Secret Rival

Turns out I'm a competitive sort of person.

Secretly competitive.

 Shocking, I know.

 I've spent all my time up until now telling myself that winning doesn't matter.

That enjoying something and advancing through teamwork and commitment are the only true rewards for my efforts. This non-competitive nature I had cultivated extended toward my every endeavor from school to career, and from marriage to motherhood.

 Even the state of my yard with its weed-choked gardens and miss-mowed lawn patches screamed “Not even trying to keep up with the Joneses!”

 I never needed to be the best, let alone anywhere near the top half; and yes, failure was certainly an option.

 And then I ran my first 5K.

 Now … I knew that I wasn't going to win (I can walk almost as fast as I can run) but somewhere near mile 2.5 I realized I could probably finish without stopping.

It was a miracle. I was about to do something I hadn't thought was even remotely possible.

 And just around mile 2.51 I realized it wasn't enough just to finish … I had to beat someone.

 I started looking around me. Narrowed my eyes. The woman who crossed the starting line alongside me was too far ahead now. I'd never catch up.

 Should I pick the pair of high schoolers who, for the past mile, had been running ahead of me in the shady spots and then holding back in the sunny stretches? I could probably take them, I told myself.

But maybe I should play it safe. I knew that last stretch of roadway was tree-lined and possibly breezy.

Best to pick the septuagenarian I had been trailing the entire course. He looked as if he were ready to slow down.

 So I settled on a seventy-year-old as my secret rival, and, as I predicted, a few hundred yards before the finish line, I passed him. I was ecstatic! And a little bit nauseated. And freakishly red in the face … But I beat that guy fair and square.

 As I walked around to try and find my family in the river of onlookers, I was already planning what my next step would be.

 It's not enough to Just Do It; I have to do it farther and faster than I did it before.

 It took until midlife, and smartphone app called “Map My Run” to show me that I have a need to “one up” myself. Up until that moment I was happy to just run as far as I could in the time I had allotted myself two mornings a week.

Now, with a melodious-for-a-computer-type voice telling me how far I had gone and how fast (and throwing in calories burned as an added bonus) I started timing and tallying everything.

Turns out I can walk 16-minute-miles to the playground and back. 164 calories.

The dog and I walked 19-minute miles to the post office. Too much sniffing. 132 calories.

I can bike five miles in 34 minutes. 118 calories.

 I count laundry days as an exercise, since I climb stairs for the equivalent of a quarter mile.

 Each week I try to log more activity, go faster andfurther than I did the week before. 

I feel possessed. But I have high hopes for the next race.

Watch out, grandpa. I've got you in my sights.

Are you going to eat that?

People for Less Unrest in Marriage, or PLUM as I like to call it –- a wholly imaginary but incredibly well-organized think tank for which I sometimes find myself a not-so-well organized spokesperson -- would like to share the following true-life event as a public service:

“Are you going to eat that?”

“That” being whatever was in my hand, already making its way toward my mouth.

You might think I was eating the last chocolate chip cookie that would ever be baked in the entire world. Ever. Again.

But that's not even close.

“I wouldn't eat that if you made me. Not even if you twisted my arm.”

My husband stands before me with a curled lip and stink-eyed expression, sneering openly as I am about to eat yet another tasteless hunk of fiber board, which must have fallen from a store shelf and into my shopping cart as I was weaving recklessly through the Earthy-Crunchy section of the supermarket like the lunatic, female shopping cart driver that I am.

Why else, his expression taunted, would this almost inedible food product be in our house?

It's the kind of look that always makes me want to hurl something – preferably something pungent, overripe and difficult to clean out of facial hair -- in his direction.

Coming from his mouth “Are you going to eat that” is not a question so much as an indictment. A statement of disbelief. An affirmation of what must be my dubious sanity. A declaration of our differences.

The man just can't wrap his mind around the fact that I might actually enjoy some tasteless piece of “bark,” slathered with only a thin layer of “compost.”

Foodie I am not. To me, sustenance is simply fuel to keep the moving parts running.

