Dangerous love

I know our cat loves us. Or at least, I think she does.

She watches our every move. She has a sixth sense that alerts her the moment we awaken, or the instant we step foot in the kitchen.

She is there. Watching.

It's not as creepy as it sounds. Or maybe it is, who am I kidding?

It's a love, I must admit, that feels a little dangerous.

She's always one step ahead. Literally. A step slower and she'd trip me on the stairs. Every. Time.

It's like she's programmed to overlap my territory.

Instead of lazing in the sun, or curling up in a cardboard box like other cats are reported to do, our cat seems to only bask in the warmth of my immediate departure.

For instance:

Any given dinner time I'll get up from my place setting, walk into the kitchen, grab the milk from the fridge and walk back into the dining room and my chair will be filled with cat.

It takes exactly 8.50 seconds. (I know because the boy pick-pocketed my iPhone and timed me.)

But I can only guess that it takes the cat just a fraction of My-Own-Dinner-Is-Getting-Cold speed to commandeer my chair at the table.

And there she'll sit, a black shadow, low on her haunches, not disturbed in the least by my return.

Nary a sound will she make as I unknowingly move to sit down, only to ricochet back to standing with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop.

“Jump in my grave, why don't you,” I holler, just as my mother would have given the circumstances. The room explodes in giggles as the show begins. Of course, the cat won't budge.

My family can barely contain their amusement as I try everything from tipping to telepathy to get the cat to vamoose and let me eat in peace. Eventually, I have no choice but to pick up her small-dog-sized frame and move her to another piece of recently vacated furniture. Maybe the dog bed is still warm. ...

I'm not complaining, really.

She's a good pet for an animal who can't be trained, won't be contained and doesn't answer to her name.

She's friendly and affectionate. Loving, even when it's probably not in her best interest. If I were her I would have sliced the resident ambushing dog to ribbons by now, but she just waits out the dopey affection and walks away with drool-covered fur. Not even a hiss.

I would have mapped out hiding spots and been in them whenever the stampeding of little feet headed my way. She doesn't even blink when the bag of doll clothes gets up-zipped. Maybe she thinks she looks pretty in a bonnet, who knows? You'd think she was declawed.

At least that's what people tell me when they visit. (They usually tell their kids: “Don't go trying this on your cat at home.”)

Of course, she's not totally an alien creature.

She'll play with string, chase her tail, and, in springtime, she'll bring us the catch of the day. Leaving some poor, hapless rodent gutted on the porch for us to find.

New theories of cat fancy tell me this garish morsel is not the thoughtful gift we accepted it to be. She is not repaying our kind offerings of Fancy Feast with a headless mole or an eviscerated snake. She is the mother huntress and we are her idiot kittens, albeit huge and relatively hairless ones. She's training us to hunt.

And that kneading business? Turns out her obsessive need to knead me in the middle of the night, circle around and sleep in the middle of my back, may have nothing to do with her vague memory of kittenhood or the pleasures of a warm mommy. She's just marking her territory with the scent glands on the bottoms of her paws.

But I can hear in the velvet flutter of her purr that I am more than just her pillow.

“Try not to wake me when you lose all feeling in your lower extremities, human. Unless you are getting my breakfast. … Then do be careful on the stairs.”

From parity to parody, and the inside joke

No matter which statistic you'd like to take as fact, the gender wage gap is shrinking. The only question is when, if ever, will it achieve parity?

The White House says for every dollar a man makes a woman makes 77 cents.

According to Pew Research Center, women earn about 84 percent of what their male counterparts make and younger women are expected to earn 93 percent.

If you can believe that.

For sure, it's a difficult concept to wrap one's head around. Since 1963, when President John F. Kennedy signed into law the Equal Pay Act, which stipulates employers cannot discriminate between employees based on gender, folks have been trying to figure out what – exactly – parity should look like.

Some will argue that we're not really tabulating comparable jobs. How can we ever find fairness if we have to take into account that women suspend their careers an average of three years to tend to the business of life and family.

It has been estimated that women generally earn $400,000 less than their male counterparts during the course of their careers. But are we really comparing apples and apples or are we comparing astronauts and airline attendants?

That's so sexist, you say. I just shrug my shoulders.

I know what it's like to go to college, work for a few years, gain experience, earn a couple of dollars in raises and then find out, over after-work drinks that newly hired male coworker, without any experience or college education earned .50 less per hour than I did, and $2 more than the college-educated, non-experienced woman I had recommended for hire three months earlier.

And the kicker? When I asked my boss about the disparity, It was I who had broken the sacred trust of wage secrecy.

Which, in my opinion, was the kiss of death to any hope of equal pay for equal work.

“The world is crazy,” my mom would say. “People talk about sex until they're blue in the face, but money? It's taboo.”

In the late 1960s, when my parents were starting down their separate career paths – mom a registered nurse, and dad a craftsman for AT&T Long Lines – they made the exact same salary. For a time their wages even stayed in lock-step.

Before they married, my mom had bought her mother a house, her brother a car, and she had helped her sister pay for college. She was a genius at finance. She could save a fortune without seeming to have pinched a penny.

My dad's money, on the other hand, burned a hole in his pocket.

By the time they married, she had paid his (minor) debts, taken over the family finances and everyone was happy.

By the late 1970s, her wages had stagnated while his had risen steadily. She ended up staying home with the kids, working only sporadically and always part-time.

Yet, if someone were analyzing how mom's stewardship of the bank accounts contributed to the family's overall wealth, they'd likely find she was the engine that not only could, but did.

