat everything you want (the high pace of Black Friday should burn it all off, right?), and again, thank you for tuning in to this episode of That's My Boy! Hope we gave you a Turkey Day giggle.

Let's Hear It For....Sarah Scoville!

Thanks to all who visited That's My Boy and shared their thoughts and remembrances in honor of the March of Dimes National Prematurity Awareness Day. Thanks to those who joined me on Facebook and Twitter, as well! I'm happy to announce that the lovely

Sarah Scoville

is the winner of the Vintage Pearl necklace! Congrats, Sarah! Email me at your earliest convenience.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

A Boy and His Dog

I had a good thing going. It was easy. It was simple. It gave The Boy such satisfaction: the relationship he had with his beloved blue sidekick, a ragtag little dog named Bobo. I'm not sure who passed this small stuffed gift-from-God to him the day of my/his baby shower, but I know that they probably had no idea at the time what effect that precious pooch would have on Matt. Bobo is a trusted friend, never far from his side when duty calls: bedtime, belly aches, even stealing away in his backpack and secretly hanging out at preschool a few times last year when Matt was still unsure of the whole "higher education" thing.

Their pairing started out like this. A sweet, quiet and cuddly something to catch a few zzz's with.

As time passed and The Boy grew older, Bobo became a wrestling buddy.



Matt's down.



Bobo's down.



I don't think a move like that is sanctioned.



Love again.

The Boy grew older still and we decided to bring him to the land of his (partial) heritage. For fear of many sleepless nights, we paid for a seat for Bobo, and he travelled the countryside with us.

Bobo napping in the rental.

Bobo in Florence.

Bobo at The Vatican. They wouldn't let him in (pants are required).

Bobo at the Coliseum.

Bobo and The Boy, looking longingly at the land of their ancestors. Wind in their hair and all.

This dog has been faithful, loyal, obedient, and respectful of all things MINE. He never once dug a hole, peed in my living room, tore through a sofa cushion, decapitated a garden hose, or rendered an innocent screen door a doggie-door with his own brute force. So why, I ask you, WHY (other than my own stupidity and guilt over the ridiculous "only-child" thing), would I purchase THIS?!

Miss Ruby. Part good dog/part Lucifer.

The moral of this story, my friends: if you ever feel guilt over not giving your kid a flippin' sibling, get over yourself. The child will survive. Your sofa and your garden hose, on the other hand...

To Tweet or Not To Tweet,That's The Question

If you're a Facebook junkie, you might think that Twitter's for the birds, as I did before I jumped in with both feet. 140 characters, all those @ signs, trends?! Confusing to someone logging on for the first time. If you're social networking solely to keep up with friends or just to see what your neighbors are up to (admit it, you nosy girl, you), then FB is the way to go, but if you're looking to spread the word about a cause, project, or business endeavor, you simply have to tweet! It's the most effective way to spread the word and learn more about your industry.

Okay, so the thought of Twitter brings about a nervous eye twitch. I get it, but relax. In my search for answers to my own questions (is it "tweeting" or "twittering" and does that make me a "tweep"?), I found a fantastic book for the newbie. The first time I looked through it, I barely knew what a hashtag was, and it had taken me three weeks to figure out how to retweet. This book made it so much easier. I loved the visuals!

Request it at your local library or go nuts and pick up a copy for yourself. And no, Tim and Sarah did not pay me for this post. When I like something, I just have to share. Next installment in my "go-buy-this" series: my steam mop. Oh, the glamour.

National Prematurity Awareness DayInspires A TMB Giveaway!

I've been pregnant three times, I've been in labor twice, I have one living child, for whom I am most grateful. Though not with me physically, my twins, two teeny girls nicknamed Maddie and Charlie, are always close to my heart. I honor them by wearing their names around my neck, along with that of their little brother, the ever-crazy Matthew. The idea came to me when I first laid eyes on a beautiful necklace in a magazine, which had been created by the wonderful women of The Vintage Pearl. It featured three delicate birds sitting on the branches of a tree (check it out below). My three birds. Exactly how I'd always thought of them. Had to have it.

I think every mom should have a necklace honoring her children (think of it as a medal of valor). Inspired by the March of Dimes National Prematurity Awareness Day (this Wednesday, November 17), That's My Boy (aka TMB) and The Vintage Pearl (alias, TVP) have teamed up to give away one Vintage Pearl necklace (up to a $50 value) to a lucky TMB reader! I wish it could be more, but hey, I'm not Oprah. Take a gander at the rules below, because there are many ways to enter! To view TVP's product line, please click here.

1. Leave a comment here at TMB and tell me which necklace you're hoping to win, and how you'd like it inscribed;
2. Join the TMB Facebook page, and leave me a comment telling me you're a new fan (along with which necklace you'd like and how you'd like it inscribed)!
3. Follow TMB on Twitter (it's easier than you think) and tweet (or write me here) telling me you have! Don't forget to include same info from Nos. 1 and 2.
4. Share TMB with your Facebook friends, and let me know you've spread the love. Give me the names of those who've "liked" me and each new mutual friend counts as another entry for you! Easy peasy.

This giveaway ends Friday, November 19 at 12 noon (EST). The winner will be announced on Saturday, November 20. Good luck, mommies!

Share the joy and let others know of this fabulous giveaway, and please don't forget those friends who have suffered the loss of a child. Society may forget that they are mothers, but you don't have to. Help them celebrate those children they are only able to carry in their heart. It's healing.

My Heroes

Today is a special day. No doubt we should all take a moment every day to think of the men and women who serve their country so bravely, but it's easy to get caught up in (and sometimes overwhelmed by) the duties and challenges of our own lives, no matter how big or small. And thanks to our armed forces, we can indulge ourselves in such a way. Today you just can't forget though, and that's a good thing. It's not a day off from work or school for pleasure's sake; it's a time to reflect on those who've kept and continue to keep us safe, those who've fought brave battles overseas and on the home front, and to thank them in our own way for all that they do.

