tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60749043565052152162023-07-15T04:12:43.618-05:00We Band of MothersOne Chicago mom's attempt to keep an accurate log so her kids will have something helpful to show the therapists.Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.comBlogger729125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-70078941794365882232020-06-10T17:59:00.000-05:002020-06-10T19:40:10.194-05:00The Ugly Hat<i>The following appeared in the January edition of Chicago Parent. Yes. I'm a bit behind.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BnoWq2cMtxo/XuFmJKH4VzI/AAAAAAAAFP8/zcKBFdpVCgcI0KukaHCezmbsRwp-8uTpACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/ugly%2Bhat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="643" data-original-width="263" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BnoWq2cMtxo/XuFmJKH4VzI/AAAAAAAAFP8/zcKBFdpVCgcI0KukaHCezmbsRwp-8uTpACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/ugly%2Bhat.jpg" width="130" /></a>My oldest son, Danny, was 3 years old when he announced he would not be participating in Pajama Day at his preschool.<br />
<br />
“I don’t want everyone to laugh at me.”<br />
<br />
I tried explaining that all the kids and teachers would be in their jammies. Hell, I dropped him off every day in my Tweety Bird flannels. What was the big deal?<br />
<br />
He was having none of it.<br />
<br />
A few years later, it was Super Hero day in kindergarten. Once again, Danny balked. He was convinced he would be the laughingstock of the school. Nothing I said convinced him otherwise.
I began to worry.<br />
<br />
Because that’s what I do best.<br />
<br />
I had failed at instilling a sense of confidence and devil-may-care attitude. Danny was always twice as big as his classmates, so where was his swagger, his sense of fun? Why did he care so much what people thought?<br />
<br />
Throughout middle school, things got worse. He began to shut down and refused to participate in school events and outings. Part of me understood. Kids can be rotten in middle school. Yet I still didn’t want him living his life in fear of being different, of standing out.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, high school brought some positive changes. He found his people. Being smart was celebrated. His hockey coach nicknamed him “Goliath.”<br />
<br />
One afternoon, Danny was getting ready to attend a Mount Carmel football game. The student section was advised to dress in their Sunday mass clothes (jacket, tie, khakis). It was a cold day, and I told Danny to wear a hat.
He appeared from his room not wearing his typical high school beanie, but instead the ugliest orange and blue plaid hunting cap that was a give-away at a Detroit baseball game this past summer. The thing had ear flaps.<br />
<br />
And he was wearing a suit.<br />
<br />
He looked like a 6’3” Elmer Fudd heading to a formal.<br />
<br />
And he was grinning ear to ear.<br />
<br />
He got the joke. He was okay with the hilarity of how he looked. When his classmates laughed at him, he knew it was his gag to own.
For so many years, I worried that he would never get to this point.
Dan had finally arrived in all his Goliath glory, wearing the ugliest hat ever produced.<br />
<br />
And for a moment, I thought perhaps I didn’t screw it up after all.
Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-6499136863600939942019-12-11T11:40:00.002-06:002019-12-11T11:40:48.777-06:00A Knock at the Door<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t_7YiKr440Q/XfEpSgaKaOI/AAAAAAAAFMI/4aYA5bCMxGgYzEMYYWumFXMIQCBaO0hGACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/CP%2BA%2BKnock%2Bat%2Bthe%2Bdoor.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="291" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t_7YiKr440Q/XfEpSgaKaOI/AAAAAAAAFMI/4aYA5bCMxGgYzEMYYWumFXMIQCBaO0hGACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/CP%2BA%2BKnock%2Bat%2Bthe%2Bdoor.png" width="147" /></a><br />
<i>The following appeared in the April edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
In surviving motherhood, I need to believe I’m right about most things. Getting bogged down with self-doubt is far too time-consuming. Over the years, I have felt somewhat confident in my methodology. My kids are pretty good (so far). They are decent students (so far). They haven’t committed any felonies (yet).<br />
<br />
My mission statement has always included steering my kids away from “the bad kid.”
Yes, I can be a haughty wench sometimes.<br />
<br />
“Bad kids” are the ones who swear in kindergarten.<br />
<br />
The ones who push.<br />
<br />
The ones who can’t control themselves.<br />
<br />
A while back, my oldest son, Dan, had an out-of-state hockey tournament. From the beginning of the season, one particular boy made it his life’s purpose to antagonize Dan. There was pushing. There was swearing. There was lack of control. For the most part, Dan kept his cool.<br />
<br />
I quickly assigned “bad kid” status to the boy.<br />
<br />
As is true in all tournament weekends, the boys spent a lot of time gathering up teammates and congregating in different rooms. Dan assembled such a group and knocked on the door of “the bad kid.”<br />
<br />
They all hung out together until the wee hours of the morning, eating, joking and re-living hockey highlights and lowlights.<br />
<br />
I didn’t give the evening another thought until I ran into “the bad kid’s” mom.<br />
<br />
She thanked me. She was so grateful for this team. Her son had certain issues that inhibited his making friends and feeling part of something. He acted out sometimes as a defense mechanism.<br />
<br />
“You don’t understand, Marianne. NOBODY has ever knocked on our door until last night.”<br />
<br />
I chocked back a sob. This young man was not a bad kid, but I had certainly been a bad mom in trying to assign standards to him that were medically and physically beyond his control.<br />
<br />
While it is important to my sanity to feel like I’m not messing up mothering, I appreciated this clear knock on my own door. As I move ahead, I know I have to work harder on not labeling. I need to embrace the unique qualities of all children who cross my path. I need to be less judgey.<br />
<br />
It won’t always be easy, but I want my family to be the type of people who will knock on someone’s door.<br />
<br />
It can truly mean the world to the person waiting inside.
<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-5207399951576699972019-10-23T11:20:00.002-05:002019-10-23T11:20:22.891-05:00The Eighties. WTF.<i>The following appeared in the February edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
The year was 1984.<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0GH5RtGVnA4/XbB81JsHoTI/AAAAAAAAFLk/cv_McawjNYcHUeLVFFstL2CqG8GO9VZ6wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/CP%2B80s%2Bmovies.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="911" data-original-width="365" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0GH5RtGVnA4/XbB81JsHoTI/AAAAAAAAFLk/cv_McawjNYcHUeLVFFstL2CqG8GO9VZ6wCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/CP%2B80s%2Bmovies.png" width="160" /></a><br />
I went over to my friend’s house to check out the hot, new thing: cable television.<br />
<br />
For the very low cost of $30 per month, people could watch TV with NO COMMERCIALS.<br />
<br />
The audacity. The bravery. The brilliance. Sign me up!<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, I was only making $1.50 an hour babysitting, and there was no chance my parents would ever pay for such a luxury. So I kept going over to my friend’s basement. At first, we were all about the videos.<br />
<br />
Van Halen. Cyndi Lauper. Michael Jackson.<br />
<br />
I was definitely going to marry Eddie Van Halen.<br />
<br />
Then we discovered the MOVIES.<br />
<br />
Porky’s. Animal House. Revenge of the Nerds.<br />
<br />
In hindsight, our selections were far from appropriate for a pair of 11 year-old girls. But few parents back then were paying attention because of a historic reliance on network television to filter out such smut.<br />
<br />
Today’s world would suggest that such exposure would damage us for life. We’d marry misogynists. We’d probably do drugs. Arrest records were inevitable.<br />
<br />
Instead, I would argue these experiences are responsible for a certain appreciation of the absurd.<br />
<br />
It’s why I love Seinfeld.<br />
<br />
Recently, I spotted one of these films (edited) on television. My high school son wandered into the room and watched <i>Revenge of the Nerds</i> with me. He could not stop laughing at how completely non-PC the movie was.<br />
<br />
“Oh my God, it was anything goes in the ‘80s, wasn’t it?”<br />
<br />
I started getting flustered, even the edited version was raunchier than I remembered.<br />
<br />
“Uh…this stuff was wrong then…uh…drugs are bad….uh don’t film people naked….”<br />
<br />
“Relax, mom. It’s a movie, not a morality lesson.”<br />
<br />
And there it was.