My mom was always more of a Suze Ormon type than a Gloria Steinem, though.

She didn't see herself as the victim of a gender gap, certainly not in the same way my generation views this divide.

She made wage parity. We've made wage parodies.

Without being able to talk about money, what we end up with is an inside joke.

An exhibition at the exhibition

Taking kids on a family outing to an art museum is fun.

No. Strike that. It's more than fun, it's an adventure.

But there are a few things you should know.

First, be aware that when you make an executive decision to forgo the usual tennis match of fun activities you could be doing today (but won't be doing because, as it turns out, the argument IS the activity) and tell the kids WE'RE GOING TO AN ART MUSEUM, there will be tears.

Big, fat, you-might-as-well-have-shipped-our-dog-to-A FARM IN THE COUNTRY-type tears.

They might even go boneless and refuse to put on pants. Who knows?

Persevere. Culture and broadened horizons are worth the donning of pants.

You might get around this little road block by offering to let your kids each take a friend with them to the museum.

Don't think of it as your children having partners in crime, think of it as them having moral support.

They will each have a compadre with whom they can explore contemporary expressions of existentialism as well as play hide-and-seek in the coat room.

Note to future self: It may be a good idea to steer clear of the coin-operated lockers, or at least demand to be the holder of the dayglow orange key. You will thank me for avoiding that frantic (and ultimately fruitless) end-of-adventure key hunt, not to mention having to explain to two different sets of families how it was you managed to lose their children's jackets.

It may be also comforting to know that security professionals LOVE children.

They follow their every move.

Nothing gets their attention faster than a first-grader running at breakneck speed toward an irreplaceable piece of art or history.

And we are the careful parents.

Aside from wrapping our kids in padding and attaching them to harnesses with bungee cords, we've prepped them for every manner of temptation.

Do not run. Do not jump.

Do not touch. Anything.

Don't even think about touching. Anything.

Even if they tell you you can touch something, pretend it will give you a shock. ...

And don't pick your nose. Even if you think no one is looking.

Note to future musem-going self: There is a reason children give you the stink-eye when you tell them they will have fun at the museum despite the fact that they can't act like children there.

Moving on.

If you can manage it, you might want to follow a tour.

I'm telling you it will be a hoot when your guide walks you through the complexities of German Fluxist Joseph Beuy's “Lightning with Stag in its Glare,” describing in detail the features of the piece and how they relate to the artist's obsession with the primal, elemental world … with the exception of the one (and only) detail my son was so eager to point out:

“It looks like poop.”

Moving on …

But not too far … because when you turn around to clamp your hand over your kid's mouth, the docent will notice something peculiar about you.

Something the ticket seller … and the bathroom attendant … and dozen or so security guards prior to this very moment had somehow overlooked.

“Is that a backpack?”

“Uh … I suppose it is,” I answered thinking about the nylon drawstring bag containing all my worldly possessions: a credit card, wet wipes and a package of fruit snacks.

“How did you get that in here? You can't have a backpack in the gallery. Handbags only.”

She was kindly, though, and her words were not in any way as accusing as the voice in my head was translating.

I turn, red-faced, to notice all the gentile women gliding about the gallery encumbered with briefcase-sized shoulder bags but unencumbered by knee-high sprogs, but I said nothing.

All I could think about was how was I going to corral the cats without stepping foot into the space where they had dispersed.

“I'll tell you what … I'll carry the bag over one shoulder and we'll call it a shoulder bag.”

What were they going to say? “Go stow the bag in a locker, I'll herd your cats?”

Nope … it's more like:

“How about you get the kids and go stow the bag in a locker.”

Moving on ...

Of course, there are things you can do to alleviate your embarrassment.

You can drink.

Oh, settle down. I'm kidding.

You can't drink. You have to drive later … that is if you can find the locker key your son insisted on keeping in sweaty, art destroying hands.

Common discord

I understood the words printed on the torn newsprint worksheet that came home from my son's first-grade classroom, but compiled into directions they confounded me:

“Put the items into a number sentence with the longest item first.”

Under the words -- which were growing more meaningless by the minute -- there were three line drawings of various tools. Pictured were a screwdriver; a pencil; and a tube of lipgloss, which had the words “glue stick” printed on its side.

And then there was this:

A. ____________________________

B. ____________________________

C. ____________________________

I was lost.

Were they being literal? Did they want us to cut out the pictures and paste them onto a line?

Maybe they wanted us to measure the pictures and incorporate the measurements into a haiku.

Perhaps we are supposed to get a real screwdriver, measure it and then sharpen a pencil until it is smaller than our screwdriver but longer than a lipgloss (as it so happens, we are fresh out of glue sticks) and then write all of those figures down in alphabetical order.

No. They didn't say we'd need a ruler for this exercise.

Wait! What's the mathematical equation for “screwdriver” again?

I scratch my head and start to hyperventilate as my son looks on, unperturbed.

He hasn't mastered reading directions in the same way the test prep people haven't mastered writing directions, so it seems they are evenly matched.

Or more likely, it's his teacher who has helped him interpret this strange new choreography.

“I'm just going to draw pictures. Longest first ... Shortest last,” he says, matter-of-factly.

Everyone has to have standards, I suppose.

At least that's what I tell myself every time my social network lights up with 140-character assassinations of this latest education reform we all know as Common Core.

I don't disagree, but I don't agree completely either.