My three heroes appear below. They fought in a war almost 70 years ago (OMG!) and thankfully, all three survived WWII and went on to live long and happy lives. I was privileged to be part of those lives, and I pay them honor here today.

To Joe Palano, the handsome fella on the left, my grandfather, my Nonnu. Probably the first crush of my life. I had such a soft spot for that man, who was always dressed to the nines and smelled of English Leather. By the time I came into his world, he was semi-retired, so I got to see the fun side of him. Thanks, Nonnu, for picking me up when I was teeny so I could play that crazy xylophone doorbell you had; thanks for letting me sit in your chair in the den when I needed some quiet time alone; and thanks—yes, thanks—for the practical joke and making me laugh the afternoon I came home after driving into the side of the bank with mom's station wagon. Thanks for being brave enough to do your job when your country called you.

To Steve Palano, that cutie holding the other cutie (my mom, clearly malnourished) in his arms. Thanks Uncle Stevie for heading overseas to face the enemy. I'm so glad you, too, came home and I was more-than-blessed to be a part of your life. For those of you who know me personally, you can blame my Uncle Stevie every time I call you darlin', honey, sunshine, or sweets. If Uncle Stevie loved you, you were labeled with a term of endearment: it was his verbal embrace. Thank you, Uncle Stevie, for showing me how to tell a good wild mushroom from a bad; thanks for letting me know that someone COULD wear those clip-on, flip-up sunglasses over their regular pair and still look sharp; and thank you for delivering possibly the worst jokes (friends, next time you see me, ask me about the cat who ran out of gas) and convincing me that laughter—no matter its origin—is a priceless gift.

And finally, to Al Spadaro, that debonair guy on the right with the Hollywood-type swagger (seriously, do any of us look like that today in a photograph? It's like everyone who came of age in the '30s and '40s took "How To Strike A Pose" class in high school): oh, Uncle Al, where do I start? Uncle Al never did have children of his own, so to me he was a second father. Thank you, Uncle Al, for instilling in me a love for the crooners...I rarely hear a tune from Deano or Frank without picturing your smile. Thank you showing me that a strong man could still be a gentle man. (I'll overlook the fact that you'd whistle from the doorway of Filene's Basement to signify to Aunt May that it was time to leave). Thank you for appreciating the beauty of nature and for helping your family to appreciate it too, right down to the last sunset you ever admired. You lived, served, and passed from this world with such passion.

So these are my heroes. Who are yours? Thank them. And thank you to all servicemen and servicewomen. Yesterday's, today's and tomorrow's.

Always Ready To Serve

You know those moments when you think to yourself, "Seriously, could my child be any more precious?" Well, lucky me: my day started off with one of those. Not because of anything extraordinary The Boy said (he was actually still sleeping in my bed at the time), but because of these:

Not there when my little man was tucked in last night, those "Spiderman" boots greeted me this a.m. as I waltzed into his room to make the bed. Which means that at some point during his after-my-parents-close-the-door antics, he decided they needed to be placed just so by the side of his bed for easy access. You know, in case someone needed a web-slinger to save them at a moment's notice. A superhero must be ready to serve.

Isn't it beautiful how a 4-year-old's mind works?

Letter to A New Mom

Today, a dear friend will be heading into a hospital to deliver her first child. Amazing. I can only imagine (because 6.9.2006 seems like a lifetime ago) what's she's thinking right now, as she embarks on this new adventure. I've known her since wall bangs were in fashion, and since then, she's made quite a life for herself: fantastic career, wonderful husband with whom she's travelled the world, family and friends who adore her. None of that will change after today, of course, but yet in some way, she'll be a completely different person. It's mystical, really...what effect a child can have on you.

As beautiful as new parenthood is, it can blindside you in ways you never anticipated: ways they don't show you in the perfect Pottery-Barn-Kids-Catalog-Layout world and ways that will make your heart melt. No one warned me about that during my pregnancy...all the "newness" I'd encounter. It's inspired me to write what I'm calling my "Letter to a New Mom," which holds observations and advice (in no particular order) I'd share with anyone stepping into this crazy, beloved and sometimes overwhelming world of being someone's mom. I'll limit it to 10 since no mom has enough time to herself to read (in peace) much more than that.

1. Sleep, as you know it, is over. Sorry to jump right in with that slap in the face, but there it is. Oh, sure, you might have that baby who figures out how to sleep through the night by the time they're four months old, in which case, good for you. But before you get smug, realize that every few months, kids go through phases, and this paradise will most likely end. Be prepared, and invest in some Eye Bright.

2. You may have moments when you think "What the #$% have I done to my life?! I had it made before! Slept in when I felt like it. Had the freedom to come and go as I pleased without packing what amounts to another human being's survival kit every time I left the door. Were we completely insane when we thought 'Let's add a helpless baby to this mix'?" This is completely normal. Anyone who suggests you're odd for having such a thought is either not being honest with herself or was born on another planet.

3. Buy stock in Duracell. Or Energizer. You will need to have on hand, at any given moment, every size and strength of battery available to the general public, because in a pinch, if you don't have every type on hand, the one you don't have is the exact one you'll need. And it could be the difference between the baby napping and subsequent serenity, or you hitting the bottle (the grown-up kind).

4. You'll never again be so invested in the fate of a stuffed animal or tiny square blanket. In fact, I still have a cold flash of fear every time I think of what might happen if Bobo disappeared. Can't recall who gave The Boy that little blue ragamuffin of a dog, but it's become Matt's right-hand-man, the Robin to his Batman, and .... oh, I can't even think about it. A word to the wise: when you figure out what your babe's lovey is, head right out and buy a few backups you can stash away in case fate plays a cruel joke on you.