As I kid, I understood the characters in these films were ridiculous and laughable.<br />
<br />
I knew what they did was wrong.<br />
<br />
While I don’t condone most 11 year-olds watching these flicks, I did realize something important:
<br />
<br />
Parenting dictates how a lot of movies are received.<br />
<br />
But we’ll all be watching <i>The Sound of the Music</i> next week.<br />
<br />
Just in case.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-61538643396977385852019-06-25T18:00:00.003-05:002019-06-25T18:05:59.648-05:00Eye Rolls & Relevancy<i>The following appeared in the January edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r-qFZDal_mk/XRKoY1MdWWI/AAAAAAAAFKY/FNPzOVd3Rkco40eXvd1upkpNtBzwE795ACLcBGAs/s1600/mom%2Bjersey.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="873" data-original-width="1600" height="174" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r-qFZDal_mk/XRKoY1MdWWI/AAAAAAAAFKY/FNPzOVd3Rkco40eXvd1upkpNtBzwE795ACLcBGAs/s320/mom%2Bjersey.jpeg" width="320" /></a>When picking up the kids from their various activities, I usually encourage them to walk outside and look for me in the parking lot. It just makes all my after-school shuttling easier.<br />
<br />
Yet the other day, I decided to park the car and walk into Dan’s hockey work-out facility for a peek. Behind the glass, my giant 14 year-old stopped, smiled, and delivered a spot-on Forrest Gump wave. <br />
The other parents marveled. They shared how their stereotypical teenagers refused to acknowledge their very existence, and their kids’ only reaction to having parents was unadulterated embarrassment.<br />
<br />
I had to tell them.<br />
<br />
Yeah. I got one of those, too.<br />
<br />
My middle son, Jack, has recently regressed to verbal infancy and only uses monosyllabic words to answer questions. His poker-faced history of being difficult to read has only gotten worse with age. It’s been worrying me a lot lately.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_6bkknaKb5A/XRKmzwqH4NI/AAAAAAAAFKM/xweJEw7eJP0z-qeYbqOVpnhiy4ik_uTTwCLcBGAs/s1600/CP%2BJan%2B2019.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="802" data-original-width="376" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_6bkknaKb5A/XRKmzwqH4NI/AAAAAAAAFKM/xweJEw7eJP0z-qeYbqOVpnhiy4ik_uTTwCLcBGAs/s400/CP%2BJan%2B2019.png" width="187" /></a>In response, I started peppering him with more questions than usual about his daily life, incorporating inquiries like:<br />
<br />
How did you FEEL when your friend threw up in gym glass?<br />
<br />
Did it BOTHER you when you lost that hockey game?<br />
<br />
What made you laugh the HARDEST today?<br />
<br />
Yeah. Jack grunts and I still get nothing.<br />
<br />
I was forced to incorporate a time-honored tactic of parental espionage:<br />
<br />
“I’ll let you stay up a little longer if you sit next to me and talk.”<br />
<br />
This last time, I had to know. Was Jack happy? Was he enjoying his childhood? Was he ready to move out and pretend he didn’t have a mother anymore?<br />
<br />
So I asked:<br />
<br />
“What is the BEST thing that’s happened to you during your childhood?”<br />
<br />
I was expecting Jack to go on about a tournament win or one of our many family vacations. Instead, he responded:<br />
<br />
“Remember that one play-off game where you wore my hockey jersey?”<br />
<br />
I did. All the other hockey moms had big kids, but I had to squeeze my chubby self into my smallest child’s jersey. Breathing was restricted. I felt like I was wearing a half-shirt. But I did it anyway.<br />
<br />
“Yeah. That was the best.”<br />
<br />
Suddenly, despite the grunts and eye rolls, I realized I was still the center of my child’s universe.<br />
<br />
And it made having to walk 50 yards behind him at all times just that much easier.
Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-63399831304795539412019-05-03T10:46:00.002-05:002019-05-03T10:46:25.039-05:00School Spent<i>The following appeared in the December edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
As we get deeper into another school year, there are several recurring themes in my life.<br />
<br />
First up: I suck at homework.
Remember when we were kids and couldn’t conceive of a more heinous punishment than diagramming sentences?<br />
<br />
Hold my beer, Punky Brewster.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OAtCN8qjp2Q/XMxhZpZ9v5I/AAAAAAAAFJo/DUQ89hwSVCw9wrgX85AP3eSHur99D-atQCLcBGAs/s1600/CP%2BDEC%2B2018.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="329" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OAtCN8qjp2Q/XMxhZpZ9v5I/AAAAAAAAFJo/DUQ89hwSVCw9wrgX85AP3eSHur99D-atQCLcBGAs/s400/CP%2BDEC%2B2018.png" width="153" /></a>In teaching my boys this new form of math steeped in the absurd, I have officially become the ferryman of Hades. Every basic rule has been tossed. I feel deceived! Misled! Don’t even get me started on the great Metric System Lie.<br />
<br />
I AM STILL WAITING, MISS FLOWERS.*<br />
<br />
Last month, my youngest son delivered a list of after-school activities. I immediately honed in on “Homework Club.” Sweet Jesus, there was outsourcing for this! Salvation would be mine. I picked three slots a week.<br />
<br />
Then I received a nice little note from the assistant principal gently pointing out that I was to select ONE post-school activity, not three.<br />
<br />
I returned to my weekly spot in the kayak to hell trying to understand Common Core math.<br />
<br />
The only thing contributing more to my premature death than homework?<br />
<br />
School attendance offices.<br />
<br />
For 10 years, I have followed the rules. I have submitted the doctor notes. I have made the phone calls.
And my kids have approximately 150 unexcused absences.<br />
<br />
These so-called “attendance offices” clearly exist only in the realm of unicorns and the Loch Ness Monster.<br />
<br />
The educational system underestimated people like me when they started putting this all online. In the 1980s, if an absent was marked “unexcused,” our overwrought mothers wracked their brains but typically forfeited the fight.<br />
<br />
Now?<br />
<br />
I can obsess DAILY. I stalk the attendance offices harder than I stalk Kohls for 30% off coupons.<br />
<br />
School is stressful for parents, and previous generations got off easy. Report cards were dropped on our parents without warning. Dad would lose his mind over a bad grade or two, but everybody moved on to watch The Love Boat by 7 pm. All was forgiven and quickly forgotten.<br />
<br />
Nowadays, we suffer from information overload with the expectation of doing something with it.
There is no winning. There is no safe spot between being disengaged and being fanatical. It makes me wish I could have parented in a completely different era.<br />
<br />
I bet the property taxes on Little House on the Prairie were awesome.<br />
<br />
<i>*Miss Flowers really was my 3rd grade teacher. Despite the big metric system lie, she was quite lovely.
</i><br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-90623700774435597372019-03-14T19:55:00.000-05:002019-03-14T19:55:24.435-05:00In Defense of Fortnite<i>The following appeared in the November edition of Chicago Parent. </i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p42XRsiPmfI/XIr2uSYeUCI/AAAAAAAAFI4/wgIHIdEPqhIxVty_DzyLr9ijqu0DCnAQQCLcBGAs/s1600/Fortnite%2Bpic.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="833" data-original-width="376" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p42XRsiPmfI/XIr2uSYeUCI/AAAAAAAAFI4/wgIHIdEPqhIxVty_DzyLr9ijqu0DCnAQQCLcBGAs/s400/Fortnite%2Bpic.png" width="180" /></a>A letter came home from my sons’ school last year suggesting that the devil himself was behind the video game phenomenon Fortnite. It was described as a dangerous epidemic. Crack cocaine for the middle school set!<br />
<br />
My kids have engaged in many fads over the years: Angry Birds, Pokemon, Bakugan, Fidget Spinners, Bottle Flipping, and Dabbing to name a few. Some of these were all-consuming obsessions. They typically resulted in the standard school abolitionist letter warning that continued engagement could only result in a life of poverty and petty crime.<br />
<br />
Whatever.<br />
<br />
Not that I am a fan of video games. My boys were very late entrants into the whole video game arena, and even then, choices were carefully monitored. No blood. No prostitutes. No brain matter.<br />
<br />
I initially put the kibosh on Fortnite because guns were involved. But after a while, I realized there was also communication! The boys implemented teamwork and strategy to win.<br />
<br />
For the last several years, I’ve noticed a depressing shift in behavior. Once rambunctious boys whom I had to shush in the car were now zombie-like pre-teens staring blankly at their phones.<br />
<br />
I rejoiced at the return of banter. Of joking. Of kids being kids.<br />
<br />
Then there was the dancing. Never before in recorded history have so many boys suddenly mastered an arsenal of choregraphed and somewhat ridiculous dance steps. There was The Floss, The Shoot, Best Mates, and The Default Dance. Sure, I might have preferred an injection of the occasional Tango or Waltz, but beggars can’t be choosers.<br />
<br />
People criticized the atmosphere and implied violence.<br />
<br />
I then reminded them that Pac-Man was a cannibal. And the ghosts were clearly members of the occult.<br />
<br />
As is true with most red hot fads, Fortnite interest is waning, another casualty of fickle kids. But unlike the whole bottle-flipping craze which left me twitchy, I am a little sad to see this one go.<br />
<br />
For once, my boys actually danced like nobody was watching.<br />
<br />
You know.<br />
<br />
In between building panic walls.
<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-44152735948086669182018-11-07T20:36:00.002-06:002018-11-07T20:37:39.454-06:00The Road Less Traveled<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rmQ9lpqOgTQ/W-OgUY8z40I/AAAAAAAAFHs/K_ewCi5KfkwGb3QYOb8KvpAtz6G9zCySwCLcBGAs/s1600/CP%2BRoad%2BImage.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="802" data-original-width="376" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rmQ9lpqOgTQ/W-OgUY8z40I/AAAAAAAAFHs/K_ewCi5KfkwGb3QYOb8KvpAtz6G9zCySwCLcBGAs/s400/CP%2BRoad%2BImage.png" width="187" /></i></a><br />
<i>The following appears in the October edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
I live in an amazing neighborhood of Chicago filled with cops, firemen, and public school teachers. Everyone knows everyone. There are constant food trains for the sick and fundraisers for those suffering hard times. When a local kid does good, you read about it in <i>The Beverly Review</i>. A trip for milk can take two hours as you will invariably encounter your Catholic School principal, your cousin, and the kid who pummeled you in fifth grade.<br />
<br />
As a closet introvert, I fought with Joe 12 years ago to remain living downtown. Neighborhood life wasn’t for me. I am terrible with names, and I accidentally refer to everyone as Bob or Mary. Living in a neighborhood with limited anonymity? Pass. Not everyone needs to know how often I trip and swear.<br />
<br />
I ultimately caved when I envisioned my sons learning to ride their bikes outside the Rain Forest Café.<br />
<br />
Our neighborhood experience has been overwhelmingly positive. My kids feel safe. There is freedom to roam. Sure, our 7-Eleven occasionally gets robbed and the soundtrack of my kids’ youth is police sirens, but that’s the price of urban life.<br />
<br />
When it came time for my oldest son to choose a high school, I was curious:<br />
<br />
Would he select one of the nearest choices absorbing most neighborhood kids?<br />
<br />
Would he test for selective enrollment along with some of his old gifted buddies?<br />
<br />
Would he gamble on his dad’s school, Mount Carmel, where he knew absolutely nobody?<br />
<br />
In a neighborhood with an established social hierarchy and a reputation for being unable to reinvent yourself after the 3rd grade, I was pulling for Carmel. I wanted my son to understand the greater world. I wanted him to eschew the safe and known and seek out those who inspired, challenged and supported him - regardless of background or status.<br />
<br />
I held my breath.