Not that I'm a scientist. Or a sociologist. Or a teacher. Or an expert on anything, with the exception of the face my kid makes when I give him the elbow-kind of noodles instead of the shell-shaped ones in his macaroni and cheese.

I am an expert on that expression.

Which may explain why I haven't gotten too worked up over the latest incarnation of Education ReformTM.

I'm certain Scott Foresman and his descendants have been irritating parents, one torn-out worksheet at a time, since the late 1800s.

And I'm sure my father wasn't the first person in the history of education to complain to a third grade teacher that creative spelling isn't going to make human communication any easier in the long run.

The experts are always changing their minds.

It's a slippery slope.

I don't want to roll my eyes every time someone I love comes and tells me the latest research on coffee and apple cider vinegar being the cure for whatever ails. Or that Singapore math is better than any other methodology.

Not that I don't want to believe the scientific double-blind study of 164 randomly sampled people from Scandinavia.

I know being skeptical of science is likely to spin out of control. Who's to know which among us will end up on a Fox news camera talking about how Global Warming isn't really a thing or that Intelligent Design is definitely a thing …

You know …

Because winter is persisting. … 

And humans can't be happenstance. … 

And kids shouldn't be ready for college right out of kindergarten. 

… Or what happens to the kids who will never be ready for college?

It all boils down to the fear of the unknown, I think.

Fear that we aren't prepared for the future. Fear that we can't prepare for the future. Fear that our children will be the ones left behind because everything is different now.

But I can't help thinking things are always going to be different. And school is the textbook equivalent of a single page torn from the workbook of life. We can only prepare so much for a future that is always changing. Eventually we just have to react or adapt.

Maybe we should be taking great comfort in knowing that even if our kids can't string a few words together into a cogent math sentence, they won't be precluded from shaping the next great educational reform.

Top dog

He came loping into the backyard as if he owned the place. Perhaps in another life he had.

His coat -- a silvery-gray -- blended seamlessly with the blue cast of the morning sky. His feet pressed against the lingering hard-packed snow and lifted off again without leaving a print.

Sipping coffee in the living room and warming ourselves by a fireplace, we stood in disbelief, silent and safe behind triple-paned glass as he trotted straight for us.

A coyote in the suburbs.

We watched in awe as the animal turned suddenly -- head lowered, body arrow straight -- and made his way into the woods.

In a moment, he was gone. The only evidence of his existence, a photo on a cell phone we passed around the room to late risers and disbelievers.

He was here.

For a time we were elated to have witnessed such sharp and ferocious beauty up close. Relieved that something – a sixth sense, laziness, gluttony, whatever – had stopped us from taking care of the dog's needs before our own. If it weren't for coffee and company, we may have been out there beyond the fishbowl's protection when wildlife came sauntering up.

But the reality of this chance encounter is the unmistakable sadness of what is likely to come. He is probably not just a vagabond passing through, but a creature on a familiar path. And if the past is any indication, his path will eventually cross ours in some unhappy way. We can not live together in peace. Not for long, anyway.

Nature coming too close to nurture usually means trouble.

A part of us wants to marvel at the beauty of his existence in this realm, but eventually, we fear, he will bite the hand that feeds him.

The reaction we have is understandable, our brains trying to tie together some loose ends. Better to be safe than sorry.

And we are already sorry.

We have guilt. We know in some way, indirectly perhaps, this is all our fault. Something we did caused this conflict and perpetuated it.

Natural fears diminished. We took his plains and his natural predators. We've fed him at our compost piles, our bird feeders and our garbage cans. He's not picky.

Still … He is not a guest we can harbor. Or can we?

Better engage the professionals. They'll know what to do.

But it seems, even the professionals are at a loss.

Some say we should have rushed out there. Made noise. Shown that he has things to fear here. That it won't be easy to get sustenance.

Show him who's really top dog and he will move along.

But that's risky, too.

Others say removal of the nuisance is the only way.

Find, trap, destroy.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

It never ends.

Kill programs may have brought wolves to the brink of extinction – not an envious result -- but they've not touched the coyote population one bit.

Coyotes are opportunists, resourceful and adaptable, not unlike ourselves. Happily or unhappily, they will survive if not flourish.

Surveillance cameras have even picked up sightings of coyotes and their pups in New York City parks.

In fact, it seems according to recent research, coyotes have migrated from their native plains habitat to inhabit nearly every state in the nation. And they could prove to be the first wave of larger carnivores – bears, cougars and wolves – moving into urban landscapes, following the smaller woodland prey that have already come to forage for our leftovers.

I think of the wide open spaces that are no more and I wonder what place is left for him now.

It seems quite evident that they know how to live with us, perhaps it's time we learn how to live with them.

Where we left off

I wrestled the door open and stepped inside.

Hinges needed oil.

The old apartment. Two floors of incongruous space.

Live. Work. Horde.

A familiar smell greeted me. A wild musk of animal and mineral. I encountered it second-hand last summer. … In the middle of the night, bleary-eyed and sleepwalking, letting the barking dog out to exercise her demons.

Skunk.

I bet they're living here, I said to myself. It is, after all, an unoccupied barn.

Up until this winter, it was a place someone – many people over the years, in fact -- had called home.

Years after we signed the deed, we'd meet dozens of folks from all generations who'd lived at our place at one time or another.

Renters, mostly. Before they'd bought their real homes.

Once in a while we'd invite them in. Show them around. They'd give us their own grand tours. Smaller, cozier tours. Filled with all manner of changes someone else might have erased.