5. This little person whom you've brought into the world will evoke such love and devotion from you that YOU WILL DO STUPID THINGS on their behalf. Like think, because yours is an only child AND he's getting his tonsils and adenoids out that you must, of course, get him a dog even though you're a neurotic housekeeper who's resistant to change. Oh, wait, maybe that's just me...

6. You'll develop an alarming interest in poop, and there's a very good chance that you and your significant other may talk about it over dinner. Sure, laugh now, but it'll happen.

7. Cheap thrill: You're now someone's boss. Yes, we can have a philosophical debate about this, but I won't apologize: it gives me great pleasure at times to whip out "Because I said so!" when I'm at a loss for a more reasonable answer.

8. You will fall on one side of the Some TV v. No TV/Breastfeed v. No Booby/SAHM v. WATO (work at the office) debate, and the other side will most likely irritate you. Try not to be obnoxious about your own views and resist the urge to kill when "SuperMommy in Her Own Mind" tries to entangle you in a debate. Live and let live, right? After all, we're all just gals trying to do the best we can. Kumbaya, baby.

9. There will never be a face more intriguing than your child's. You will take endless photographs of it: sleeping, smiling, looking off in the distance wistfully. Please resist the urge to send the entire contents of your albums to everyone in your address book. A small percentage of the latest photo shoot to a few well-chosen relatives or friends will suffice.

And for now, last but not least...

10. Knowing what you know now, you will feel royally ripped off when you reflect on how much you made during the height of your babysitting days. When I see my sitter pull into the drive, I'm delighted to fork over three times as much as I made in my youth to have her walk in my shoes for a few hours. When I think back on those '80's moms who played it so cool as they breezed by me on their way out the door and how they deceived me, I get over the lingering guilt of nosing through their stuff and eating their last Hoodsie.

Have some "truths" that you'd share with a new mom? I'd love to hear 'em.

Is It Friday Yet?

I should have known this afternoon that The Boy + Singing Happily To Himself Up In His Room would = Nothing Good Could Come Out Of This. Turns out he was singing happily with a magic marker in his hand and a desire to upgrade the decor. Oh...my...goodness.

Tastes Like Chicken

Michelle's Rule of Life No. 524 (spoken in true "Olivia" style): Just because you like to cook, doesn't mean you have to over complicate things. While most nights of the week, I take pride in prepping a homemade meal for my family, I rarely like to fuss over it, so I'm always on the lookout for recipes that make you look like you've got Iron Chef-quality skills without having to invest Iron Chef-like time. Can you imagine how thrilled I was recently to find this goodie from Campbell's Kitchen (you know, the soup people...M'm m'm good?) in the Sunday Globe circular? Because I appreciate y'all, I'm sharing it, which is actually a BIG deal. Usually I just call such a recipe "Michelle's ____________" and say it's been in the family for years. So here goes. Oh, and make sure you've got biscuits or a loaf of fresh bread on the table...don't waste the yummy gravy!

Lemon-Herb Roast Chicken with Pan Gravy

1 lemon  

1 can (10 3/4 ounces) Campbell's® Condensed Cream of Chicken Soup  (Regular or 98% Fat Free)

1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary leaves or 1 teaspoon dried rosemary leaves, crushed

1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme leaves or 1 teaspoon dried thyme leaves, crushed

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 roasting chicken  (5 to 7 pounds)

1/4 cup dry white wine

1/4 cup water

• Heat the oven to 375°F. Grate 1 1/2 teaspoons zest and squeeze 1 tablespoon juice from the lemon.
• Stir the lemon zest, lemon juice, soup, rosemary, thyme and garlic in a medium bowl. Reserve 1 cup soup mixture for the gravy. Place the chicken into a shallow roasting pan.
• Roast the chicken for 20 minutes. Brush the chicken with 1/4 cup soup mixture.
• Roast for 1 hour and 15 minutes or until the chicken is cooked through. Remove the chicken to a serving platter and keep warm.
• Spoon off any fat from the pan juices. Stir the wine in the roasting pan and heat over medium-high heat to a boil, scraping up the browned bits from the bottom of the pan. Stir in the reserved soup mixture and water and cook until the mixture is hot and bubbling. Serve the gravy with the chicken.

Hope this tip solves at least one "what-the-#$%!-do-I-make-tonight?" problem. For nutritional info, visit the website at http://bit.ly/9zd8QJ.

A Feast for The Eyes

You all know how I feel about autumn. Mmmm...couldn't be a prettier, more energizing time of the year in my opinion. Just had to grab my camera this morning and capture it before all the leaves have fallen and November sets in. Look around you: the trees are changing...

 

...things that once were a huge part of your day (like your favorite chair in the backyard...the one that gives you full view of The Boy playing) get a little less use, but somehow become more beautiful. It's like you're seeing them for the first time when they're left to stand on their own...

 

Matt's summer playhouse: the center of activity in the warmer months. Now, it stands, looking like smoke should be rising out of its chimney (if it had one). 

Love the mini pumpkins, but really now, does it get better than one that's sparkly black?!

And even as the plantings start to wear from the frost and fade away, they never lose their beauty. 

Look at how the sunlight falls on my neighborhood? Enchanting...

I say "Why rake?" When God's confetti pours down, just enjoy it for a bit.

At least until the last leaf has blown off the last tree.

And yes...even Ruby looks more regal in this lighting.

So gather your acorns, pull the crock pot out of your pantry,

and get ready for the cooler months to come. Love it!



Almost Perfect

This morning at Pool School, Matt asked his teacher, "You know what I can do?" She said "no," and he came back with "Walk on water." Hmmm. Only in mom's eyes, babe, and even then, only on a good day. I'm quite sure it was another gal's Son who holds that claim to fame.