Nor am I a chef. It's an affront to some, the way people like me trample on the complexity of delicate tastes and textures by drowning them in hot sauce or burning them to a crisp.

I refuse to be ashamed. I have just accepted the fact that there's not a lot of "ours" in the snack cabinet, there's just his, hers and theirs. And every once in a while lines are crossed, and samples are taken for research purposes.

It's not as if he hasn't foraged through the kitchen, looking for a late-night snack and – with only crumbs left in the plastic tray of chocolate sandwich cookies that he keeps stashed behind the dishware – helped himself to mine.

I don't mine. It's not as if I keep an accounting of each apple in the crisper drawer. In fact, I encourage sharing. (As per the job descriptions in the manuals of Motherhood and Kindergarten Teachers, subset 789).

Pilfering I can handle. It's the smugness I can do without, and the dramatic displays of distaste that punctuate his reaction to the first bite of anything not foisted upon him.

Can he really be so incensed by my reaction:

“Is it really necessary to roll your eyes and claw at your tongue as it lolls from your mouth like an unfurling carpet? That kind of response seems a bit excessive.”

After all, he was the one who insisted on snitching the high-fiber snack cracker smeared with mashed chickpeas and mustard dollops from my lunch plate. It's not as if I twisted his arm.

Kids today

It's amazing how much unsolicited advice a person attracts once they become a parent.

You name it, and there is someone out there who has an opinion about the best way and the worst way to do it.

There is nothing too small to evade scrutiny.

Everything you do. Everything your kid does. Everything you do because your kid did something becomes part of a discussion that is so big it seems to envelope the world.

And it usually starts with a problem … “The problem with kids today ...”

Trouble is the problem doesn't always end with a workable solution.

The problem is other kids … parents ... schools ... teachers ... politicians … government … bullies ... guns ... boredom ... drugs ... corporate giants ... factory farms … car emissions ... toys from China … calculators ... computers … the internet …

The list is so big it can't easily fit on a bumper sticker (which, truth-be-told, is the place all the best advice is usually filed – second only to the flip file under the kitchen sink).

More and more I'm thinking the problem is a construct of our imaginations.

A good portion of the time, though, it's our interpretation of a stranger's sideways glance or our mother-in-law's two cents that have us squinting in rage and spitting venom. It's not the event itself.

The problem is we want to be the seekers of knowledge and not have knowledge foisted upon us.

You only need to think about all those gift guides we poured over for Mother's Day and Father's Day to know just how useful that was.

“Thanks for the ruffle “up-cycled” apron and the book of iphone pictures of me barbecuing. I will cherish it forever.”

That's not to say that we shouldn't seek help, or that we shouldn't look for ways to solve the problems that vex us. It's just that maybe we should do so with the understanding that the answers we find might not be one-size fits all.

We just have to be willing to understand that if the answers differ for all of us, we are probably all a little bit different.

The thing – above all others – that has surprised me about parenthood is how much my children have taught me about being not only a parent, but also a person.

It's more than handling the grocery shopping meltdowns and helping them solve their own school yard crises. It's more than fretting about the future and all the what-ifs.”

It's right now.

It's in the moment.

It's just doing the best you can and having faith that tomorrow will present a new moment.

In so many ways, it's tuning out all of the noise that makes us doubt ourselves.

The more I think of it the more I see that the only real opinion that matters – the only proof of effectiveness – will come from our kids … when they are our age, with children of their own.

And then … well ...

Then we will give our grandchildren cake for breakfast and wax nostalgic about "kids in our day."

Molehills and mountains

The summer is here …

And I can't escape the dampness.

Or … the laundry.

It's not just the infernal rain and the wall of humidity that has me down -- though the depressing idea of traveling around inside a mosquito net has crossed my mind numerous times – it's also the moisture that just naturally trails children wherever they go.

The winter may be long gone, but there are still runny noses, which, despite my objections, are often dried not just by their shirtsleeves, but also by bed sheets, bath towels, and decorative pillows.

There are the showers, to which both kids have graduated, where a gap in the curtain causes a small river of water to pool by the sink.