As much as my husband and I love our neighborhood, we didn’t want our choices to limit the choices for our kids.<br />
<br />
Dan chose Mount Carmel.<br />
<br />
Only time will reveal how this will shape him, and whether reaching for the great unknown is a worthy endeavor.<br />
<br />
But I plan to one day tell him how his mother, too, once chose the road less traveled. And it has definitely made all the difference.<br />
<br />
Ultimately, it led me to three young men I am so very proud to call my sons.
<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-63820587194979929452018-09-28T16:50:00.002-05:002018-09-28T17:31:58.653-05:00The Last Time<i>The following appeared in the August edition of Chicago Parent. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BHbMOV0tVPM/W66rqTZDTOI/AAAAAAAAFHA/dDd-c0yA1XILN9PhJGk6dVV9AGlSgr1-QCLcBGAs/s1600/Scan_20180928.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1514" data-original-width="1066" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BHbMOV0tVPM/W66rqTZDTOI/AAAAAAAAFHA/dDd-c0yA1XILN9PhJGk6dVV9AGlSgr1-QCLcBGAs/s320/Scan_20180928.png" width="225" /></a>It is hard to forget your baby’s first smile. Or first steps. Or first day of school. Those moments are cherished and filmed. Every new milestone rightfully claims its spot in your heart and in your memory.<br />
<br />
Yet what they never warn you about?<br />
<br />
There is no notice given for the LAST time your child does something.<br />
<br />
The last time they say “dwoo” instead of “drew.”<br />
<br />
The last time they hold your hand in public.<br />
<br />
The last time they call you “mommy.”<br />
<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SE8W0g2n-R0/W66j5JW8nUI/AAAAAAAAFGk/d2eg3peNECkvDLA9CWc01G4KcAu-RRHzACLcBGAs/s1600/jack%2Bthrowing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SE8W0g2n-R0/W66j5JW8nUI/AAAAAAAAFGk/d2eg3peNECkvDLA9CWc01G4KcAu-RRHzACLcBGAs/s320/jack%2Bthrowing.jpg" width="240" /></a>For ten years, I have had children in Little League. Dan and Joey eventually walked away from the sport. Dan got tired of having to hit triples in order to make it to first base (Willie Mays Hayes he is not). Joey proved too gangly and impatient to get past coach pitch. He also liked chatting up whoever was on first base and often lost track of plays.<br />
<br />
Jack stuck it out. After all, 12U was Cooperstown year! For many teams, it is the pinnacle of a kid’s Little League experience. After months of fundraising and planning, the year culminates in a week-long tournament at the birthplace of baseball. The players get treated like MLB stars. The boys sleep in the barracks and meet kids from across the U.S. and Canada. They trade pins, are allowed unlimited quantities of chocolate milk, and feel as though they’ve landed in a real-life Field of Dreams.<br />
<br />
As we packed our minivan and programmed the GPS, I didn’t know what to expect.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3uU9GFgrm6U/W66k3bj7XsI/AAAAAAAAFGs/613ufM3YqKIIs1pBB8DcyD1X3uBpRZt7wCLcBGAs/s1600/cooperstown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3uU9GFgrm6U/W66k3bj7XsI/AAAAAAAAFGs/613ufM3YqKIIs1pBB8DcyD1X3uBpRZt7wCLcBGAs/s320/cooperstown.jpg" width="240" /></a>But for once, I recognized a possible “last.”<br />
<br />
Upon arriving, we deposited our child in his bunk room and kissed him goodbye. He was too excited to swat us away or act annoyed. I was told we could “check out” Jack throughout the week, much like a library book.<br />
<br />
“I’ll call you if I need something, mom.”<br />
<br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yGRMV6qhgIw/W66haaCgJwI/AAAAAAAAFGQ/Av3Fzro4kEgD8SaKBVbWV_wLuY4eEtsBACLcBGAs/s1600/CPSept2018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="302" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yGRMV6qhgIw/W66haaCgJwI/AAAAAAAAFGQ/Av3Fzro4kEgD8SaKBVbWV_wLuY4eEtsBACLcBGAs/s400/CPSept2018.jpg" width="156" /></a>The week went by in a blink. Memories of my little 3-year old tentatively taking the field conflicted strongly with the 12-year-old now sauntering to the mound with legitimate baseball swagger. He threw strikes. He got hits. He never doubted himself for a moment.<br />
<br />
I got a little emotional during the closing ceremonies. The beautiful hills and sunsets of Oneanta, New York became etched into my psyche.
I cannot thank baseball enough for what it has given to my family – the friends made, the lessons learned, and the times had.<br />
<br />
And for once, I rejoiced that one of the most important “lasts” finally got the send-off it deserved.<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-86712346548484851722018-08-23T10:59:00.000-05:002018-08-23T11:20:42.212-05:00Growing Pains<i>The following appears in the August edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-azzvQQqI-Js/W37ZEU-KAmI/AAAAAAAAFF4/A9IPc-tEoZIzTkl6bAxGFPxVke-4ZzpkgCLcBGAs/s1600/CP%2BGrowing%2BPains.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="726" data-original-width="286" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-azzvQQqI-Js/W37ZEU-KAmI/AAAAAAAAFF4/A9IPc-tEoZIzTkl6bAxGFPxVke-4ZzpkgCLcBGAs/s400/CP%2BGrowing%2BPains.png" width="155" /></a><i><br /></i>
Two years ago, I noticed mom friends posting pictures of their kids standing next to them as their babies passed them up in height.<br />
<br />
My underachieving oldest son, Danny, was nowhere near my size.<br />
<br />
Of course, when your mom is 6’ tall, this milestone can prove challenging.<br />
<br />
This summer, it took a slight tilt upwards to make me realize that the angle of our eye contact had officially shifted.<br />
<br />
I couldn’t wait to capture that much-anticipated photo, but Danny quickly shot it down. He’s at that age where photographic evidence of his existence is frantically shunned.<br />
<br />
My three boys are nearing the most confusing and hormone-driven stage of their lives. I’ve lectured them so many times on the underdeveloped male prefrontal cortex, that they use it against me:<br />
<br />
“Sorry I forgot my shoes, mom, but you know…PREFRONTAL CORTEX.”<br />
<br />
“I know I was supposed to call, but I got all prefrontal cortexy and you understand how that impacts decision making and impulse control.”<br />
<br />
Jerks.<br />
<br />
There are days I congratulate myself for having the foresight to keep my kids far away from social media. Yet I still feel the pain of other mothers as their kids are ostracized and humiliated because of it, often falling into deep despair.
There are days I feel I’ve done everything wrong, perhaps being too strict and strident when a softer touch was obviously needed.<br />
<br />
But as is true with everything in life, there is no perfect path.<br />
<br />
There is no perfect kid.<br />
<br />
And there is definitely no perfect mother.<br />
<br />
I look at my very tall baby boy and see such of mix of his father and myself. He’s got my big brown eyes but his father’s thick hair. He’s funnier than I will ever be. He’s inherited both of his parents’ famed stubbornness but has more patience than either of us combined.<br />
<br />
And the kindness he carries with him every day?<br />
<br />
That’s 100% him.<br />
<br />
The years ahead will be telling. I pray every night that he makes good decisions, aligns himself with good kids, and works to be the best version of himself possible.
I once tended to Danny 24 hours a day. Now my main role is yelling at him to put down Fortnite.<br />
<br />
So much of this is out of my hands.
So I am forced to trust in the hands above and the ones that still hug me goodnight.<br />
<br />
And for that, I am so grateful.
<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-39170753206936349562018-07-15T17:20:00.004-05:002018-07-15T18:51:59.791-05:00Pucks & Purses<i>The following appears in the June edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DOao5In0GXc/W0vIKXNbUcI/AAAAAAAAFFg/4YpdNEgJuRkqgWuuc85fi2QGmxpY4g5XgCLcBGAs/s1600/pucks%2Band%2Bpurses%2Bpic.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="909" data-original-width="393" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DOao5In0GXc/W0vIKXNbUcI/AAAAAAAAFFg/4YpdNEgJuRkqgWuuc85fi2QGmxpY4g5XgCLcBGAs/s640/pucks%2Band%2Bpurses%2Bpic.png" width="276" /></a>Yesterday, I turned off the news after yet another segment where two different guests insulted and belittled each other. They asserted that only their side held the true moral high ground.<br />
<br />
My children are growing up in an era where intellectual debate and ideological differences play second fiddle to hysteria and name-calling. Everyone is mad. Everyone is yelling.<br />
<br />
And nobody is listening.<br />
<br />
It is us versus them, often defined by age, race, wealth, sex, or politics.<br />
<br />
Late last year, my middle son, Jack, was placed on a park district hockey team. At the first practice, I counted a LOT of ponytails.<br />
<br />
Holy crap. The team was 50% girls.<br />
<br />
Jack was not pleased. If ever there is a sub-category of people who do NOT see eye-to-eye, it is 12-year-old boys and girls.<br />
<br />
I smiled watching the young ladies bounce into the ice rink wearing cute little pink shoes and purses. Then the transformation began as they sauntered out of the locker room with their game faces, sticks, heavy equipment and look of battle readiness.<br />
<br />
Jack weighs 90 pounds at 5’3”. He is fast, but slight. As a second year PeeWee, some of the kids tower over him and outweigh him by us much as 70 pounds. While checking is still not technically permitted at the PeeWee level, many refs forget that fact.<br />
<br />
The game is very physical.