...but doesn't he look cute in his SunSkinz?!

Lines We Feed Our Kids

Every once in a while I wonder: When Matt's hit the age of reason, and can look back and reflect on all the stuff I said to him when he was little, will he confront me with "Seriously, ma...what the h*ll were you talking about?!" I mean there are truly times when he pops a question off and the fact is confirmed that my 4-year-old is smarter than me.

Anyway, I was glad to overhear the other day at the playground that I wasn't the only one who often feeds my kid a line. A man and his young son (seemed about 5) were on their way out of the gate I was standing near (trying my best to observe Matt at a distance...I hate hovering) when I heard the man state "Yes, class is over." "Why are the other kids staying then?" the boy asked his dad. "Their class just began," was the answer. Made me giggle. Hey, a parent's got to do what a parent's got to do to leave the playground without a scene.

What's the one line you've fed your kid that made you think "Ha! I'm clever. Better jot that down"? :o)

That's My Joy

Have you ever noticed that life throws you curve balls whenever you announce (either to yourself or out loud) that you think you've got it all figured out? For me, it happens every time. The end of September brought some unanticipated excitement to the Colasante household, followed by a touch of unforeseen disappointment. And though in a few years, when I look back on this time, it will amount to the smallest little blip on the radar of my life, it shook my world just a bit.

I'm in a good place. Have everything I want: a wonderful husband, a precious child, a beautiful home. My health. You know, all the right stuff. And I thought that once and for all, those questions that seemed to eat at me over the years (everyone has theirs: the "what if's?", the "why not's?", the little regrets that take some time to reconcile) had been answered and laid to rest. And that's where I was wrong. A brief turn of events and I was right back at the same point and on the same shaky ground I've found myself time and time again. And when I'm on shaky ground, I stumble. Big time.

It made me wonder what it was that I wasn't learning? Why was it that THIS lesson was revisiting me over and over? Why did my life seem marked by such things (note the twinge of self-pity there...my life isn't marked by such things but when I'm down I can be very dramatic)? And then, for the first time in years, clarity came. I realized that there was no lesson to be learned from the event itself. What happened is just a part of life. The lesson is in how I react to it. When something sad or tragic happens, it has the power to consume. Heck, when any disappointment shows up on your doorstep, even if it's a molehill it can seem like a mountain if you let it. When it's truly the mountain, it can be devastating. My epiphany was that it doesn't need to take over my life and it doesn't need to define me.

What should define and consume me are the joys that happen every day; you know, the ones we usually pay little or no attention to. It's the smell of my morning coffee. It's the joke my 4-year-old tells that makes me smile (even though it's more crazy than funny). It's David Bowie's "Blue Jeans" coming on the radio and catching it from the very beginning. It's the modern-day McGarrett on this season's "Hawaii Five-O." It's a weed prevention system actually working. It's bright orange and red leaves set against a seriously blue sky. It's my husband sitting with me night after night enduring what he considers my less-than-admirable taste in prime time programming just to be with me. It's my friends making sure my son is where he needs to be (because at the time, I couldn't) and fixing me dinner to remind me that even in my darker hours, I'm not alone. It's being surrounded by good people. It's having faith that no matter where I am in life, I am where I need to be, no matter how bumpy the road behind me has been.

So I'm going to stop swimming against the tide. I'm going to stop trying to dissect the low points, the heartaches, or the tragedies of my past to uncover some sort of mystical truth of life. From here on in, I'm going to focus more on the beauty I see on a regular basis. The stuff that fills my heart, even if it's just the smell of my clean laundry or the sight of my favorite mag in today's mail. That's my joy, and I'm going to stop taking it for granted. 

Just Get in the Game, Baby!

Tuesday afternoon. Bright sunshine and lots of fresh, angelic 4- and 5-year-old faces. Shin guards and shiny new soccer balls. Bedford's Preschool Soccer. Matt was so excited to go, because he's all for running around and kickin' a ball, and it thrills him that his neighborhood buddies attend as well. The moms just sit on the sidelines watching the little ones scramble around the field, some fully into it, and some (like mine on this particular day), eyeing the nearby playground and wondering when they can make a break for it. My young "Ferdinand," stopping to smell the roses...or the ragweed.

Another one of my childhood favorites!



20 minutes into the lesson, Matt was done, and he sat down on the field, looking around and holding his own against any one of the young coaches who approached him, trying to encourage his participation. Just like the gentle bull in one of my childhood favs, he was far more interested in the feel of the grass, the blue sky, and yes, the pretty blond female coach who'd occasionally indulge him by walking around the field hand-in-hand (he's such a "player").

I give the kid credit: when he's made up his mind, he really can't be swayed. And as much as I hate to admit it, I was bothered by it. Not that he wasn't the star of the lesson, but that he was choosing not to be involved. Yes, I get that this is what preschoolers do (though I do have to remind myself of that). And no, it's not about my caring whether he truly learns the skills involved in running a ball down the length of a field and scoring a goal. I could care less (or couldn't care less ... you know what I mean) if my child is athletically inclined. I just want him to never hold back. To never fear participating because he's not the best. I just want him to get in the game.

Days of Wine and Roses (and Apples and Sno-Cones, Of Course)

For those of you who haven't met me personally, let me tell you a little about myself. I'm short. I'm a huge fan of the old crooners, like Dean Martin, Ray Charles, and well, sure, Sinatra. It would be an understatement to declare that I enjoy coffee and cop shows. And I love, love, love, love, love the fall. This time of year gives me a renewed energy (I'm kind of a lump in the summer...heat demotivates me). It's the crisp breezes, the falling leaves, and the smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and pumpkin that gets me going. So this past weekend, Matt, his dad and I were delighted when friends invited us to join them for a fun afternoon at Nashoba Valley Winery's "Kid's Day Off Family Concert." It just seemed like a perfect autumn-y thing to do!