And then there is the pool … which I can't understand for the life of me how no one in the entire family – including the husband – can manage to bring a towel with them to mop up the afterswim.

I suppose the joy of crashing into the cool water at the end of these overheated days obliterates the need to be prepared.

Who needs to make plans when they still have me – the lifeguard, waiter and de facto cabana boy – to step and fetch it?

Still, long trails of water stretch through the house, forking off into various directions as each of them dashed for dry land.

I am never quick enough. No one can wait all drippy and shivery at the door for the few minutes it takes to gather a few sheets of terrycloth, which haven't been clean long enough to be folded and stacked away.

And it's not just from swimming, either. The boy has taken to making “experiments” using tap water and soap in his room, and the girl has to wash her hair using every product in the bathroom … both usually end in explosions and the need for clean-up crews.

These are the summer rituals I could do without.

I used to love summer. Longer days, walking around barefoot and the anticipation of vacation plans made ordinary workdays seem restful. Even at home, it seemed the weight of the world always lifted in direction correlation to the weight of the laundry basket.

Gone were the double layer pants and heavy sweaters. In their stead were light, cotton shorts and sleeveless shirts. Even a mountain of them seemed like a molehill.

I'm not sure what changed, but something has. The washer and dryer are in operation daily, and the linen closet is always empty.

The laundry molehills have returned to their mountainous size, though now they come in a multitude of colors.

I can't seem to take a step without tripping over piles of freshly laundered towels, now soggy and peppered with sand.

“Didn't I just wash these?” I say to the dog, who is the only one in the house who pays much attention to me (even though she is also likely to ignore whatever it is I say unless it involves the words “dinner,” “walk” or “squirrel”).

Now, if I could just train her to use the washer and dryer.

The real reason people have their groceries delivered

Picture the scene: A sweaty, sun-fried mom is pawing through her purse, looking for the thin piece of plastic that will allow her to leave the store with the cartful of groceries she's gathered for the better part of an hour. It should have been secured in one of the thin pockets that line her wallet, but chances are it was unceremoniously tossed back into the tote with a fistful of receipts from the last shopping trip. “It's in there somewhere,” she frets.

She is embarrassed. People are waiting behind her in line, pretending they aren't angry that the delay threatens to turn their ice cream into soup. She starts to clear the bag, tossing everything she knows isn't legal tender onto the conveyor belt.

A scarf … an overdue library book ... yesterday's mail … a Matchbox car ... a package of fruit candy ... a taser.

Yes. A taser.

“It's a toy,” she tells the clerk.

Knit brows rise and faces tighten with laughter when the daughter in tow grabs the realistic-looking battery-operated gizmo and explains to the clerk that it was her brother's, given to him by her mom's best *cough* Nellie-Oleson *cough* friend.

“Mom took it away from him because he wouldn't stop pretending to zap people. He's a real stunner, that kid.”

Did you guess I was that mom?

Did you wonder if I was chastising myself, as I repacked my bag of detritus, why I hadn't just put the dang credit card back where it belonged? Or did I tell myself to just let it go?

It's not the end of the world as we know it.

It's probably not even among the seven signs of the apocalypse, unless you count a purse-sized earthquake.

I mean … stranger things than a mom pulling a toy taser on a teenage supermarket employee while her socially precocious daughter narrates have been happening recently, right?

Don't believe me? Here's a recap:

The Discovery Channel aired a fake-u-mentary declaring mermaids to be real, and, closing disclaimer aside, children around the country started pointing to their science teachers, parents and anyone within earshot – usually people who don't believe in UFOs or winged angels walking among us – and saying: “Neener-neener-neener, I told you mermaids were real!”

Turns out the government IS spying on everyone, something most people (including the non-UFO believers) have long suspected. However, now that an American has shown proof to a British journalist that this democracy of ours has secret laws and secret courts, which might possibly trample all over the Bill of Rights, that whistleblower is being considered unAmerican.