We'd laugh about our home-renovation adventures. We'd tell them stories about how before every major life event we'd make a drastic change. Weeks before our first Thanksgiving we demolished the kitchen; days before our at-home wedding, a friend and I (without a shred of experience between us) tiled the bathroom floor; and hours before we brought our first child home from the hospital we framed out her room.

For us, that old barn was where our adult lives really began: The first place we called our own. It was where we were married. Where our children were born and where the first dog was buried. It was where we'd planned to stay forever.

Circumstances change.

Sure, we haven't lived there in nearly five years. But we still own it. We've often joked that the building owned us.

I hadn't even been over there in a while. There isn't much reason to go other than the momentary checking of pipes or the cursory search for something left behind. My old snowshoes. His ski boots. The fancy siphon-brew coffee pot that seemed more like an amusement park ride than an kitchen appliance.

Our old stuff – the possession we didn't have room to live with but didn't want to live without – still dwell in this place along with the transient mammals that den up in this suddenly silent cave.

Soon it will be emptied of all the things we neglected.

We will have to make some tough choices.

Are we ready for the “good” couch to come and live with us? The children are still slobs, and I have trained the dog to comfort me as I laze about on the couch. It has been a three-dog winter, after all.

The old couch. The dressers. The bits and pieces of household inheritances that made their way into our lives from time to time. Things that were owned by someone we loved, of course, but perhaps nothing that contained memories of our own.

Some of it will stay, some of it will have to go.

We will argue:

“Why don't you want my grandfather's battered croquet mallet and his empty liquor bottle collection?

“Don't you love me?”

And we will laugh:

"These have to be yours," he tells me, holding up a box and pressing down to hear the flock of rubber chickens let loose a chorus of wheezy-whistles.

“Those are not mine.”

“Oh, right. They are mine. I remember now. I was going to make a rubber chicken pot pie. ...

“I think I might want to keep them.”

He's not serious. I hope.

Still, we will let it go.

The most painful choice has already been made.

When we close this door for good, we will leave all these memories there, too. Unseen, perhaps, but there. Another thin layer of history.

In time, someone else will take up where we left off.

Breakfast of champions

He is standing there glaring at me from the tops of his eyes, chin tucked in against his chest. His upper lip is pressed firmly against his nose.

A low, gravelly vibration erupts from his throat. He is growling.

This means war.

Well, war in as much as a six-year-old can wage it.

“Use your words,” I say in that exasperated way we've all overheard in pick-an-aisle at the grocery store on any given day of the week.

It's my voice, sure, but it could have come from any parent's mouth. It sounds like elevator music on a loop.

He relents.

He harrumphs and uncrosses his arms.

“I Didn't. Want. Pancakes. I. Wanted. WAFFLES!” he hollers, and then starts to cry.

Things just never go his way. Big, fat tears of frustration follow down this arduous path. And for what?

The water is running. The dishwasher is open. Amid the last remaining clutter from dinner of the night before, breakfast is fully underway.

I don't have the energy to fight this battle, or to cut through the weeds when a clear walkway is a half-step away.

Waffles are no more than pancake batter poured onto a different surface.

I plug in the iron.

He exhales deeply and sits on the library stool, which is always in the kitchen except when I need it to reach items in the upper climbs of the cupboards.

Murphy's Law.

In no aspect of human existence is the proverbial Murphy's Law more evident than in parenting.

Everything that can go wrong will go wrong. At least it feels that way sometimes.

They only remember the toy you donated to charity.

The kids never need to use the bathroom until five minutes after you've left the house.

They want everything, but can't make up their mind.

As soon as you think you have one thing figured out, everything else changes.

No matter how early you rise, you will always be late.

He will be missing a shoe, or a sock, or a glove. It doesn't matter how many replacement pairs you have to fall back on, the one in his hand that is missing its friend is the only one he can wear outside of the house on this day.

And of course, as you start to search … you turn over the rocks and the dust bunnies and what-ever-else has been waiting for spring to clean … you will find almost everything else you lost, but you will not find the bridge ...

Whatever it is that will get him from one activity to another.

So you have to make a different sort of bridge. You knit it out of necessity and desperation. It is rickety and unappealing, but it serves its purpose.

It gets you to the next place.

Adolescence.

A scary thought.

The angst. The silence. The separation.

The weight on that bridge is only going to increase, but my building skills won't likely improve.

When we cross it, I imagine it will still be decrepit and unstable.

But if we can keep it together, even barely, I think we can win the war.

We just need to use our words … and, on occasion, eat waffles.

Time and distance

When did I get so old? I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and saw my grandmother staring back.

I don't feel much different than I did when I was a kid, mind you.

Well, except for the realization that I'd prefer to ask my kids to retrieve the things I drop rather than bend down. Of course, I tell myself that's not age, that's why people have kids.

But the advancing of time is evident nonetheless.

Maybe I started to feel my age when I stopped recognizing youthful celebrities.

Or when Courtney Cox moved from Monica Geller's Greenwich Village apartment to Cougar Town.

It might have been when a real life person – someone my age -- prematurely became a grandparent.

Perhaps it was the AARP membership letter that came in the mail with my name on it.

It could have been any number of things, I don't know.

The years keep coming.

Fine lines etching deeper on my face. Sharp lines softening elsewhere. Joints responding like rust when I wake them up most mornings earlier than any of us intended. It probably doesn't help that I think of my knees and ankles as separate beings, whom I'd rather would sleep by themselves so as not to wake me in the middle of the night with their creaking. But it's a marvel we get to sleep at all.