Normally, of course, I'm a little suspicious about these sort of events. I'm all for bringing Matt to places that are designed specifically for the eight-and-under crowd, but let's admit it: most of the time, those venues are far from what the parents would consider entertainment. But my friends assured me that the Kid's Day Off festival was a great way for everyone in the family to enjoy some down time, and I trusted them completely.

Matt (far right) and his buds working off some cider donuts.

They didn't let me down. What a beautiful afternoon, what a gorgeous vineyard, and what a perfect blend of activities for the children and their parents to enjoy. As soon as we pulled into the field and parked the truck, the knots in my shoulder (you know, the ones you earn with a "first-week-at-preschool-and-first-cold-of-the-season" combo) had begun to disappear, and I knew it would be a relaxing few hours. Kids and parents milled about, blankets were strewn across the grass for numerous picnics, and children were dancing to the tunes of "The Folk Tradition" trio. Sheltered in the shade of the gazebo, they played classics like "You Are My Sunshine" (please see my earlier posting, "Having A Moment, Or Not" for more on that one) and kept the kids clapping and shuffling their little feet. After picking out a delicious lunch of burgers, pulled pork sandwiches, and cornbread, we just sat and took in the loveliness of a fall afternoon in the country.

When lunch was done, Matt and I headed off to enter ourselves in a candy-corn raffle (I keep checking my cell phone...I take it I didn't win), face painting (we spent 10 minutes in line before Matt decided he didn't want fangs after all), Sno-Cones (which to chose, red or blue?) and an apple art stand, which thankfully, did have green paint (it's M's favorite color...if it's not available, everyone might as well just pack up and go home). The highlight for Matt was the balloon pup that the on site balloon artist crafted for him. Actually, that was the agony and the ecstasy of Matt's time there: he was on Cloud 9 when she handed this creation back to him and then in the depths of despair when it all but deflated 45 minutes later. Of course, by that time, the event was all but over. Balloon Lady had called it a day and my husband had begun that little antsy shuffle he does to signify game time is looming and he's nowhere near his man cave. It was time to head home.

I think the true beauty of this event laid in the fact that it had something for all ages and retained an elegance that appealed to an older crowd. That's not easy to manage, but it's so appreciated by those who can remember--from their not-so-distant past--enjoying dining out at fine (well, at least finer than Chuck E. Cheese) restaurants, seeing movies that didn't involve Pixar, or listening to music that didn't include the alphabet or themes like sharing, potty training, or going to bed when mom or dad say so. Sure, we love to see a look of delight on our children's faces when they're approaching a carousel or gearing up to greet an over sized mouse, but isn't it made that much better when you can shed the title of Chauffeur and actually enjoy the event too? I think so.

I'm happy to say that there are many wonderful events like this in and around the MetroWest area, so the next time you're looking for something that both you and your children would enjoy, head over to my friends at Ziptivity.com! There you can search on your children's interests, a particular date range, and cost (among other parameters) to find just what you're looking for!

I'm Not A Perfect Mommy, but I'm Better Than Betty Draper

I've had mommy guilt since the day Matt was born. It started with the fact that he spent his first 10 days of life in the NICU, often without me (doctor's orders), as I recovered from bed rest. How weird is it that total strangers are caring for your little one in some far-off hospital while you're at home, lying down, watching NYPD Blue? Part of me was relieved that I had some sort of grace period--now that my guy was here and healthy--in which to gain back my strength (four months of living horizontally makes a body pretty wobbly) and maybe squirrel away some sleep before I was the main provider of everything this child might need, including midnight feedings.

When he got home, the guilt seemed to weave its way through many areas of my parenting. After much angst, and despite the LaLeche proponents of the world screaming "breast milk is best," I waved the white flag and gave up on breastfeeding three weeks into it. My little preemie just didn't seem to have the hang of it and I was obsessed over how much nourishment he was actually getting. The weight of the world (at least most of it) dropped off my shoulders when the wonderful, straight-to-the-point, no-nonsense Nurse Maureen at Matt's pediatrician's office looked at me during a well-visit and said (in her now-familiar sarcastic tone), "Contrary to popular belief, your child will survive and thrive if you formula-feed him." I so appreciated that candor, and went straight to the store on our way home to pick up some Good Start.

Of course, as soon as I closed the book on that issue, another one surfaced. The next guilt party arose when I met with a new moms group for the first time. Matt was probably about seven months old and was a wonderful baby. He was rarely sick, no colic (no major issues, in fact, beyond spitting up), but boy, the kid just would not sleep through the night. Sadly for him, he was born to a mother who needs about eight hours to feel her Doris Day-best. I was exhausted and a bit cranky. I'll never forget when one of those perky "my-baby-started-sleeping-through-the-night-at-two-months" moms approached me at this meet-and-greet, and put the question before me: "Isn't this just the most fabulous and beautiful thing you've ever done?!" I looked at her like she was from another planet. At that point I thought she was either high on Red Bull or just someone I could never relate to. And it got worse. If she had just once during our conversation said something with a note of the exasperation I was feeling, like "Ugh, my boobs hurt" or "I just need a minute to myself!" or even "I don't know what the hell I'm doing!!!" I would've forgiven her her overwhelming enthusiasm, but as it was, I never returned to that group of Stepford Mommies. And of course, the fact that I wanted to slap her silly made me feel guilty. Why didn't I feel that way?