But those sweet little pony-tailed girls?<br />
<br />
THEY WERE BEASTS.<br />
<br />
Not only were they fantastic skaters, they were also the undeniable enforcers of the team, taking to task anyone engaging in cheap tactics.<br />
<br />
Over and over, we heard the same comments before games. The organization is brand new, so the Horned Frogs must suck. The team is half girls, so the Horned Frogs must suck. It’s PARK DISTRICT, so the Horned Frogs must suck.<br />
<br />
The Horned Frogs? The new team? The one with all the girls?<br />
<br />
They won the championship.
The celebration on the ice was symbolic of how they played as a team. It was a jumble of boys and girls, throwing their gloves in the air and coming together for a giant group hug before boy-girl embarrassment quickly kicked in.<br />
<br />
I wanted to freeze that moment and show the world.<br />
<br />
Look.<br />
<br />
Look at what the kids can do.<br />
<br />
Why can’t we?
<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-51692537941859513072018-06-07T10:59:00.003-05:002018-06-07T11:09:20.627-05:00The Skinny On Marriage<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jyguUpSzM0Y/WxlV1NIhvwI/AAAAAAAAFEw/rZ42harjgM4nZ1qLvDfrBVd397ACKU0BgCLcBGAs/s1600/skinny.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="373" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jyguUpSzM0Y/WxlV1NIhvwI/AAAAAAAAFEw/rZ42harjgM4nZ1qLvDfrBVd397ACKU0BgCLcBGAs/s400/skinny.png" width="173" /></a><i>The following appears in the April edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
My husband recently dropped 40 pounds. He basically skipped breakfast for a few days.<br />
<br />
As someone who has lost and gained the same 15 pounds multiple times over the last decade, I am a bit jealous. Joe looks incredible. His bright blue eyes stand out all the more. The boy band cheekbones from his high school years are back in play.<br />
<br />
When we go out, waitresses take a second look.<br />
<br />
And he’s still got the whole Chicago firefighter thing going for him.<br />
<br />
As a haggard hockey mom with the accompanying floppy belly and minimal interest in fashion or a decent haircut, I started worrying about Joe making a move.
<br />
<br />
Was he gunning for a trophy wife?<br />
<br />
In a paranoid fit, I researched the signs. Fortunately, they weren’t there.<br />
<br />
Joe is still wearing his too-big jeans from 2005. He asked if I could order him a hole-puncher for his loose belt on Amazon.<br />
<br />
It hasn’t occurred to him to just purchase a new belt.
Or new jeans.<br />
<br />
In my heart of hearts, I know Joe lost the weight for health reasons. He is a devoted family man who saves his harshest words for men who walk away from their families in search of something “better.” He laughs when he tells stories about his own father who only found people attractive when there was a depth of spirit.<br />
<br />
It didn’t matter if a person had Pinocchio’s nose or Dumbo’s ears. Where good existed, that is where beauty could be found.<br />
<br />
So despite my wobbly stomach and Great Clips haircut, Joe still tells me I’m pretty.<br />
<br />
Committing to one person for the rest of your life is definitely a gamble. People change. A long time ago, Joe married a young, thin woman with a good job who never, ever swore.<br />
<br />
May she rest in peace.<br />
<br />
I married a husky southsider who told me he was going to be a fireman one day.<br />
<br />
Three kids and fourteen years later, the twists and turns of these years have resulted in a few bumps and crashes along the way. Still, we keep our seatbelts on and navigate towards the next great adventure.<br />
<br />
But mine now includes one with a ripped husband.<br />
<br />
Marianne for the win.
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-50179033516070675662018-03-20T09:44:00.002-05:002018-03-20T09:46:14.283-05:00The Brawler<i>The following appears in the March edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AmgV4ZD4ej0/WrEdlZqeDEI/AAAAAAAAFD0/1CF-j1E-YhU4OSIvNPkpgQ_0eFvbZqApACLcBGAs/s1600/CP%2BBrawler.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="795" data-original-width="331" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AmgV4ZD4ej0/WrEdlZqeDEI/AAAAAAAAFD0/1CF-j1E-YhU4OSIvNPkpgQ_0eFvbZqApACLcBGAs/s400/CP%2BBrawler.png" width="166" /></a>Back when they were toddlers, my oldest two boys struggled with park rule breakers and preschool anarchists. Every time a child cut in front of them in line for the slide or pushed them off the swings, my sons would look at me expectantly:<br />
<br />
TELL ‘EM MOMMY.<br />
<br />
The problem was, I couldn’t. The little hooligans’ mothers were usually only steps away either ignoring the behavior or pretending it was fine.<br />
<br />
But in the secrecy and safety of my home, I became the Godfather.<br />
<br />
“You give ONE warning, and then you pop them in the nose. HARD.”<br />
<br />
In case you missed it, I am vintage. The rules of the playground still count for a lot in my book.<br />
<br />
The only problem? My boys never retaliated. It simply wasn’t their nature. They were scared to get in trouble despite my many assurances I had their backs when it came to bullies and scallywags.<br />
<br />
Then came Joey. The youngest. The one I never thought was listening but who was actually absorbing every last word.<br />
<br />
Joey clocked his first kid when he was two years old at a McDonald’s Play Place. The offender threw a ball at his head after Joey asked him to stop. I grabbed our Happy Meals and ran like hell.<br />
<br />
When he was three, an older boy jokingly grabbed a stuffed animal out of Joey’s hands. Joey responded with a stiff uppercut and a blood-curdling scream of righteous indignation. I still fear for the long-term psychological damage to that child.<br />
<br />
By four, Joey was the line minder at every amusement park, children’s museum, and birthday party he attended. Any kid who dared cut got an immediate dressing down along with a strong shove by Joey the Enforcer:
<br />
<br />
THERE’S A LINE YOU KNOW.<br />
<br />
The crazy thing is, Joey is silly and good-natured. He is always happy. He loves everyone. He has no real animosity towards anyone.<br />
<br />
Until he becomes Inigo Montoya:<br />
<br />
<i>You killed my father, prepare to die.</i><br />
<br />
Having boys on both ends of the dove-hawk spectrum, I do not know which is better.<br />
<br />
But I do know that nobody will ever cut in front of me so long Joey is around.
<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-26671574058191826792018-03-02T08:22:00.001-06:002018-03-02T08:24:06.403-06:00Rarely Pure & Never Simple<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Yq0k1he-MtI/WplctdPZjGI/AAAAAAAAFDc/6dgKk2bgU6QVi8Q_mU4NA0RfN49CQ4ORwCLcBGAs/s1600/CP%2BSnickers.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="637" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Yq0k1he-MtI/WplctdPZjGI/AAAAAAAAFDc/6dgKk2bgU6QVi8Q_mU4NA0RfN49CQ4ORwCLcBGAs/s640/CP%2BSnickers.png" width="254" /></a><i>The following appears in the February edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
I came home the other day to an athletic cup sitting on my kitchen counter. Denials were issued all around.<br />
<br />
I am not sure how I feel about living in a world where athletic cups wondrously appear from the heavens.<br />
<br />
Yet, it was not the only miracle that week.<br />
<br />
Earlier, I discovered an entire cache of Halloween candy wrappers shoved deep under my couch cushions.<br />
<br />
The boys vowed solemnly that they were unaware of the witchcraft that placed them in this location. One son theorized a friend might have left them there. Another child suggested the wrappers were purchased with the couch. The last one speculated it was his father.<br />
<br />
Deeply upset that my brood was obviously in cahoots with Pinocchio, I reached for the nukes.<br />
<br />
God, one dead grandmother, and the risk of eternal damnation later, I still could not secure a confession.<br />
<br />
Technology was confiscated. Treats were withheld. Tears were shed.<br />
<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
Frustrated and angry that my usual methods were failing, I thought about high school. If they were lying to me now over minor offenses, what would our world be like when the big dogs came into play? Drinking. Driving. Drugs. How could I keep them safe and on course when I couldn’t even get a straight answer on the durable hard-shell protective cup now sitting in my kitchen with “Protect this House” plastered across it?<br />
<br />
In order to protect this house, I needed the truth! That’s when Joe called from the firehouse. He reminded me to order a new pair of athletic pants for Jack because his old ones were ripped.
“I took out the cup, we can use those with another pair. I left it on the counter so you wouldn’t forget.”<br />
<br />
This sounded vaguely familiar. I went for broke.<br />
<br />
“Do you know anything about how a bunch of old candy wrappers wound up under the couch?”<br />
<br />
Joe hesitated.<br />
<br />
He’d make a terrible felon.<br />
<br />
The boys are officially off the hook and I feel perfectly ready for high school. I totally got this.<br />
<br />
Now please don’t hook me up to a lie-detector.