Texas seems to be gearing up for a baby boom as its legislature maneuvers to effectively end abortion. I suppose if that's what they think is best, who am I to argue? I don't vote in Texas. However, I sincerely hope the state reconsiders its refusal to expand Medicaid as part of the Affordable Care Act. Seems to me if the state wants to prove it cares about life before 20 weeks it should prepare for weeks 41 through 936. At the very least, legislators should be forced to watch a single episode of CSI so they know “rape kits” are for evidence collection and not so a woman can “get cleaned out.”

Speaking of Texas, reports are cropping up that a bite from an arachnid called the Lone Star Tick could make some folks allergic to red meat. And that the tick is in New York. No joke, although those UFO abductees are likely calling it a vast vegetarian conspiracy.

And it's not just the south where things are off-kilter. Two guys in our neck of the woods – one from Galway, the other from Hudson – were arrested for allegedly conspiring to build a radiation death ray device they could drive around in a van.

Honestly, I don't know how much more of this brand of crazy I can can take. I fear if it continues, The Champ is going to add “Matchbox Death Ray Van” prominently to his Christmas list, it will end up in my purse, and I will have to get our groceries delivered.

Silas is golden

Dear Champ,

Recently, I made the mistake of telling you the story of you, including my initial desire of wanting a girl.

You know, so that as siblings, you could do all the things sisters do ...

Share a room ...

And secrets ...

And hand-me-down-clothes.

I thought it was pretty basic stuff. Pragmatic. Pedestrian, even.

Why would anyone want to have to buy all new stuff just because everything we owned to appease humans who had yet to reach the height requirement for bumper cars was awash in pink and purple?

Turns out the newly six-year-old you didn't have any idea what I was talking about.

You heard "I wanted a girl," and that was it.

Heartbreak.

“It wasn't like that,” I stammeringly tried to backpedal. “You weren't a disappointment. You were a happy surprise. I had no experience with boys … no brothers … I had no idea what an amazing experience having a boy could be.”

But you didn't believe me. You couldn't take my word for it, not after the words “I wanted a girl,” tumbled so easily from my mouth.

The damage was done.

You trudged up the stairs, packed a suitcase. Filled it with toys and books and changes of socks.

Lugged it downstairs ...

Bumpety, bump, bump, bump …

And declared:

“I am leaving and never coming back. You will have to feed the dog yourself.”

But you just stood there. A wonder, wearing three pairs of shorts, two shirts and three hats.

I knew laughter at that moment would have dug my hole deeper, so instead I dug a jagged finger nail into the palm of my hand to keep from laughing.

You have always been your own person: A pajama-wearing, squeaky-shoe hating kid who likes fruit bats and chimpanzees.

You are a wonder of incongruity, who astounds us with your child-given brilliance as you argue the power of deities with your atheist father:

“God does bad things to you if you don't believe in him,” you warn.

“Well, I DON'T believe in God,” your dad fired back. “What will happen to me.”

“He'll make you frustrated and always fighting with mom,” he replies with a grin. “See, he IS real.”

You are nobody's fool. When the Little League coach tried to get you to use the only bat available – a light pink aluminum beauty – by using the twisted logic ... “your mother would use a pink bat, therefore if you loved your mother you'd use it, too” … you didn't fall for it.

“Don't love my mother and I won't use a pink bat!”

It didn't hurt my feelings. I know you better than that.

Six years ago, when you joined our family, you were a wonder, too.

A boy who always kept us guessing.

Would you be healthy?

Would you ever eat food?

Ohmyghad, what would you say to strangers?

None of that stuff is easily explained. At least, not by me.

But it was a dear friend, who took one look at you and said: "Silas is golden" that put us all at ease.

Because it was simple and because it was true.

And if ever you don't believe it, you can go here and see for yourself.

Happy Birthday, baby of mine. You really are golden.

Love,

Mommy.

Life before your eyes

I think we're all waiting for a moment when our lives will change.

The optimists among us are hoping for a brighter future. A change in circumstance that will make them happy. They will be able to cross the street by themselves. Drive a car. Visit a bar. Earn a promotion or find a better job. The love of their life will walk in any moment.

They are looking for the happy ending.

The pessimists in our midst are just bracing for the end.