Is it time to switch to decaf? The dreaded decaf.

I don't dare ask my Facebook friends.

I get enough snake-oil sales pitches masquerading as double-blind studies, thankyouverymuch. Besides, who wants to be unfriended?

Instead, I've decided to embrace my impending decrepitude. I try out senility the way my pre-teen tries out moodiness.

“We just got the Netflix,” I'll say just to head off any helpful suggestions. “It comes on the line.”

For good measure, I pronounce “WiFi” like “Wiffle ball.

It's a put-on, of course. I know how to say WHY-FYE.

But I've started to refuse to learn new technologies. I'm not joining whatever comes after Facebook or Instagram. I don't even want to know how to use WHAT'SAPP.

Not until there's no way around it, anyway.

“What's a Flip camera?” My daughter asks as she holds out the device she fished from the bottom of our junk drawer.

“It's a pocket video camera we bought one year, and then it was made obsolete by the smartphone the following year,” I reply. “That's four weeks of time spent mystified and $200 I'll never get back.”

At least the awkward years between vinyl and compact disc stretched out over decades.

I suppose such stubbornness makes a person seem older, too.

An inflexible mind complementing inflexible joints.

That get off my lawn moment when you realize the words “Kids today don't know how to make change,” came out of your mouth at a party. And this time you we're making conversation not quoting the old guy who made you cry your first day on the job.

But “Old” is relative.

Compared to the universe, or the pyramids, or Methuselah, I will never be old.

Still, my kids think I was born before the dawn of the automobile and that I had to do my school work by candlelight.

And their kids will ask them what it was like to live in a world that didn't have television and flush toilets

“How old do you feel?” I asked my dad recently.

He didn't answer directly.

He just shook his head. “I'm going to be 75 this year,” he marveled. “How is that possible?”

“But do you feel old?” I persisted.

“I asked my mother that same question once,” he told me, noting the answer he received confused him. “She must have been 65 or so. She said she felt like she was 20. … Can you imagine?”

But I don't need to use my imagination. I just need to look in the mirror.

Mirror image

I don't know how long we sat there, husband and I, staring across the coffee table at one another, unblinking.

Our expressions were almost identical. A mirror image.

“What should we have done?” he asks in earnest. “There has to be consequences.”

The pounding of small feet still echoed in my head, though Ittybit and The Champ had stomped up to their rooms and slammed their doors at least 15 minutes prior.

It had happened so fast.

Just an ordinary Friday night, with dinner and a family movie on the menu. But first, a meal was on the table and the children were picking through it deftly. So skilled have they become in the art of fork wrangling that they are able to conceal whole servings-full of vegetables in the print of their plates' design before anyone says “dessert” let alone “You may be excused.”

Dessert has always been a bit of a free-for-all in our house. One can't be certain there will be any chocolate ice cream left, though the carton sits temptingly in the freezer.

Still, the two of them were standing in front of the open door, mulling their imagined ice cream choices when the room just seemed to erupt. First with the rapid-fire bursts of bickering, then an escalation of accusations – first he said, then she said – and, finally, a father reaching for the nuclear option.

It came in the form of a thunderous yell and then a moment of silence before … “Up to your rooms,” said none-to-kindly.

Dinner was ruined.

Desserts foregone.

The movie, a lost cause.

The only parts left of this day were the brushing of teeth parts and the going to bed parts.

Oh, yes, and the “talking to,” part.

Oh, how I hate the “talking to” part.

It's the part where it seems we go and bludgeon the children with the same words that we've already hammered home. As if it will extract apologies and meaningful change. It only seems to damage the parts that were holding everything together.

“Why?” we ask ourselves, “do they not listen?”

“Why?” we fret, “can't they just get along?”

I say WE, but I don't really mean me.

Not because I am immune to frustration. But I know they can't just get along. They are kids, and bickering this is what kids do. They argue and fight and drive their parents mad. They can't see the consequences in the heat of the moment. They don't sense a threat until it's no longer a threat but a reality, taking away their television privileges for the rest of their natural lives.

Not that it ever happens that way.

My husband understands this, but he doesn't fully accept it in practice.

He thinks there must be a concrete plan in place. Rules of engagement that are set in stone. Our failure is the failure to be follow through.

There has to be consequences. But it has to be fair. How many warnings should we give them before they lose their desserts? Two? Three?

I don't really think the number matters. In fact, perhaps it's the number of warnings that just makes it worse.

By the time the third one comes around his temper is a three-alarm blaze.

“How many times DO I have to tell you to stop?” he bellows. “I'm sick of sounding like a broken record.”

No. I think the consistency that matters has little to do with having the same reaction, every time, no matter what. That's more like the definition of insanity if your expectations are to extract different results.

We aren't getting different results. We're just getting the mirror image of our own frustrations gazing back at us.

“How many times has she yelled at the dog the way I've yelled at her?

“How many times have you noticed him yelling at his sister the way you yell at him?”

“So we should just let them fight and bicker and do nothing?”

No, of course not. There should be consequences, but we shouldn't lose our cool when we hand them out.

He was silent for a while, but he finally agreed. Then, together, we trudged upstairs to knock on doors and have a different sort of talk. One that started with an apology and ended with promises all around to try and be kinder when we are reminding ourselves to be kind.

And in time, maybe – just maybe – we'll start liking what we see in the mirror.

Patience ... it's a virtue

People for Less Unrest in Marriage (PLUM) – an observant, but largely silent marital think tank for which I, on occasion, find myself a unwitting spokesperson – has recently released its findings concerning common digitized communication breakdowns between partners during family gatherings.