<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-36432397457276419322018-01-18T08:41:00.001-06:002018-01-18T08:41:43.127-06:00Phased Out<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-48TJrmu_hmg/WmCwsWqgvsI/AAAAAAAAFC8/KZyRM7wnjzUU5n1JCljnTaqK8_iJnUhXQCLcBGAs/s1600/CP%2BPhased%2BOut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="819" data-original-width="309" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-48TJrmu_hmg/WmCwsWqgvsI/AAAAAAAAFC8/KZyRM7wnjzUU5n1JCljnTaqK8_iJnUhXQCLcBGAs/s640/CP%2BPhased%2BOut.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a><i>The following appears in the January edition of Chicago Parent:</i><br />
<br />
After taking a part-time job over a year ago to subsidize high school, future college funds and a possible tummy tuck, I was nervous about my kids’ functionality. Would they be able to get themselves up and dressed for school? Would they remember which days to wear uniforms for gym and which days to bring instruments for band? Had I done so much for them over the years, that they would fail miserably at this big inaugural test of responsibility?<br />
<br />
At first, my fears proved correct. There were forgotten Chromebooks, gym days, and homework. Field trip days went without bagged lunches and help-the-poor days went without canned donations from the Walshes.<br />
<br />
I had obviously failed once again.<br />
<br />
Slowly but surely, my knuckleheads did pull it together. Dan began laying out all needed items of clothing and equipment the night before. Jack and Joey took to taping notes above their beds with reminders:<br />
<br />
CHARGE CHROMEBOOK<br />
<br />
EAT BREAKFAST<br />
<br />
PACK LUNCH<br />
<br />
How anyone could “forget” to eat a meal remains a complete mystery, but whatever. They were figuring things out! They were growing up! They hardly needed me. Woot woot!
Then it started to sting.<br />
<br />
They were figuring things out. They were growing up. They hardly needed me.<br />
<br />
My babies weren’t babies anymore.<br />
<br />
This realization hit me squarely in the gut. I had invested the last 13 years of my life in a job that I knew would eventually be phased out. I wasn’t prepared for this first reduction in responsibility.
I had already placed myself in a nursing home without visitors as part of a mental downward spiral of uselessness.<br />
<br />
One morning, I got up early on a non-work day to see the boys off.<br />
<br />
Joey had both pant legs firmly tucked into his socks. Jack had packed four Little Debbies and a can of my Red Bull “for lunch.” Nobody had brushed their teeth. Or combed their hair. Or thought winter coats necessary in 12 degree weather.<br />
<br />
I pretended to be angry, yelling and screaming and waving my arms while quoting Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Self Reliance.”<br />
<br />
But secretly?<br />
<br />
I knew I had a few good years left at the firm.<br />
<br />
Which is a very good thing because I seriously love my bosses.
<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-18391974753212032352017-12-18T13:19:00.000-06:002017-12-18T13:19:04.100-06:00Pet Project<br />
<i>The following appears in the December edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div>
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-j5Ymuo4scgk/WjgUMhzxo6I/AAAAAAAAFCk/nuujSzfWp-8TDl5aEBzIj8D7KovYaD9xACLcBGAs/s1600/Green%2BShell.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="815" data-original-width="667" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-j5Ymuo4scgk/WjgUMhzxo6I/AAAAAAAAFCk/nuujSzfWp-8TDl5aEBzIj8D7KovYaD9xACLcBGAs/s320/Green%2BShell.png" width="261" /></a></div>
In a moment of rare parental indulgence and surrender, I purchased a pet for my youngest son, Joey, last Spring. Every school assignment, every top ten wish list, every note to Santa for five consecutive years had included a request for some sort of domesticated critter. I was beaten down.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, I did remain coherent enough to choose an animal that required very little maintenance.<br />
<br />
I got him a hermit crab.<br />
<br />
While Joey obviously would have preferred something that didn’t rescind into its shell whenever he walked into the room, my son demonstrated a strident devotion to his new friend. He did online research and quickly dubbed the thing “Green Shell.” He wet his drinking sponge religiously with my Ice Mountain and took him for daily walks to ensure he got sun. Green Shell was the most pampered and adored hermit crab the world has ever known.<br />
<br />
Until Green Shell died.<br />
<br />
I noticed several months in that Green Shell wasn’t rotating between his two favorite spots: sitting on top of his coconut shell hut and sitting INSIDE his coconut shell hut.<br />
<br />
Sh*t.<br />
<br />
I was not mentally prepared for a dead pet and all that entailed. So I went into procrastination mode.<br />
<br />
I snuck into Joey’s room that night and moved Green Shell from the top of his hut and instead placed him inside his hut.<br />
<br />
Then I switched him back the next day.<br />
<br />
Problem solved.<br />
<br />
Joey continued to water, feed, and engage Green Shell in his daily activities while I played my twisted version of Elf on the Shelf. When a tornado siren went off in our neighborhood, Joey hustled upstairs to save his dead pet from imminent doom.<br />
<br />
My husband expressed some concern over the macabre nature of my rouse.<br />
<br />
So I distracted him with prime rib until he forgot what we were talking about.<br />
<br />
Another month or two went by before I started feeling guilty. I decided it was perhaps time to bid farewell to Green Shell. My ploy was starting to resemble “Weekend at Bernie’s,” and even I had my morose limits. Plus, Joey was insisting I purchase more food, a fresh sponge, and a bigger cage for Green Shell. He also suggested that perhaps Green Shell could use a girlfriend.<br />
<br />
I marched upstairs to Joey’s bedroom with a plastic bag to take care of business while Joey was at school. I scripted out a brilliant talk on love and loss. The moment had finally come.<br />
<br />
I found Green Shell in the corner of his cage.<br />
<br />
Hold up.<br />
<br />
I hadn’t put Green Shell there.<br />
<br />
It occurred to me that Joey must have moved him. So I reached in and wouldn’t you know?<br />
<br />
Green Shell was the Lazarus of hermit crabs.<br />
<br />
The creepy little thing that hadn’t shown the slightest hint of movement in months was alive and well. I saw his legs wiggle around when I picked him up. Surprised and slightly scared, I immediately dropped Green Shell on his damn coconut hut.<br />
<br />
My dead crab script got tossed and I called my husband in a semi-hysterical state.
He suggested I stay away from the mortuary sciences.<br />
<br />
Then offered to pick up crab legs for dinner.<br />
<br />
And people wonder why I drink.
<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-58748194147915206312017-11-03T17:25:00.000-05:002017-11-03T17:25:23.517-05:00The Cult of Parenthood<i>The following appears in the November edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0DLddl8zoNA/WfzrzUPUzjI/AAAAAAAAFBc/dAZQfnPPHwAJWYqIGzsRtdWxd3RqPLjHQCLcBGAs/s1600/CP%2BCult.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1227" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0DLddl8zoNA/WfzrzUPUzjI/AAAAAAAAFBc/dAZQfnPPHwAJWYqIGzsRtdWxd3RqPLjHQCLcBGAs/s320/CP%2BCult.png" width="245" /></a>I do not watch much television, stubbornly retiring my remote after “Breaking Bad.” The pinnacle of programming had obviously been achieved, so why mess around with crap like “Fuller House?” Still, I found myself inexplicably curious about the A&E series, “Leah Remini: Scientology and the Aftermath.”<br />
<br />
Perhaps it was the basest of all human emotions. I wanted to check out the train wreck. Maybe gather some gossip on John Travolta and Tom Cruise along the way. Weren’t space aliens involved?<br />
<br />
Ten hours of binge-watching later, I gained a different perspective.<br />
<br />
Listening to the tragic trajectory of people sacrificing savings, belief systems, and families for something “more,” I was overcome with déjà vu.<br />
<br />
It hit me.<br />
<br />
Scientology is a lot like the cult of parenthood.<br />
<br />
It starts out innocently enough. You are a parent! You are part of this fabulous club where everyone is BFFs and eager to share diaper coupons! The world is exploding with possibility, much like the volcanic cover of “Dianetics.”<br />
<br />
Slowly, things change. You’re presented with the ladder to childhood success. What? You never signed your kid up for tee-ball? Music lessons need to start before age four. You bought that Irish Dance costume USED? What in the name of Xenu is going on here?<br />
<br />
More time passes and you find yourself mortgaging the house for travel teams, private coaches, and boozy tournaments all in an effort to move up that ridiculous ladder.<br />
<br />
Not that I’m opposed to the boozy tournament part.<br />
<br />
You barely see your friends and family. You start sounding insane when discussing your nine-year-old’s hockey “career.” Anyone who isn’t equally focused on their kid’s development is considered an outsider and obviously “suppressive.”<br />
<br />
Leah Remini delivered a wake-up call. Although my kids revel in a wide variety of activities, they didn’t need to be their very best all the time. It was fine to phone it in now and then. Skip the ladder. Take the escalator. Save your tired feet to fight another day.<br />
<br />
With a renewed focus on reducing the intensity of our lives, I registered my kids for the inaugural season of a local Chicago Park District hockey program. It was a less intensive program than what we’d done previously. My middle son threw himself on the ground in protest:<br />
<br />
“I cannot be a HORNED FROG!!!”<br />
<br />
Too bad, kid. Now practice your ribbits.<br />
<br />
Due to the massive savings, all three could play fall hockey. I was okay knowing two of them would struggle. They were thrilled for the opportunity nonetheless.<br />
<br />
Danny is reminding me of a steam engine, but definitely up for the challenge. Jack is slowly finding ways to be supportive towards teammates just starting out. It’s not his nature to be patient, but he’s giving it his all. And Joey remains a maniacal drunken giraffe on skates, improving ever so slightly, but smiling up at the stands when he does.<br />
<br />
I am relieved my kids aren’t playing AAA Hockey and I defer to others to pursue becoming a prince.<br />
<br />
For now, it’s good to be a frog.