Anxiety level, over time, is the best indicator of which end is up.

There are been many moments in my life thus far that I've braced for that one moment. Most recently, it was last June when the doctors' office called with some worrisome test results.

A follow-up, more tests, repeated tests in six months, and a determination of "normal" findings did their best to reassure me that I would have more time to worry for no actual reason.

Eventually, I know, they will find something. They always find something eventually.

It's June again.

A time when school releases and summer commences. A time when plans for birthday parties and day camps and vacations come together. And time for my annual imaging visit of terror.

“Why didn't I do this during the month of its awareness,” I chastise. “The only holiday it would ruin is Halloween … and a holiday devoted to horror seems apropos.”

Instead, as it stands, I have set up appointments that are destined to ruin either the summer or Christmas season. Hopefully not both.That's just the optimist trying to be soothing.

As I drove along the roadways to my scheduled appointment, my life flashed before my eyes.

I passed the places to which I had commuted for most of my adult life. I drove past my first job – a restaurant, where I worked in the kitchen. Next I drove by my first apartment. There, or there-abouts, was the place I had a flat tire one cold, February morning when I was six-months pregnant with my first child.

The path I took had a mixture of good times and bad. So many turning points.

I took this road to high school and college. To outings and meetings and new experiences.

The road brought me to weddings and births and funerals.

It had brought me to the hospital countless times. To visit loved ones, welcome babies and volunteer. It brought me every manner of waiting room, from emergency to surgical.

How many traffic jams had I encountered right about here? I wondered as the traffic slowed nearing my destination.

Of course, I was jumping the gun. I was picturing an end to the summer I had planned before it began.

Of course, I worry. Of course.

“I will wait for the doctor to read the films,” I tell myself, fearing waiting for that phone call more than the results it will bear.

“Will be with you soon,” says a reassuring voice. “Don't worry.”

And I realize there is something I've been doing besides worrying.

This past year I've been taking each day as it comes. I've been smiling at strangers and volunteering at school. I've been reeling things in and letting them go.

And as much as I've been white-knuckling it through these narrow straights, every time I review this life I've had thus far, I am reminded how it never really stays the same.

It changes – one way or another – from one day to the next, each day of our lives.

This summer, to my great relief, my plans will go on as scheduled.  

Looking up

In the car. On the school bus. At the cafe down the street, it's always the window seat. I'd rather sit in the back, near the racks of potato chips and postcards of local excitements, but the kids always want the window seat.

As I wait in line for bagels – one toasted the other nuked, both with butter -- the kids draw pictures in the fog they've huffed on the plate glass.

“Sssssstooooop that,” I hissed when I returned to the table to dole out the wax-paper wrapped packages.

They erase their wonky hearts exclaiming 'I love mom,' with the insides of their shirtsleeves and throw themselves into a chair.

We eat in relative silence -- one mouthful at a time -- rustling of paper and constant chatter aside. I try to ignore the wobbly table that undulates from one kid to another as if they're rowing a rickety boat with their elbows.

The morning slows down. I check my iPhone for the gazillionth time. Nothing new.

The kids' attentions are diverted by everything that passes by the window.

First, there was “the cutest, widdle, doggy-woggy on the face of the entire planet.”

Then, Joey Suchafuss strolled by with his little brother. “He must be visiting his grandfather. I wonder if they'd like to come over later and ride bikes?”

“Keep eating,” I coax. “You've only finished one quart of your bagel.”

“Oh my gosh, did you see that car! It was huuuuuge. I bet it had a swimming pool in there.”

“Do you know why the chicken crossed the playground? No? To get to the other SLIDE!”

Their mirth annoys me. I can admit it. I just want to drink my coffee in peace … and quiet. I want to read the news on my pocket-sized device.

“Eat! Don't play!” I say with the exasperated tone I usually reserve for “Hurry! The bus is coming!”

They just ignore me. They know we're in no rush. They probably wouldn't chew with their mouths closed any how.

I should count myself lucky they haven't decided the bathrooms are the most interesting part of the cafe experience. The view from our table is much more scenic than the one I'd have if I'd been forced to hover outside the men's room door (for the seventh time).