Since PLUM has an interest in making sure all of its members are on the same page, it will make preliminary definitions before launching into to the summary findings.

PLUM defines the word FAMILY thusly:

“Family,” especially when in quotation marks, is usually defined as a group or groups of people that share blood, or genes or names in common although the definition may not be limited to those general attributes. Family may also include friends, acquaintances and pets depending on whether hotels are willing to make such accommodations.

PLUM defines GATHERINGS in this manner:

A gathering is an assembly or meeting, usually of a social or festive nature that is held for a specific purpose and could encompass several other separate or connected events. Furthermore, any separate “EVENTS” that may fall under a the umbrella of GATHERINGS are generally undertaken collaboratively.

But not always. This is why we say “plan accordingly.” However, that term can be misconstrued. What we actually mean is “don't hinge all your warm-and-fuzzy hopes on some Hollywood interpretation of togetherness.”

PLUM advises: Sometimes, “family events” are undertaken in a kind of parallel manner (in much the same way toddlers play side-by-side) with various members going separate ways for a while and then meeting up at a later time.

This is one of the reasons why cell phones were invented.

Which leads us to finding number one:

If your significant other isn't picking up their phone when you call, do not immediately assume the callee is willfully ignoring the caller's needs. Although seemingly unlikely in this day and age, it is altogether possible that the callee is otherwise occupied, not obsessively checking his or her smartphone, or out of range.

These are just some of the many reasons people hate cell phones.

Which leads us to finding number two:

If your significant other isn't returning your phone call, don't redial their number every 30 seconds until they pick up unless there is a specific emergency wherein leaving a message is not preferred.

In case of emergency, of course, the caller should dial 9-1-1.

Since this in obviously NOT an emergency, please note finding number three:

ONE voicemail message should be sufficient. A second voicemail message can be acceptable if new or explanatory information is provided. Once you get to three (or god-forbid four) messages within a brief amount of time, the “compulsive” factor may be in play, potentially downgrading the value of any and all messages left, as well as the sanity of the messenger.

Finding number four:

Try not to sound angry.

We mean it. Nothing productive will result from your significant other listening to four angry messages once they return to cell-tower zone and check their voicemail.

Remember, patience is a virtue. 

Under no circumstances should you ever get to this point in the flight and say the following string of sentences:

“Well, it's not my fault I'm mad. How was I to know you weren't getting my calls? It's not as if you ever answer your phone when I call it.”

However, we at PLUM realize there are times when Crazy gets the best of us. So we'd like to sum up with finding number six; a simple, face-saving technique that is meant to bring honest communication breakdowns to a safe and smooth landing.

The correct response is much more direct and to the point: “I'm sorry, I overreacted.”

There's always Spring Break

Ordinarily, I look forward to school vacations. For the next week, I will not have to harp about homework or stress about tests. I will not have to worry about which kid needs gym shoes and which kid needs a permission slip. For five glorious days, there will be nothing pressing I can overlook.

This moment of freedom tastes as sweet as candy.

Until a moment of panic that sets in -- usually beginning on the Thursday before an extended school holiday – and sours the whole thing. What are we going to do for the next four to nine days?

I've made so many plans in my mind. Great plans. Lofty plans that are bound to leave an indelible impression on my children's young minds. They include all manner of outdoorsy things such as skiing, skating, snow shoeing and sledding.

Outside of my mind, in my office-slash-craftroom, I have even made fancy balaclavas for each and every member of my family (and some of our friends) so now when we venture out into the snow we will all look like bandits.

I've even made one for the dog, so she can join the fun, too.

For days now I've been Googling ididirod and skijoring and plunking the computer down in front of her as she naps.

She opens one eye … and then closes it. She'd rather have baklava. “You keep your balaclava, strange frenetic human.”

It will be spring soon, I reckon, might as well enjoy the snow while it's visiting.

Who am I kidding?

My mind plays so many tricks on me. It always gives me 10 more minutes and one more cup of coffee before starting the day. It has trouble moving away from the fire … and the book with the dog-eared corners.

It agrees to “Just one more show … pretty pleassssssssse?”

And then it tunes out the television churning out children's programming hour after hour.

My mind allows me to believe just making it to Bedtime without any major meltdowns is a success all its own.

It comforts me into believing Tomorrow will redeem the failure that was Today.

And then my mind becomes a betting parlor. A big, cushy space bathed in red velvet, where my thoughts sit on their edge of their plush seats waiting for a whistle to blow or for something majestic to cross a wire.

It gives odds that are usually not in my favor, yet I still plunk down my best intentions and cross my fingers that this time ...

This time we will manage to get out into the world. This time we will we try something new or something we haven't done in a while. This time I will not take odds on who will be first among the tribe to utter the words “I'm soooooooo boooooorrrrrrred!”

Because at that point, all bets are off.

This gamble isn't about winning or losing, it's about playing the right game and understanding that the margin for winning is always razor thin.

Sure you got them dressed in all their winter gear … but did you remember to ask them to use the potty first?

Did you get any advance training in dealing with the turmoil caused by snow in the boot or down the back of a coat?

Why does it feel like just getting out of the house requires the skill and experience of being able to traverse a giant slalom?

Of course, sledding down a steep hill for a few runs after skiing a full day would feel like an Olympic accomplishment, say on Monday. But I guarantee, getting the kids to bed at a reasonable hour on Sunday night will be Herculean.