<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-39673885586697032612017-10-06T18:45:00.000-05:002017-10-06T18:45:48.978-05:00Recreational Obsession<i>The following appears in the October edition of Chicago Parent</i><br />
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I occasionally have been known to get obsessed with certain topics, researching theories and historical timelines until the wee hours of the morning. I am so well versed in my fixations, I could probably defend dissertation-worthy papers on my findings.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, my papers wouldn’t exactly fall under the “Ideas that Benefit Humanity” category:<br />
<ul>
<li>How Jive Records Destroyed JC Chasez’ Career in Favor of the Less Talented but More Marketable Justin Timberlake </li>
<li>Why George Clooney Never Really Got Over Kelly Preston </li>
<li>The Truth Behind Matt Damon’s and Ben Affleck’s Secret Control of the Oscars </li>
</ul>
<br />
Now before you take away my foil hat, I would like to point out that folks with OCD can go many different ways. There is my clean-freak sister whose house reveals no tangible evidence that anyone actually lives there. My older brother’s perfect vacuum lines and angles would impress Archimedes himself.<br />
<br />
Exhausted after trying to keep my house immaculate with three boys and a husband who simply does not notice mess, I applied my genetic code to the world of celebrity gossip and conspiracy theories. It makes me happy. And possibly a little insane.<br />
<br />
My youngest son, Joey, began demonstrating OCD at an early age. As a baby, he would sit in his high chair and scream bloody murder if we accidently left a drawer or cabinet open. By two, he was marching firmly towards hoardersville, saving candy wrappers, old socks, and free plastic cups from kid meals. In order to shake that habit, I told him he would most likely die under old boxes and dead cats.<br />
<br />
Brutal, but it worked.<br />
<br />
Yet recently, there has been a distinct shift in behavior.
We visited Camp-Land RV.
Joey was dazzled.
He reviewed the brochures like a classical scholar inspecting the Rosetta Stone. He woke me up at 5 am the next morning to explain the differences between RV Class A, B, and C motorhomes. He took a tape measure to our narrow Chicago driveway and explained where exactly we could park an RV.<br />
<br />
He is also researching financing.<br />
<br />
My inclination is to let the obsession play out. If he is anything like his mother, he will eventually move to a new subject after a year or two of solid research, chart development, and cost analysis.<br />
<br />
Or maybe he will grow up and find employment at an RV dealership.<br />
<br />
Either way, I will always view those with OCD as kindred spirits. They are passionate and knowledgeable, and perhaps the best teachers out there.<br />
<br />
Now ask me what really happened between Taylor Swift and Harry Styles.
Totally know.
<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-6186555770334091772017-08-30T15:28:00.001-05:002017-08-30T15:28:08.102-05:00Bully Me This<i>The following appears in the September edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-A5d-OYeVJ3o/Wace2JNra2I/AAAAAAAAFAc/_GM2XD074Lg3dWZaQVC8eqcFRmtXlSwMwCLcBGAs/s1600/bully.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="909" data-original-width="759" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-A5d-OYeVJ3o/Wace2JNra2I/AAAAAAAAFAc/_GM2XD074Lg3dWZaQVC8eqcFRmtXlSwMwCLcBGAs/s320/bully.jpg" width="266" /></a>I love me some Steve Harvey like no other, so I obviously watch a lot of Family Feud.<br />
<br />
Yet a recent question left me reeling.<br />
<br />
“Name the worst grade of grammar school.”<br />
<br />
Being a Family Feud devotee, I naturally scored the number one answer: 7th grade. Zero hesitation. And it had everything to do with the dawn of the bully.<br />
<br />
The causes of bullies are historically varied: insecurity, unstable home lives, malicious strains in the DNA to name a few. The result is the same: indiscriminate attacks throughout junior high school, leaving kids in an anxiety-induced state of alert, needing to decide:<br />
<br />
Run, fight, or follow.<br />
<br />
For those who follow, the statistics aren’t good. Bullies face much higher rates of substance abuse, depression, unemployment, incarceration, divorce, and suicide. So when my first son approached 7th grade, he was warned. Prepare to walk away from friends who will follow. Prepare for kids being total jag-offs. But the toughest warning of all?<br />
<br />
Prepare to have your heart broken. Again and again.<br />
<br />
It was a difficult year for him and me. I fought the urge to march over to the stoops of parents: DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR KID IS DOING? DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE IS SAYING? IS ANYBODY PAYING ATTENTION IN THERE???<br />
<br />
My sane husband talked me down. It didn’t stop me from giving the side-eye whenever I spotted certain parents, but I tried not be obvious.<br />
<br />
Fine. I was completely obvious.<br />
<br />
So as my second son geared up for 7th grade, I started having the same talk with him. He cut me off.<br />
<br />
“My grade doesn’t have a bully. Whenever a kid tries to be one, someone stops them.”<br />
<br />
“A teacher?” I asked, astonished at the prospect that some miracle educator had finally found the cure to this horrible multi-generational ill. Who could this Marie Curie be? How had she eviscerated bullydom? Give me her name, son!<br />
<br />
“Jake Brady.”<br />
<br />
Wait. Jake Brady wasn’t a teacher. He was a kid! An always-smiling, slightly shorter-than-average kid. Sure, he was good at sports, but there was nothing terribly intimidating or scary about him. How was this even possible?<br />
<br />
“He just stops it. Right when it starts. And everyone listens.”<br />
<br />
Call it leadership. Call it confidence. Call it the gift of true humanity finding itself in a 12-year old boy.
My son went on to clarify that Jake stuck up for everyone, not just his friends. He even stuck up for kids he didn’t like because he thought it was unfair for bullies to go after them for being different.
And suddenly, my inner 12 year-old girl with the awkward perm, lazy eye, and stack of books wanted to hug Jake Brady. For someone who has never known a day of cool in her life, it was hard to believe that people such as this existed.<br />
<br />
So thank you, kid. You have shown us all that empathy lives. That kindness lives. That good exists.<br />
<br />
Please don’t ever change.
<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-24459400709588443512017-08-11T12:01:00.003-05:002017-08-11T12:03:51.179-05:00The Baby Shower<br />
<i>The following appears in the July edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cJwylXIRPAg/WY3iSYoUa5I/AAAAAAAAFAE/NwewkNSkDpYHeYAEL8b8LOFK_kAyzRDXwCLcBGAs/s1600/CP%2BBaby%2BShower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="895" data-original-width="711" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cJwylXIRPAg/WY3iSYoUa5I/AAAAAAAAFAE/NwewkNSkDpYHeYAEL8b8LOFK_kAyzRDXwCLcBGAs/s320/CP%2BBaby%2BShower.jpg" width="254" /></a>After receiving an invitation for a baby shower last month, I immediately headed over to the online registry. I was curious to see how far child-rearing had evolved from when I last had a newborn. Surprisingly, the list was as timeless and practical as if it had been produced in 1950.<br />
<br />
There was a strong focus on the necessities (diapers, pacifiers, bottles, bedding, etc.), but not a hint of the vegan/organic/gender-neutral lifestyle I assumed all millennials were now embracing.<br />
<br />
Grumpy old Gen X’ers like myself are known to occasionally make sweeping and unfair generalizations while yelling at neighborhood kids to get off the lawn.<br />
<br />
<span id="goog_1512307986"></span>
The stroller resembled something out of NASA, but I wrote that off to the ever-changing improvements in space-baby technology. The crib, which I dubbed Optimus Prime, had the ability not only to transform into a toddler bed, but also a twin bed frame and ultimately a tiny home.<br />
<br />
Talk about sound planning.<br />
<br />
My mind drifted back to the day I registered. Overwhelmed by the endless choices before me, I waddled around Babies ‘R' Us fighting back nausea and immense feelings of inadequacy. Was I going to need a breast pump? I didn’t know for sure I wanted to go that route. The bassinet was adorable, but our one-bedroom condo could barely fit a crib. And what the hell was a Pack ‘n Play? And an ExerSaucer?<br />
<br />
AND IS THAT A RECTAL THERMOMETER??<br />
<br />
I handed the registry gun off to my mom who proceeded to request 150 sets of baby sheets and mattress protectors.<br />
<br />
“Trust me. You’re really gonna need those,” she smiled.<br />
<br />
My shower came and went with a U-Haul full of items that were supposed to keep my baby alive, happy, and on course for meeting every developmental milestone.<br />
<br />
Prior to that day, I always thought of showers as happy occasions. Instead, it was my holy crap moment.<br />
<br />
What had I gotten myself into where I now required an entire aisle of Costco?<br />
<br />
And as all moms before me, I became wise to the marketing. The most important item? A purse big enough to accommodate a diaper, a sandwich bag of wipes, and some loose Cheerios. My Nana’s gentle reminder also helped:<br />
<br />
Half of our country’s presidents once slept in drawers.<br />
<br />
There is one item I wish NASA could develop insofar as mothering. It is a time machine. The magic of expecting my first child was overshadowed by a lot of needless worry, angst, and fear. I would go back and tell myself it would all be fine. Danny would be fine. Joe didn’t need to re-screw every bolt on the crib six times. Taking three infant CPR classes may have been overkill.<br />
<br />
I would instead have soaked up the miracle.<br />
<br />
And realized my mom was right.<br />
<br />
You can never have enough infant bedding. Especially when flu season hits.
Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-76073666686244203152017-06-07T15:06:00.002-05:002017-06-07T15:07:56.042-05:00Pregnant Pause<br />
<i>The following appears in the June edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sUR6UaG05oo/WThb_u4UjPI/AAAAAAAAE_Q/dMDE2HPkipgL3kt5v0y2czTuafi37O-OgCLcB/s1600/CP%2BPregnant%2BPause.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="987" data-original-width="771" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sUR6UaG05oo/WThb_u4UjPI/AAAAAAAAE_Q/dMDE2HPkipgL3kt5v0y2czTuafi37O-OgCLcB/s320/CP%2BPregnant%2BPause.jpg" width="248" /></a>I was two weeks late before I even gave it a thought.<br />
<br />
After all, tubal ligations are one of the most effective means out there. When I reluctantly accepted medical advice after three c-sections, a big part of me felt I was closing down shop prematurely.<br />
<br />
I had planned for five boys. My imaginary 4th and 5th sons, Sean and Michael, were supposed to be the charmers. The hellions. The ones who refused to play chess and instead chose rugby. As the youngest, they would hear stories from their brothers about their Tiger Mom and her dictatorial leanings and shake their heads in disbelief.<br />
<br />
“Mom is easy. Just make her laugh and she’s all yours. You guys did it wrong.”<br />
<br />
But I never took the risk. I never got to meet Sean and Michael.<br />
<br />
When I ran into a hockey mom from last season pushing a stroller, infants were the furthest thing from my mind.<br />
<br />
“You have a baby!<i> In an ice rink</i>. I didn’t even know you were expecting!”<br />
<br />
“Oh, Marianne. I had a tubal years ago. I was almost five months along before I knew. This just proves God really does have a sense of humor.”<br />
<br />
I peaked in on the beautiful grinning baby girl wrapped in pink and my mind started doing the math.<br />
<br />
Oh sh*t.<br />
<br />
A few hours later, I found myself watching the clock, awaiting the results of my impromptu Walgreens purchase. I thought of my Nana. Her mother (my great-grandmother) had died three months after giving birth to her final child at age 47.
No, geriatric pregnancies simply didn’t end well in my family.<br />
<br />
But again, I thought of Sean and Michael.
And a part of me was excited.
While I couldn’t fathom doing car seats and diapers at 43 years old, there was nobody in my life who brought me as much joy as my children. How could another one be a mistake? Even though the results read negative, several more weeks went by before I knew for sure.<br />
<br />
My husband was relieved.<br />
<br />
I cried.<br />
<br />
The moment I decided to indulge in a full-blown depression, I discovered our dryer was broken. Then the ice hockey bill came due. The boys all came home with a list of materials needed to build their much-hated dioramas. The crack in our minivan windshield (which I put off having fixed) spread out so that driving morphed into peering through a pair of bifocals.
So much for my funk.<br />
<br />
No, Sean and Michael were never meant to be. I will always mourn that fact.
But my husband and kids prove every day that God does in fact have a sense of humor.<br />
<br />
<br />Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-78788992414107365292017-05-03T08:36:00.000-05:002017-05-03T08:36:05.023-05:00The Blame Game<i>The following appears in the May edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">When</span> two dozen heavily frosted blue cupcakes mysteriously disappeared at a class birthday party several years ago, the offender was quickly identified. Little Matt looked like he had been devouring Smurfs whole. His hair, face, and fingers were covered in the telltale frosting.<br />
<br />
Mass hysteria broke out as attendees began realizing the implications of Matt’s actions:<br />
<br />
“NOBODY IS GETTING CUPCAKES!”<br />
<br />
Well, besides Matt.<br />
<br />
There were hushed whispers. A group of moms gathered in the corner. Blame was assigned.
But it was not Indigo Matt’s fault.<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
It was HIS MOTHER’S.<br />
<br />
Why hadn’t she been watching him more carefully? What kind of child was she raising? Who teaches her son that it’s perfectly acceptable to devour an entire tray of cupcakes?<br />
<br />
Yet when Matt’s dad came strolling in a few minutes later from an apparent cigarette break, the villagers put down their pitchforks. Mom wasn’t even at the party. Dad mumbled a half-hearted apology. The tone changed.<br />
<br />
What a great guy to have brought Matt to a birthday party all by himself! Dad of the Year! Get this man a slice of Little Caesar’s!<br />
<br />
It was the first time I truly comprehended how society cuts mothers zero slack. Sociopaths go on murderous rampages and receive far more leniency than moms. And who do the psychologists usually blame when serial killers strike?<br />
<br />
THE MOTHER.<br />
<br />
She obviously never hugged him enough. She probably didn’t sign him up for scouts. She gave away his dog when he was nine simply because he wasn’t taking care of it.<br />
<br />
I realized that I would be getting the blame for ever poor decision my kids made for the rest of my life.<br />
<br />
Several years after the Great Cupcake Debacle, I was at an event where my oldest son ran around helping the hostess collect plates and clean up.<br />
<br />
“It must be so nice to have a child who was born that awesome,” commented a nearby dad.<br />
<br />
And that’s when it hit me. Mothers are manipulated into believing they are responsible for every misstep, but if a child shines?<br />
<br />
That’s happenstance.<br />
<br />
How often do we hear about Mother Teresa’s own mother? Did you know she raised three kids on her own after her husband died? Mother Teresa credited her mom with teaching her kindness and instilling a deep sense of compassion. Yet history barely acknowledges her.<br />
<br />
My boys hold the door for people. I used to play along and pretend they arrived on planet Earth doing this.
In all actuality, it took several years of going batsh*t crazy and having doors slam on my butt as I balanced a baby and groceries while my two oldest jettisoned themselves into the house without so much as a glance back. Finally, they started remembering to show this basic courtesy.<br />
<br />
It is time moms stand up for ourselves. Stop feeding the narrative that mothering isn’t a boatload of work and every success exists in a vacuum. If we are getting nailed for each blunder, then we should take ownership of a small fraction of the victories.<br />
<br />
Every trip to the museum. Every bedtime story. Every time you helped them up after they fell and reminded them that the learning is in the falling.<br />
<br />
That was you.<br />
<br />
And you were wonderful.
Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-19198903120059119672017-03-03T12:40:00.002-06:002017-03-03T13:06:44.046-06:00I Spy with My Mom Eye<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CEr6VQMSGIY/WLm4hFliHkI/AAAAAAAAE9Q/FFfth5KRfOkpRo4pYqwhDRjlXkD2mMS5wCLcB/s1600/CPSpy%2B%25282%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CEr6VQMSGIY/WLm4hFliHkI/AAAAAAAAE9Q/FFfth5KRfOkpRo4pYqwhDRjlXkD2mMS5wCLcB/s320/CPSpy%2B%25282%2529.png" width="255" /></a><i>The following appears in the March edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<br />
When certain moms tell me how much they love being the focal point of neighborhood action (having kids over, feeding feral children, maintaining mob security), I feel a degree of shame. Not only do I eschew groups of kids gaining access to my home and pantry, but my thought when others don’t?<br />
<br />
<i>You people are crazy. </i><br />
<br />
I do not enjoy my cabinets raided, my ears accosted, and the whirlwind of jumping, leaping, and shouting boys.
I’ve got sensory issues, dammit.<br />
<br />
The argument I hear most often from open-door policy moms is that they are keeping tabs on their kids and their friends. They know exactly what is going on. They have their fingers on the pulse of tween society.<br />
<br />
For me, it seems like an awful lot of work and expense to secure the same information I get by employing a series of enhanced interrogation techniques. I am the daughter of a special agent. My father utilized his years of government training in raising his four kids. He could detect a lie with a mere blink or shift in eye contact. He knew the targeted questions to ask. And we never, ever doubted his ability to kill us 100 different ways and make it look like an accident.
Unfortunately for my kids, my dad was generous enough to share this training with me.<br />
<br />
My best intel comes via carpool. For whatever reason, kids are naïve enough to buy into my distracted driver performance. I fumble with the radio. I mutter about traffic. I sing Journey tunes. In all actuality, I am making mental notes of every inappropriate comment and act of unkindness.<br />
<br />
I’m essentially Jason Bourne.<br />
<br />
And after I lull them into a false sense of security? That’s when I pounce:<br />
<br />
“So, who is like the MEANEST kid in your grade?”<br />
<br />
“Who would you trust with your life?”<br />
<br />
“What kid do you hear the teachers complaining about most?”<br />
<br />
“Who gets everybody else in trouble but never gets caught?”<br />
<br />
There is an old adage that states, “show me a kid’s friends, and I’ll show you his future.” Even God backs me up on this up in Proverbs 13:20:<br />
<br />
“He that walketh with wise men shall be wise, but a companion of fools shall be destroyed.”<br />
<br />
As my boys get older, I know I have less and less say in who they choose to befriend. It doesn’t matter how many secret files I maintain, if some kid appeals to their sense of humor or sense of fun, there is very little I can do. I am left hoping that my lectures against mob mentality and choosing right when everybody else chooses wrong will hold up.<br />
<br />
But if not?<br />
<br />
I’ve got my dad’s old files.<br />
<br />
And Russia on speed-dial.
Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-47080896039914723262017-02-02T11:19:00.000-06:002017-02-02T11:20:04.520-06:00The Marriage Fantasy<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yDWV9sG6qH0/WJNoWBXFizI/AAAAAAAAE8g/t5s7AB2H7SYy-A5VzwiG3J8Bc0NbO5JKQCLcB/s1600/fantasy%2B%25282%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yDWV9sG6qH0/WJNoWBXFizI/AAAAAAAAE8g/t5s7AB2H7SYy-A5VzwiG3J8Bc0NbO5JKQCLcB/s320/fantasy%2B%25282%2529.png" width="253" /></a><br />
<i>The following appears in the February edition of Chicago Parent.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
My husband and I recently logged in another successful year of marriage.<br />
<br />
Our body count held steady at zero. No dishes were thrown and/or broken. The ability to feign interest in each other’s favorite topics has never been stronger.<br />
<br />
Joe seriously thinks I like Fantasy Football. When he rambles on about possible trades or player pick-ups, I am reminded of the adults from the old <i>Peanuts</i> cartoon:
Mwha mwha mwhua mwha.<br />
<br />
Yet with a well-timed raised eyebrow or occasional “NO WAY,” my attentive performance goes unquestioned.<br />
<br />
Joe and I both possess fiery personalities. Yet we rarely fight. I would like to think it has to do with the mature status of our relationship and our ongoing evolution as a couple.<br />
<br />
But I’d totally be fibbing.<br />
<br />
Joe loses his mind over the small things (“Where are all the clean socks…YOU KEEP SWITICHING DRAWERS!”). Though when real disaster or tragedy strikes, he holds it together.<br />
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Not me. Those are the moments I barely comprehend English, and logic and reasoning become as foreign to me as the top 10 Fantasy picks for wide receiver.<br />
<br />
As the kids started dropping off the assembly line twelve years ago, there was definitely increased tension. I had to lose the notion of “the marriage fantasy” promised to me by dozens of rom-coms and poorly written romance novels.<br />
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Now our lives were a litany of questions. Who would remember to grab formula on the way home from work? Who would take off to go to the pediatrician’s office? Who would get up for the next 3 am feeding?<br />
<br />
And whose idea were these kids anyway?<br />
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In all seriousness, the kids were the impetus for us being together. Many of my earlier relationships failed because I sensed future bad dads. The men were often too selfish, too fragile, or too unreliable to invest myself.<br />
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When I met Joe, there was instant safety. He was okay with my brand of crazy and not easily shaken. Plus, I thought he was totally dreamy.<br />
<br />
Joe eventually bought me a beautiful engagement ring that I never wear because I have sensory issues and I hate rings. He is okay with that.<br />
<br />
I reluctantly went along with the idea of a wedding even though I wanted to go to Vegas and get married by Elvis. My dress was off the rack and cost about $200. I think I ordered my invitations from the same place that killed George Constanza’s fiancé.<br />
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I never cared about the visuals. The big diamond. The big day. The big honeymoon (which I’m told we’ll get around to taking one day).<br />
<br />
I cared about creating a family with someone I loved who would not run away when things got tough.<br />
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Recently, I directed my husband to the wrong school for one of the kids’ games. It was on a snowy day where we had five different events to hit. When we arrived, I realized my mistake. The actual venue was two minutes from our house, but we were now 45 minutes away.<br />
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Joe frowned, threw the car into drive, and tried his best to avoid getting another red light ticket. We made it in time for my son to play the second half.<br />
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Joe wanted to gripe, to direct his ire at me, and to go into full blown rant mode.<br />
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But he didn’t. So I questioned him about his Fantasy Football team. I asked him not to spare a single detail.<br />
<br />
He had earned that one.<br />
<br />
And so much more.
Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-15570203632093144272017-01-12T12:24:00.000-06:002017-01-12T12:26:51.182-06:00The Time I Almost Killed My Husband<i>The following appears in the January edition of Chicago Parent. </i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3oga-N_cIhQ/WHfI-jGvTZI/AAAAAAAAE8A/0j7YSozlzRsm7NGTmTEAgHq2fEWeS3pfwCLcB/s1600/Scan_20170112.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3oga-N_cIhQ/WHfI-jGvTZI/AAAAAAAAE8A/0j7YSozlzRsm7NGTmTEAgHq2fEWeS3pfwCLcB/s320/Scan_20170112.png" width="236" /></a>When it comes to parenting, my husband and I agree on most things. We swore to each other a long time ago to represent a united front against the tyrannical tendencies of our progeny. Man-to-man was discarded once our third son was born. In choosing a zone defense, we knew that regular and clear communication would be critical. For the most part, our plan went swimmingly.<br />
<br />
Until recently.<br />
<br />
My oldest son began exploring high school choices this month. As a chess-tutoring, trombone-playing 7th grader who just so happens to be built like a Bears’ lineman, Danny has been a unique work in progress for many years. With a complete lack of fast-twitch muscle fibers, the kid has nonetheless enjoyed playing ice hockey and basketball. He talks about a future career in engineering or computers. He has been involved in music since he was four years old.<br />
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After a visit to his #1 choice, Chicago’s storied Mt. Carmel High School, I was dumbfounded to discover the school did not have a marching band.<br />
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Being a wife somewhat lacking in introspection and calm, I immediately attacked the object of my ire: my husband, Joe (a Mt. Carmel graduate and now Public Enemy #1).<br />
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“No marching band? NO MARCHING BAND?? You NEVER told me they didn’t have a marching band!! I feel DECEIVED! Let down! RUINED!”<br />
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The voice on the other side of the phone went silent for a moment before finally speaking up:<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry. I do believe you have the wrong number.”<br />
<br />
*click*<br />
<br />
After a 24-hour cooling down period, I realized I never explained my rationale for all the music lessons. I had just assumed my husband understood that marching band was the ultimate goal. It would be Danny’s high school clique. The cool geeks. The kids everyone saw at the football games but who didn’t actually risk traumatic brain injury.<br />
<br />
The problem was, I never quite communicated this to my husband. Joe was never part of the nerd chic division of high school. Sure, he won the math and accounting awards, but he was cool. He looked like a Backstreet Boy with killer cheekbones and a letterman jacket.<br />
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The thought of joining marching band was as foreign to him as me entertaining becoming a cheerleader. For the record, six-feet tall girls never ever entertain becoming a cheerleader, unless the squad really needs a base.<br />
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While still licking my wounds and resigning myself to the fact that Danny might never be part of a marching band, my husband browsed the Mt. Carmel website. He then pointed out that there IS a band, they just don’t march anywhere.<br />
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“Maybe Danny can get them marching?” Joe suggested.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, because he knows so much about formation and drills,” I muttered, defeated.<br />
<br />
“Marianne, do you think I ever envisioned having a son who is capable of so much? He can assemble his own Christmas stuff faster and better than I can! Don’t underestimate him. If something is really important to him, Dan will make it happen.”<br />
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And just like that, Joe and I were back on the same page, believing and supporting our child on whatever path he chose.<br />
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So long as it included the occasional lateral or v-formation and a to-the-right flank.<br />
<br />
Sorry. Sometimes I can’t help myself.
Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074904356505215216.post-25466536060389444012016-12-09T16:45:00.003-06:002017-01-18T20:50:29.716-06:00My Kind of Town, For Now<i>The following appears in the December edition of Chicago Parent magazine.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bBLvX1L4D5k/WEszzls7ADI/AAAAAAAAE6c/l5YD2-bq_HQidqKO1PoiwsR1-qDIF5FUgCLcB/s1600/Scan_20161209%2B%25282%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bBLvX1L4D5k/WEszzls7ADI/AAAAAAAAE6c/l5YD2-bq_HQidqKO1PoiwsR1-qDIF5FUgCLcB/s320/Scan_20161209%2B%25282%2529.png" width="246" /></a>It began around the time we scored our third red-light camera ticket in a month. A few days later, Joe and I learned our property taxes were going up 20%. A new city garbage bill ate what was left of the kids’ college fund and we started having serious conversations about the nobility of the boys opting for a trade.<br />
<br />
Chicago was killing us.
Desperate to avoid full-blown depression and an obsession with pre-selling our marketable internal organs, I started playing my own version of Julie Andrew’s “Favorite Things.”
But I wasn’t singing about raindrops on roses or warm woolen mittens. Instead, it was about escaping my own hometown.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Florida in white flip flops</i><br />
<i>with red shiny sunglasses, </i><br />
<i>Kentucky and its lakes and </i><br />
<i>indigenous blue grasses, </i><br />
<i>Montana’s cheap insurance </i><br />
<i>and natural hot springs, </i><br />
<i>these are a few of my favorite things. </i><br />
<i>When the private school bill comes, </i><br />
<i>when the city stickers are due, </i><br />
<i>when they try to make cops and firemen all seem bad, </i><br />
<i>I simply remember the places I’ll go, </i><br />
<i>and then I don’t feel sooooooo sad. </i><br />
<br />
It is simply astonishing that I am not a billionaire writing on Broadway.<br />
<br />
Despite growing up in the suburbs, most of my adult life has been spent as a proud resident of the city of Chicago. I’ve been a Northsider, a Gold Coaster, and a Southsider. Before I converted to White Sox Fanaticism for marriage, I bled Cubbie blue. I hold sacred my choice of favorite deep dish pizza (Pizano’s) as well as a nostalgic love for all the free parking that once existed on Lower Wacker Drive.<br />
<br />
Growing up, my dad used to take us to Navy Pier before it became the tourist mecca it is today. Back then, it was dark and scary and there was something almost mythical about it.<br />
<br />
When the new Comiskey (and I won't call it anything else ever) was being built, I watched and thought they were silly to put those seats so high.<br />
<br />
I remember the snowstorm that got Jane Byrne elected, and I remember the day Harold Washington died.<br />
<br />
I remember it all.<br />
<br />
When I spent a year in New York, I realized how much of a Chicagoan I truly am. I was baffled when employers sent their people home from work early in “anticipation” of snow. Wusses.<br />
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I could never figure out what the big deal was over the floppy pizza and calling pop “soda.”<br />
<br />
Men in New York got freaking manicures.<br />
<br />
So I went home and married a fireman. With calloused hands.<br />
<br />
For me, Chicago is like those calloused hands. It is a hard working city with more than its fair share of bumps, bruises, and scrapes. When you look into the eyes of its people, you will often find a dichotomy. There is a strong element of fight, but also an understanding that defeat comes more often than not.<br />
<br />
And yet many continue to battle.<br />
<br />
Not me. I’m sick of callouses. I want well-manicured nails painted bright pink with sparkles.<br />
<br />
Even if it means crappy pizza forever.<br />
<br />
I love you Chicago, but there’s an expiration date on our relationship. If you really care, now is your chance to woo me.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, you can find me on Zillow.
Mariannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04509329937576764550noreply@blogger.com4