Eventually, they finish as much as they can eat. A greasy crescent will be saved and forgotten about in the pocket of my tote bag.

“Can we go now?” Ittybit asks, knowing by my expression that I just want to sit and finish my coffee. I don't care that it's getting cold.

She looks out the window and notices a crowd forming at the door. First a couple, then a gaggle of children, then people with pets on their morning walks. All of them looking up.

“Can we go outside and see what's going on?” she begs.

“Ok. Just stay on the sidewalk. And hold your brother's hand.”

Soon they are back and braying at me like animated Chickens Little.

“You need to see this. Come outside.”

“Is the sky falling?”

“No, it's a rainbow.”

“Then I'll just stay here and finish my luke-warm beverage. Here's my phone. Take a picture.”

In a minute, she comes back with a screen filled with pictures of the top of the building, blurry trees and people's feet. And one picture of a corona rainbow circling the sun, which is peeking out from behind the rooftop.

“Isn't that something ...” I say, staring into the light of the smartphone as I collect our things and clear the table.

Two women pass us on their way in as we, finally, make our way out.

“Hey, Guys!” yells my son to the ladies, close enough to them to tug on their pants' legs. Thankfully he didn't. “When you're done with your bagel, go outside and look up!”

“Don't worry if you miss it, you can come to our house and see it on my mom's cell phone.”

Running ... in the end

I just ran three point one miles.

That's 5 kilometers for all you metric folks out there.

It was great.

Ok … I didn't run the “whole time.”

I walked a good part of it.

“Good” equalling about half … if you don't count the portion of the roadway I paced back and forth in an effort to catch my breath.

It felt great.

The pain in my right hip, not withstanding. That's no big deal. Just a little hiccup is all.

I didn't even feel it until the next day, anyway. It could have been from anything.

And the hip pain was nothing compared to the pinch in my left knee.

Probably the shoes.

Or the crick in my neck … it hurt a little to look to the left.

But, I'm sure that had more to do with my pillow being wrong side up when I was sleeping on it crookedly.

These things happen.

People my age understand that some amount of discomfort upon reentry into a new day is merely a gentle reminder that we've made it past the average lifespan of Neanderthals. “Go, homo sapiens!”

My creaky joints rustling like cellophane as I walk downstairs every morning probably should have told me all I needed to know about going from a seated position to a full out run in some deluded quest for exercise.

It's just that I really trust the imaginary yogi in my mind – the one with the sweet, comforting sliver of a Punjabi accent – who has reassured me that all will be fine in the end. “Because if it is not fine, it is not yet the end.”

I think it's good to have enthusiasm even if others think common sense is more useful.

Pain, schmain.

That's why ibuprofen was invented, right?

I like the gel caps. They release their magical, pain reducing molecules ever-so-much faster.

Modern pharmacology aside, it's not like I don't worry about the pain. Or the extremely high probability that a person my age could pull, snap or otherwise dislodge something that won't push, snap or lodge back into place on its own.

I just don't need to think about it yet.

That stabbing sensation on the outer left knee has only been there for a few days, and I'm not sure, but I think it's moving toward the inner part of my right knee.

That could all be in my head (or at least the moving part).

And while I don't know my knee pain exactly, I do know my hypochondria. I've successfully trained myself NOT to panic about discomfort until it becomes crippling or lasts longer than two weeks … whichever comes first.

So … I'm walking this one off.

That's what I tell myself, “Walk this one off.”

I told the coach that, too as I walked around the track.

“I'll be fine. I'm just going to walk around for a while. I'm sure I'll be able to run by the end.”

“Are you sure?” she wondered skeptically?

“Positive! If I am not running in the end, it is not yet the end.”

Our kids are their kids, too

I was that mother. The one who looks critically at the school her child attends and wonders: Is this the right fit for my child?

At the beginning of each year the same question surfaces.

Is this teacher a good match?

This year, her teacher was sweet and affectionate, sentimental and caring. Every tattered card offered by grimy little fingers is accepted as if it were gold. This woman, who is so filled with emotion her eyes flood with every sad story she hears, is exactly what I fear most.