Perhaps all I need before I start is just one more cup of coffee by the fire.

Frown-y face

She wasn't at school more than a few minutes when the phone rang.

“Hello, this is the school nurse. It's not an emergency, but I just wanted to let you know Ittybit was accidentally elbowed by another student while they were getting off the bus just now. She's OK, but I needed to call and let you know that I have to send her home with a head injury fact sheet. ...”

You know … that dreaded list of instructions that implores you to monitor your child closely for the next 24-hours to 48-hours, and that you should probably have 911 on speed dial just in case any of the signs of brain injury reveal themselves, such as confusion, unresponsiveness, vomiting or seizure.

I should be used to it by now since I get at least two of these calls per month, yet seeing the school's number on my phone always fills me with dread:

Ittybit has a fever. Champ fell off the monkey bars. Bee sting. Stomach ache. Accident (whispering), the non-emergency-room kind (bring a change of pants).

And notes from the teacher are even worse.

“There's an orange note from my teacher in my folder for you. I gave it to Sarah on the bus because she can read, and she said it's pretty bad.”

Sure enough, there on an orange sheet of paper, was a note setting up a conference because of lower than expected test scores in reading.

Frown-y face.

My stomach makes a frown-y face, too, as my mind races to conclusions.

Is he dyslexic? Could he have vision problems? ADHD? He's autistic!!! I should have been more concerned about his aversion to loose-fitting clothes and squeaky shoes. And holy-moly how much TV do we watch? (And, not to digress, but who are these people surveyed that say their kids are watching a scandalous average of one hour per day? Liars!) We seem to watch one screen or another on a daily basis as if it's our full-time job.

Deep breaths. Don't panic. Deep breaths.

It's not as if we haven't been doing all the things parents are told to do to ensure successful early reading. We've read to him religiously since he was born, and, since he started kindergarten, we've encouraged him to sound things out, look for clues and skip and go back. Even in the every day he's read cereal boxes over breakfast, lists in the grocery store and signs when we travel.

Yet, as I wait for the appointed time, I can't help but worry that despite all of our good intentions, inconsistency makes us the worst parents who ever roamed the Earth … or, more likely, Target.

Because … when it comes to our kids it's really all about us, right?

Or is it about their siblings?

I try to remember: Ittybit seemed to have similar problems, didn't she? She wasn't interested in reading until third grade.

Think. Think. Think. ...

Could this be the new standards talking? A dragnet? A rubric? An overhauled set of expectations that no one applied to Ittybit as she sat in this same chair three years ago? Could it be a place in number scale where all students must fit between if they are to proceed and the schools earn their gold star?

That must be it, I told myself, and then I relaxed a little.

In time, his teacher would tell me that she's not terribly concerned about his abilities, but as a formality she has to warn me of his progress (and lack thereof). He just needs practice and confidence, and remedial reading will help.

My stomach unknots reinforcing not only my gut instinct that he doesn't really have a diagnosable problem, but that not having a problem doesn't mean he wouldn't benefit from educational solutions.

And then it hits me: I'm beginning to see the value of standards and practices.

Smiley face.

Starters, non-starters and apps

There we were, sitting across a square table from one another. A platter of “fun food” in between us and nary a smartphone in sight. The whole family. In a restaurant. Having a nice time. Just talking.

What are the odds?

As is usual for us, a round-robin of non-sequitur arguments changes the course of conversation as if we were speaking in pinball.

“The doctors' office had new fish, but I hit a bank shot off the jungle gym and taco Tuesday has been replaced by can I have new sneakers?

I could tell you how we got on the subject of gun control, but it would take too long, and the bells and lights from that silver ball's awkward trajectory would be even more maddening than the thousand versions of the single question my six-year-old and 10-year old had already started to ask: “When will our food get here?”

Let's suffice it to say my husband sprung the ball into the maze, it dinged off of the Champ, lit up Ittybit, and somehow it got stuck under my flipper, tilting the machine.

Here's the gist of what I tried to impress upon my family:

"Every state should have a Department of Firearms (just like the Department of Motor Vehicles) that licenses gun owners and registers guns by class. Initial licenses would be awarded after successful completion of written, field and background tests, and periodic renewals would require repeated background checks. Furthermore, gun owners would be required to carry liability insurance for each firearm in their possession. Let the risk pools float where they may."

In other words: Let's just lay these cards out on the actuarial table ...

"Sure, you can have that AR-15, but if you are under 25 or have teenagers at home, it is going to put you in a higher risk pool. Accident or not, you will be liable for damages."

I mean if you injured someone with your car you'd be liable.

We don't just say: Hey, here's your car. Try not to kill someone, OK?

No! We say: 'You need to be licensed, the car has to be registered and inspected. And if you abuse this privilege you can expect to have all of that stuff revoked.'

Why is the right to bear arms more inalienable than the right not to be shot in your school by a gun enthusiast's alienated teenager?

Crickets.

The conversation I thought we were having disappeared.

The kids had tuned me out right after the word “Department,” so their glazed expressions, by the time I got to “Liability Insurance,” wasn't much of a surprise.

But my husband, lost in the bluish light of his smartphone, made me forget about my being lost in a mire of my own monologue.

I fumed as he furiously typed away on his cell phone..

"You know ... I hardly ever speak to other human beings during the day ... the least you could do is humor me at dinner."

He smiled and handed me his phone.

Still on the screen was a familiar icon, with a message that began:

"Thank you for contacting the White House ... "

"I told them 'my wife has a brilliant idea. ...'