That was over three years ago, and my miscalculations haven't stopped. I've been fumbling around this thing called motherhood since Day 1 on the job, trying to figure out which philosophies I agree with and which I don't. According to the books, I make plenty of parenting mistakes. Matt goes to bed too late. 8 pm is as early as we can get him there, because dad needs a little father-son time after he gets home. I let him watch too much TV. He makes his pointer-finger-and-thumb into a play gun and I don't freak out. He's heard Lady Gaga, though I have (I think) explained my way out of some questionable lyrics. And I yell. I'm pretty sure I'm the reincarnation of a 1950's mom, whose parenting style is more let-the-kids-play-while-I-cook-and-clean-and-talk-to-my-girlfriends than let's-make-robots-out-of-toilet-paper-rolls-together. If I liked martinis, I just might have one every now and then (as long as I wasn't driving to a play date, of course), and yes, I enjoy wearing kitschy aprons while cooking. If my own mom had written a book on child-rearing, she'd probably say I'm right on target. My mom didn't though, and all the info coming at me from today's parenting magazines and the Mommy Gurus is that all of the above is inappropriate. In the past, that made me feel rather uneasy.

I'm tired of feeling guilty, though, and I'm turning over a new leaf. As someone once told me, guilt is a wasted emotion, so as I embark on my 40th year on the planet, and my fourth year as President and CEO of Matt, Inc., I'm embracing a new philosophy. Whether I sit on the floor and play with him for hours on end, or enjoy a mere 30 minutes of mom-and-Matt time before I delve back into other things--things I perhaps enjoy more than lining up Thomas trains for a journey through Sodor--I will not regret how I raise my son. I will love him with my entire being (easy!), I will continue to smother him in hugs and kisses on a daily basis, I will do his "Frankenstein" dance whenever he asks me too, and I will nurture him in my own way. And I will without a doubt go a little easier on myself and embrace the fact that I am a good mom. After all, I love my son, and at the very least, I'm a heck of a lot better than Betty Draper.

It's Pumpkin Bread Time!

The actual name of this recipe is "Cranberry-Pumpkin Bread with Flaxseed," but I call it Pumpkin-Chocolate Chip Bread because it's the 3/4 cup of chocolate chips I substitute for the cranberries that seems to lure Matthew in. It's absolutely delicious and so moist; the only real problem with this bread is the fact that I seem to eat just a little more of it than the boy does. Not because he loves it any less than I do, but because I seem to "forget" to offer it. (Is that wrong?) It's perfectly yummy for an after-lunch snack, and it's packed with healthy stuff, so there's no guilt involved. From The New American Plate Cookbook.

Canola oil spray
1/2 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1/2 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 cup ground flaxseed
2/3 cup packed light brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1 cup canned pumpkin
1/4 cup canola oil
1/2 cup unsweetened applesauce
1/4 cup apple juice
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1 cup dried cranberries (you could also use 3/4 cup chocolate chips)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Lightly coat an 8x4-inch loaf pan with canola oil spray and set it aside. In a large bowl, combine the whole wheat pastry flour, all-purpose flour, flaxseed, sugar, baking soda, and salt, and set aside. In a medium bowl, lightly beat the eggs. Whisk in the pumpkin, canola oil, applesauce, apple juice, cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg. Stir in the dried cranberries. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients, mixing until all the dry ingredients are fully incorporated into the batter. Do not beat or overmix. Pour the batter into the prepared pan. Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, until a wooden toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Cool in the pan on a wire rack for 10 minutes. Remove the bread from the pan and continue cooling on the rack.

What to Do, What to Do...

It's 6:47 in the morning, and I'm actually giddy. Woke up 45 minutes ago with the excitement of a 4-year-old on Christmas Day. The air outside is crisp, and a wee bit of sun is just about to peak over my neighbor's stone wall with the promise of something truly special happening within the next few hours. I have been waiting for this day since oh, just about the end of May. Uh-huh: you guessed it. It's Matt's first day back at school!

Know what this means?! Loosely translated, it means that starting today, I will have three straight hours to myself every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Three hours during which Miss Michelle and Miss Caren, Matt's preschool teachers, will work their magic on my child, saying cute things like "1-2-3, Eyes on Me" and "indoor voice." And unlike when I try my hand at this at home, Matt will turn to them with doe eyes and an ever-so-slight angelic smile and obey. Without complaint. Or whining. Those are powerful women.

Of course, this also means that I'll be at home, and I'll be wondering what the heck I'm to do with myself. For someone who CONSTANTLY has a running list in her head of tasks that must be completed, you'd think I'd have no problem strategizing and making some serious, productive use of my time. For Pete's sake, when Matt's in my care I develop a nervous eye-twitch thinking of all the things I should be doing when we're making chalk portraits on the patio, but somehow, that long, long list disappears when I return home after drop off, open the door, and put the keys on the table. The possibilities become endless. I could run through three loads of laundry (well, maybe two) from wash and dry to fold. I could dust every corner of this house so my husband will stop writing his name in the film on the TV. I could pre-order my Christmas cards. Yes, I could, but I do not.

What I do do is sit with coffee in hand and contemplate the universe, or at least my little portion of it. I dream of tearing through Matt's bedroom and his playroom, weeding out all those little nothing toys that seem to pop out of nowhere and multiply (yes, I take full responsibility for the McDonald's ones). I fantasize about emptying closets that have become the resting places for all the dearly departed junk we've collected over the past few seasons. I envision myself picking out the perfect wall color and possibly painting the kitchen and maybe even the family room, or at the very least taking a Magic Eraser to the walls and ridding myself of some scuff marks. And I delude myself into thinking that this is the year I'll turn my home into an age-appropriate, Martha Stewart-like haunted house (Matt would love that) in preparation for a spooktacular October, complete with cling-on window showcases of bats, leafless trees, and crows (that's my plan every fall...it never happens).