This is the sort of person, I tell myself, who will be steamrolled by this child of mine.

This child of mine, who hasn't fallen far from the tree.

I think I know everything, too.

My child, I tell myself, needs structure and sternness. She needs to know that she is not the boss of everything.

Because, I can admit, she IS the boss of most things at home. She can get herself up in the mornings, get herself dressed and packed for school. She'd even manage to prepare a somewhat healthy breakfast if we had such a thing in our kitchen.

Instead, she just harps at me about the lack of selection in our produce drawer.

"More melon, please. Fewer pears."

She'd run to the market if she could see above the steering wheel.

She'd run the whole show if we let her.

Of course, I've never SAID anything that would call into question the wisdom of the paring.

It occurs to me that she's not as soft a touch as I imagine.

It also occurs to me that my daughter is not the master manipulator I assume her to be.

All of that fresh-school-year angst came flooding back to me this week as news of a deadly tornado in Moore, Okla. devastated two elementary schools.

Probably shouldn't admit that, as a “newsie,” I haven't watched much of the news, but it's true.

I couldn't stomach clicking on links in my news feeds that paired “Horrifying” and “Watch” in the same eye-grabbing sentence. I didn't want to see a child's suffering face and feel helpless.

But I couldn't turn away from stories about the teachers. Their quiet heroism. Some of them shielding students against devastating winds with their bodies.

I couldn't turn away from photographs of teachers tearfully hugging students they were afraid might have perished.

It was an extraordinary sight, but one that shouldn't have surprised me.

Our kids are their kids, too.

And even in the day-to-day drudgery – the dog-eats-homework struggles -- teachers are there for our kids in ways we might not have expected.

They are buying school supplies and snacks, doling out high-fives and bear hugs. Listening to concerns and brokering solutions for everything from Josie left her sneakers at home to Johnny's family is homeless.

Most of us have breathed a sigh of relief (perhaps more than once) as the school bus swallows our children whole and carries them away.

More and more I find myself saying a silent prayer. ...

For their teachers.

Dog days

She was trying to tell me something.

We were on the couch. I was pounding away on my laptop, and she had been curled up by my side. Then she rose and inched closer. Her sweet face pressed down on my shoulder for the briefest of moments as I continued to tap away at the keys. When she retreated, a moist puddle of drool was her parting gift.

“Thanks, for that.” I said aloud as she looked up at me with a start. “No charge,” I answered on her behalf and returned to typing.

My silent partner relaxed. She is not fluent in sarcasm, but she understands that the smile that settles on my face means she's not in the doghouse.

Most of our interactions have had this kind of lost-in-translation sensibility.

She barks at me when I'm on the phone. I tell her we don't have a son named Timmy, nor do we have an uncovered well. She is not convinced. She keeps barking.

I roll my eyes and put her outside. She is quiet.

She sighs and lowers herself to the ground to await my return.

“People!” she probably growls to herself, “What do they know?

Prattle on about nothing from sun-up until sun-down, check the box in their pockets every six seconds and it's not even FOOD.”

In allergy season, as each grain of pollen is explosively expelled from my sinuses, her canine outrage is awakened. She sees nothing to sneeze at. My irritation is her irritation by default.

“Dogs! What do they know?

“Eat, sleep, befoul the backyard, chase squirrels, ignore their toys, chew up something they shouldn't, cover their humans with slobbery substances when that human returns from checking the mailbox, eat, sleep and sleep some more.”

Of course, there are times when I'm sure we understand each other completely.

When I walk into the kitchen, she sits near the fridge.

When she starts using the couch as a trampoline, I get her leash.

And then there are days I wonder how ANYONE got the idea that humans and animals ever live together in harmony.

Take yesterday, for instance:

It started out as any ordinary spring day: The kids woke up; complained about it being a school day; decided they didn't want to wear weather-appropriate clothes; and got on the bus begging me to come and get them in an hour, “when it would be the summertime.”