Betcha didn't know there's an app for that."

A league of our own

“It's not winning or losing, it's how you play the game.”

I used to think that old saw was motivational. A reminder that fair play and enjoyment can't be calculated by the numbers on a scoreboard. But now that I'm a parent and have weathered a few seasons of fun-sized sporting events, I've come to understand the line is more of a tautology: Winning or losing is entirely dependent on how you play the game.

Whether you enjoy playing – win or lose – is something else entirely.

No one really believes that hippy-dippy, feel-good blarney either.

Or so I gather. ...

Certainly not the over-zealous father to my immediate left. He's coaching from the bleachers and openly mocking the refs. It's obvious that he's not enjoying the game.

The woman over on the right is trying not to yell out in frustration as my kid tosses the ball directly into the waiting hands of the opponent. But the exasperation escapes anyway.

I don't blame her, really. We're all human, and even the nicest humans, crammed into the pressure cooker of an indoor sporting event, could potentially explode. In the heat of play, I've had to hold my hand over my mouth and bite my palm to keep from hollering completely uninformed advice. It just slips out.

Even the woman wearing the sari and greeting everyone's light within with a small bow and the declaration of her own internal illumination, scoffs at the idea that if all a person cares about is winning and, if every loss leaves them in despair, then they'll never truly experience the joy of playing.

“It's easier to say that when you're winning.”

She may have a point. I don't know.

Winning isn't really my area of expertise.

I'm pretty good at losing, though, even if I do say so myself.

I don't grimace or make faces. I don't demand a recount. I don't blame the cards or the dice or my stupid shoes. The sun didn't get in my eyes.

I smile and congratulate my opponent.

But should I play on?

After all, don't we need some degree of success to continue in whatever field we endeavor? How long can a person continue to enjoy losing games by landslides? How long will they let you? How long can one kid sit on the bench before she gets the hint?

Pssst. … Art club. Try out for arrrrrrt club!”

You can't really sugarcoat it forever. It is what it is.

We all have to go looking for what we're good at, or just let it in when it finds us.

Back when my mother was lucid and could trounce me at Scrabble, she asked if it bothered me that I never won against her.

It didn't feel right to her – always winning.

I knew what she meant. I felt badly that I wasn't much of a challenge – always losing.

What's fun is a sport without competition?

I just told her the truth: I liked the game regardless of the points.

How I play the game isn't about winning or losing. It's just playing the game.

Sometimes, I think players like me really do need a league of our own.

Let GPS be your co-pilot

We'd been down this road before. Literally.

The directions were clear. I was supposed to take a left.

I had taken a left, though, and it lead to Nowhereville. So I took a right, which lead to NeverNeverLand.

“If you reach Maple, you've gone too far,” the directions explained.

It didn't matter if I backtracked, drove as slow as molasses invoked the name of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, every turn seemed to lead to Maple.

Up until this very moment the 25-minute drive to an unfamiliar school in an unfamiliar town using an unfamiliar roadway had been nearly uneventful.

I had taken the toll road. Something I rarely ever do because my husband's car is the one that has the magical box affixed to its windshield that keeps the driver from having to pay in sticky, coffee-stained currency, which the children have helped fish from between the cracks in the seats while we wait in the inordinately long line at the tollbooth.

Oh sure, navigation was clunky. I had eschewed the GPS device and emailed computer-generated driving directions to my phone, choosing a mapping program that was the most technologically-deficient-user-friendly.

Which, in hindsight, may not have been wise ... to throw caution (and familiarity) to the wind ... all for the promise of 20 minutes shaved off the commute.

Because, at the side of the road, where I'd pulled over to scrutinize the complicated web of instructions MapQuest had provided, the kids were growing restless and I was growing frustrated.

“I don't think you have any idea where we are,” said Ittybit in the sing-song voice that usually makes me wish our minivan had a sidecar. “We're going to miss my game.”

Her brother agreed. “You should have stopped at the school we drove past five hours ago,” he chimed, completely unaware that five hours ago he was still tucked snuggly in bed. “That was probably it.”

I shouldn't have been surprised.

In order to email myself the directions the mapping program made me prove my humanness by having me click on an ad and then type in a sentence from the script, which only appeared once the ad was launched.

“Captcha's gotcha!” I grumpily thought as I jumped through the hoop.

I had to be close, I thought, giving up on the driving directions and scrolling through old emails looking for the address.

A few minutes later, with the phone and all its useless apps firmly in the sweaty palms of The Champ, we pulled into the school parking lot … which was on the right … about three miles past Maple.

Turns out it the directions were just wrong. Plain and simple.

It's times like these that make me miss paper maps and the homespun directions that used to come from real humans.

“The take Route A until you get to Route B and then take a right and drive for three miles. You can't miss us. We're on the left. … White house, black shutters. A green car will be in the driveway. If you get lost give me a call.”

But I'm too young to tell Google Maps to get off my lawn.

That should be my father's job.

It was shortly after my technologically-challenged trip to a town two counties away that he called expressing concern with a trip he was planning to the D.C. area.

“I'm worried something's wrong with my brain,” he said sheepishly, acknowledging that he'd used a navigational service to map his trip, thinking it was better than the GPS.

“I can't make heads or tales of these directions. They have me going in circles and going about a half hour out of the way… they even want me to get off of an Exit numbered 43-44. Does that make sense to you?”

“Honestly, I think your brain is fine. But do it a favor, don't give it a headache with these directions. Let the GPS be your co-pilot.”