My daydreaming takes me from one thought to another and back again. I punctuate it here and there with making a bed, or folding a few little pairs of pants from the one load I did throw in, and checking the pantry for what I might need for dinner. Before I know it, a few hours have passed. I've now reached the bottom of my cup of joe, and while taking that last sip of a drink that's now cold, I wonder how my little guy's doing. I picture seeing that cute face as I round the corner to his classroom in just an hour or so, and the countdown to his return begins. I'm saving productivity for another morning. This one was just about dreaming.

Having a Moment, or Not

One random day earlier this month, after a very long and trying afternoon, Matthew and I were finally getting into a solid groove by the time the just-before-bed routine rolled around. I finished up dinner, got the little man into the shower off the kitchen (I don't need to watch his every move, but I like to hear what he's up to), and straightened up the war zone that had become my house just a few hours earlier, throwing every kind of toy and book into the nearest appropriate basket, bin or box. I let him play his customary write-a-story-on-the-shower-door-with-a-squirt-gun game for a few minutes before I ventured in to shampoo, soap, and rinse.

Water off. I wrapped the boy in a towel, and while I carried him upstairs to his room, Matt requested that for the remainder of the evening, I refer to him as a troll. Ah, okay. So I powdered the troll (I have a thing for the smell of Johnson's baby powder at bedtime; I'm sure he'll be dodging talcum squirts from his Mom well into his teen years), put on his jammies, and let him watch a show, then brought him back into his room for some quiet time.

We most likely read some sort of brainwashing material about staying in his own bed all night ("Back to Bed, Ed" by Sebastien Braun is my new favorite) or sharing, played a little bit, got him his requisite seltzer-and-a-snack, brushed his teeth, and then I tucked him in. He smelled so sweet, and his face was cuter-than-cute that night: eyes a soft green and his little brown hair all fluffy from the shower. He looked up at me and said "Mom, sing me a lullaby." Seriously, could it get any more "Little House"?

So I sang him "You Are My Sunshine," and as he usually does, he sang along softly with me. After such a crazy day, it was a moment that was so welcome. I was trying not to get all weepy while looking at this beautiful little boy who was singing these sweet words back to me. I was so in love. And then it happened. We finished our duet, and he paused for a moment. I could have sworn that a Disney-like twinkle reflected off his eye. He looked up at me with a smile, touched my cheek with his palm, and said, "Mom, I wish I had Leo's mother." Yup. That's right. With that, it was lights out.

And it just makes me think: this is what motherhood is all about. Looking into your child's eyes and connecting in a way only you and he or she can, thinking this is my life's purpose, this child right here. Then being knocked on your arse the next minute, and having to laugh through it all. Because if you didn't have a sense of humor before becoming a mommy, you darn well better find one now.

Word on the Street

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May I Have Your Attention!

This past weekend, we celebrated the end of summer with two major events: the marriage of our close friends (and possibly the coolest party ever!) and Matt's very first sleepover at his aunt and uncle's house. It was a highly anticipated affair for both he and his cousin, and we were pretty sure it would go well, considering Matt came out of the womb with the spirit of a fully-functional, highly independent, 80-year-old man (except when it comes to putting his shoes on, of course). When I dropped him off, I will admit: I got a little choked up. I was leaving my baby for the first time to sleep under someone else's roof, after all. Matt coped by issuing me an obligatory "Bye, mom!" over his left shoulder while heading off to play with his cousin's trucks, dinosaurs, and superhero paraphernalia. It was touching.

Beyond enjoying the company of friends at an adults-only evening reception and getting a "first" checked off Matt's list of life's stepping stones, I really didn't expect anything unbelievable happening over the weekend, but it did. During one of a few check-in phone calls to auntie's house, my sister-in-law uttered a truly profound statement, something so mind-blowing and life-affirming that it gives me chills days later just thinking about it. She said, "NOW, I get why Michelle is exhausted at the end of a day. This kid has not....stopped....talking!"

Well, alleluia and amen, sister! Thank you. Nothing like a little validation to send the spirit soaring! I remember back in the day when Matt was teeny-tiny and I wondered, "Hmmm...doesn't seem to make much noise; when will he come out with something?" Ha! At just about one year, while walking with his Papa, he took one look at his aunt's English bulldog and uttered, "Henry." From then on, he's been speeding down the highway of conversation at about a buck-ten with no rest stops.

Matt loves to role play. He is entirely devoted to his craft, and spends a good part of his day performing various scenes from some superhero variety show in his head, which, because he's an only child, always involves me. Anywhere we go now, I'm directed to play the "roving reporter," meaning I'm to report on the scene before me and he's to be caught on film (I'm also the camera guy) saving the world. Frankly, I'm just not that smart or creative, and I find it kind of hard to keep up with him. The good ol' tricks my mother used, like "Honey, go play!" just don't work on Matt. He wants nothing less than my absolute full attention.

Enter my saving grace, his buddy, who moved in across the street from us a few years back (God definitely threw me a bone on that one). He's quite a strong little personality wrapped up in a 3.5-foot frame himself, and he's usually the one reason I'm able to get anything done around here. I "borrow" that poor child on a semi-regular basis. His mom is one heck of a gal. Lord knows, there have probably been times when she just wanted her son to hang around and do his thing within her own range of vision, but she most likely saw the look of desperation on my face and relented. Recently, upon my discovery that she was using her mother (gasp!) as a sitter for an afternoon outing, I chastised her. She's got one crazy, busy schedule tending to three children, and I think she forgets what it's like to be the sole entertainment for one young lad. Here's the description I laid before her of two possible ways my afternoon could go:

Afternoon A: Matt and Michelle, having exhausted all ideas of fun, are inside their home, where Michelle almost in vain tries to accomplish a few productive things around the house while her beloved son chirps incessantly from somewhere around her heels: "Mom, what's a rebate?", "Mom, look at this," "Mom, come play with me," "Mom, how do they make Cheez-Its?" or...