The dog's day was ordinary, too: Woke the kids up, complained about not being allowed to go to the bus, ate the left-over breakfast and broke a dish in the process.

She needs a job, I think to myself as I sweep up the pieces and drop them into the trash. She thinks she's the dishwasher around here.

She just looks at me, tilts her head and sits. Her tail sweeping back and forth excitedly.

All day long, she follows me from one chore to the next.

Clear dishes. Start the laundry. Sweep floors. More laundry. Errands. Office. Bookkeeping. More laundry. She just watches.

She is maturing, I think, as I load the dish washer.

I glance up at the clock to look at the time, and realize the day has gotten away from me.

“Oh, the bus!” I yell and race out the door.

In no time, I am back, trailing two little humans who are babbling about their day.

And then suddenly … there was silence.

“What happened?” yelled the kids as the dog tries to slink away.

She couldn't move.

I'd guessed from the sight of her that she'd been licking the plates in the dishwasher, which I had left open in the rush to the bus, had gotten her tags caught in the lower rack. She'd panicked and dragged the thing through the house at a high enough rate of speed that its contents had scattered everywhere.

This was not what she expected either.

I patted her head as I unhooked the empty rack from her collar.

“You know … If you really wanted to be a sled dog you should have just told me.”

Mirror, mirror

Sometimes I think my mirror must have magical properties.

When I look into it – past the water spots and toothpaste spatter – I see the same person who greeted me during my high school days and showed up in college. She is the same woman who wore the bridal gown at my wedding … the same woman who got carded for an R-rated movie when I was 30. It matters not that I know this person peering at me from behind the glass isn't as youthful as I used be. Her hair is filled with silver now. She is wider in some places, thinner in others. But if I stand a certain way, hold in my breath and relax my eyes, the mirror still shows me what I want to see.

Stupid mirror.

It should have warned me about honesty ... the unguarded kind.

Instead, it let me stride in to my son's kindergarten class on a beautiful Friday morning – overconfident in my youth and vitality, believing that I was no different from any other mother of a five-year-old, helping classmates color inside the lines -- and be completely demolished by a single question.

A question not even addressed to me:

“Hey, Champ, is that your grandmother?”

I tried to make jokes with the teacher. I tried to laugh it off, but I touched my hair -- my metallic laced, straw-textured hair – and I just wanted to cry.

It wasn't just the way I looked. It was the way I felt. The way I'd defiantly accepted the wiry silver hairs once they'd started coming. The way I'd admired other women who refused to cover their premature grays. The way I'd hoped to be admired as I aged into my hair color.

Yet, one word spoken aloud – grandmother – and all of those good, empowering feelings were gone.

For the next hour, while I helped children wrestle with their shoelaces, backwards Bs and a sticky soap dispenser, I wrestled with my pride.

As soon as the bell rang, I was staring blankly at the hair color aisle in the pharmacy.

“This isn't a big thing, right?” I reasoned, tipping a box of Soft Maple Brown into my shopping basket, which was dangling from the crook of my elbow below the shelf. “It's just a bit of color. A boost of confidence.

“Think nothing of this container of chemistry going against everything you've ever said about accepting aging with grace. … or beauty being more than skin deep.”

Even with the purchase, I couldn't let it go. I paced the floors with the unopened box, ruminating on this thing I was about to do.

“Do I look like a grandmother?” I asked people neither gormless nor honest enough to answer in the affirmative after regaling them with the story of the kindergartners I'd encountered that morning, whose mother, I'd convinced myself, was surely a teenager.

“Are you still going on about that,” asked Ittybit. She had emerged from her dance class to find tap shoes and instead found me droning on about looking into an AARP membership.

She was right. All this time I'd told her looks aren't important and here I was obsessed. How could she ever listen to me again? I wondered.

But it wasn't that. She saw a more practical problem with my predicament.

“I saw that box you bought at the drugstore. ... If I were you, I'd go to a salon. Let a professional handle this. Really, you don't want ME to be the one saying 'I told you so'.”

Only nine and she is already a grownup.

“You don't have a kid in The Champ's kindergarten class you haven't told me about, do you?”