Afternoon B: Matt and Buddy do their thing and Michelle does hers...and every once in a while she checks them out to make sure they're not burning anything.

I love my non-stop-talker, my superhero, my interrogation specialist, but boy, of the above two options, some days I just have to--for the sake of my own sanity--go with Afternoon B. Not every day can be filled with exciting outings or fun play dates. Some days, mom has to do the laundry or dust the pollen off the sills or try her hand at a chocolate ganache (yes, kid, things could be worse!), or heck, just steal a few moments to glance at a magazine. Some days, the mom of "just one" has to choose a little peace and quiet and a sweet young boy simply has to settle for her partial attention.

Please and Thank You

Good manners is something that I, like so many moms, am a real stickler about. Nothing irks me more than when a pint-size dictator issues an order to the very person who brought them into the world (or one of her peers). So I was very happy when I found Carrie Finn's "Way to Be!" Good Manners series. The books are fun to read together and the illustrations by Chris Lensch are colorful and eye-catching...they've served to keep Matthew glued to each scenario anyhow. Here's one that's perfect now that September is here!



"Manners at School" (Way to Be!) by Carrie Finn



"Guys, I'm Here!"

Every mom has a dream for how she'd like her child's life to unfold. I certainly do with Matthew. From the moment he entered the world--all 4 lbs. 10 oz. of baby--I imagined who he'd be and what he'd accomplish. He'd already met his first challenge: he remained in the womb for an entire 32 weeks. In our book, that was full-term, though technically he came on the scene two months early. He was a toughie. Needed only one night on oxygen and (thankfully) spent a mere 10 days in the NICU. This time, we were blessed.

From the day we brought him home, he's had us at full attention. As paranoid new parents of a preemie, we made sure that we rigged the nursery with one of those monitors that not only allows you to hear baby's sweet murmurings, but also sends off a warning signal if it doesn't feel movement for 30 straight seconds. We figured if he had any bouts of sleep apnea (preemies often do), we'd be alerted and would have time to go over and poke him. Well, he never did have any breathing issues, though he set off that alarm on a regular basis. Seemed to think it was a real kick to shimmy to the nether-regions of the crib--beyond where the monitor was placed--to see just how fast mom and dad could run.

Yes, Matt's quite the character. Not afraid to make himself known. Kind of thinks the whole world is his bud, and he likes to greet everyone he meets during the day with a big "Hi!," "Hello!," or "My name's Matt, and this is my mom!" He's perplexed when someone doesn't acknowledge him, and throws me a look as if to say "What'd I ever do to that guy?" One day at the park, when Matt was closing in on his third birthday, he busted through the gates to the playground and announced to all those present (none of whom he'd ever met), "Hi guys, I'm here!" I fell in love with him all over again for that generosity of spirit.

I was never one to worry about what percentile he was in. I found plenty to obsess over, make no mistake, but when another mom would ask me about those stats, I could never seem to remember what had been reported at his last well-visit. I simply didn't care. He was here. He was alive. He was healthy and thriving, and that's all I needed to know. So for Matt, my dream isn't necessarily that he rise to the corner office of some Fortune 500 (though that might be nice) or that he head off to distant shores to save a rainforest. For him, I only ask that he hold on to that warm and loving spirit, the one that allows him to think that everyone-knows-his-name and that the world is essentially a wonderful and joyous place (because it is). I hope he always walks into a room with a smile on his face, confidence in his character, and a true love for people, bellowing "Guys, I'm here!"

The Start of A Good Thing

Here it is. My first post. I’ve been thinking about this for quite a while now, partially because my son, Matthew, comes up with such good material (which I always seem to share anyway), and partly because I thought it might serve as great therapy for me, a mom who has all her eggs—literally—in one sweet, big-green-eyed, cooky, blessed little basket.

One and done. I never thought that would be me. When I was younger, I pictured myself with at least three little nuggets running around my feet. Happily, of course. They were well-behaved, developmentally right-on-target, spick-and-span clean, and ate every healthy thing I put before them. Life, however, had another storyline in place. Pregnancy didn’t come easy. When my husband and I found out after six years of trying that “the test” was positive, we were thrilled. Over-the-moon, really. When we discovered that it was with twins, life took on a whole new dimension. We named the girls as soon as we felt them kick—Madelaine Rose and Charlotte Evelyn—and we fell in love. Sadly, Maddie and Charlie couldn’t hold out for an entire nine months, and were born on March 23, 2004—four months too soon. They did not survive. I won’t go into how devastating a blow that was on so many levels.

Matthew came into my life a little more than two years later, and is both my joy and the cause of every grey hair making its way toward the surface. He is the answer to a prayer. He is a funny, smart, crazy handful, and I adore him. In my heart, he’s one of three, but to the world, he’s my one and only. Whether I’m at the playground, the library, the supermarket (it doesn’t matter), if someone catches wind of a Matt comment, if they’re privy to one of his long-winded-yet-charming anecdotes, or they’re just making conversation, the question always comes up: “Any other children?” I’m starting this blog because of the conflicted feeling that arises every time I’m forced to answer that question. It’s not all I’m going to talk about, of course. Motherhood is so multi-faceted, it can't be reduced to the ONE core thing that drives you mad. But I thought, “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a place to air all this out without the cost of psychotherapy?” Wouldn't it be nice for all moms to have "that place"?

So now you know how it all begins. I’m hoping “That’s My Boy” will grow into a community of moms who are sometimes starry-eyed over their offspring and sometimes want to pull their hair out at the end of a trying day, or gals who like funny kid stories, or women who have—whether by choice or by fate—come to realize that the little tyke now in their midst IS their one-and-only, and not feel like they have to apologize for that. Basically I want you all to join me on this crazy, heart-wrenching, wonderful ride called mommy-hood through my stories, my thoughts, and my musings on Matt. Yup. That’s my boy.