The Un-Circus Good Day

 

I had a date with a handsome, blond-haired, blue-eyed guy earlier this week to go shopping, and I chose a huge shopping center near the airport where we could get coffee, Goldfish, Halloween decorations (too early?) and modeling clay. Foremost, we needed to pick out a reward for him; he had just used the potty for the first time.

As soon as we got out of the car, my guy looked up appreciatively, pointed and said, "Air-pwane."

He watched fascinated as the huge plane flew low over our heads. I strapped him into his toddler stroller, and I knew we were going to have a good time. I had chosen the perfect place. He loves airplanes.

Off first to Target for that reward. I showed him wooden puzzles - no. I showed him cars - no. And he had already said he didn't care to get a book. Bummer.

"Alright," I said, knowing it was what he wanted anyway, "let's go look at the balls."

"Yesh, ball...ball."

So we surveyed soccer balls, basketballs, playground balls, and plastic baseballs. He was sure he wanted a real softball, and I said no, but I had an idea. I took him to the fat plastic bats.

"Do you want one of these?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Red or blue?"

"That one."

A blue one with red and blue wiffle balls to hit.

We happily started off to gather a few more things, and he beat his bat in a rhythm on the floor as we went along. We paused at men's apparel, and I jokingly pointed to bright orange, pumpkin boxer shorts and said we should get them for Papa. Then, in checkout, I let Danny Sam grab a small carton of Goldfish, and we headed over to the Starbucks for an apple juice and Mama's treat, a Salted Caramel Mocha - a seasonal flavor that makes the world a better place by giving simple folk like me the pleasure of drinking a chocolate-covered pretzel.

As we found a table by the window, a college-aged couple complimented my handsome guy, and I responded that he was our only blond, blue-eyed child. Then I poured him out a small mountain of Goldfish, and I dug into a warm cinnamon roll. We sat quietly, peacefully, and I reflected on how different this was. To sit so long enjoying a pretty coffee after a calm shopping trip. It so rarely happens for me.

Usually, wherever I go, I bring the Circus. There are acrobatics, wild animal behavior, death-defying feats, crazy laughter, dueling clowns, and one haggard looking ringmaster who has no control whatsoever over the acts. You can hear the wind-up organ - doot-doot-doodle-doot-da-doot-doot-doo-doo. Sometimes, the audience is kind and smiling encouragement, even laughing. Sometimes, the audience is chilly, and I expect to be hit with eggs or rotten tomatoes at any moment, and considering that we are usually in the grocery store, that is not at all unlikely.

So this date with my baby boy was a beautiful thing. No fights, no runaways, no horseplay. Just a fella and his mom out shopping on a pleasant September day with airplanes soaring overhead.

After we picked up his big sissy's modeling clay, we were off to look at Halloween decorations. I had to keep him from annihilating some breakables in this new store with his new bat, but once I parked him in a wide aisle, I asked his opinion on a cat, a witch and a mummy. I wanted the mummy, but I asked him whether he preferred the cat or the witch.

The sweet, young salesgirl probably thought I was a little kooky to be asking a two-year-old's opinion on my purchase - a propensity of mine that my husband has never understood. And a fellow shopper thought I was crazy to be shopping Halloween decor at all. "I'll wait til the day after and get it 60% off," she said. But I had a coupon and some good-natured envy of a friend's enormous collection of all things Halloween, so after hiding my blush at her statement of frugality, I waited on my boy who eventually chose the witch.

It was time to pick up big sister from preschool, so we walked across the enormous parking lot, watching planes departing for unknown destinations.

"Back? Back?"said my Danny Sam.

"Yes, they'll come back sometime."

I put him in his seat, and said with sincere gratitude, "Thank you for coming shopping with Mama, Danny. I had so much fun."

A hug, a "welcome", and we were on our way, but I will long remember my simple date with a special little man.

A Shame

As soon as our little daughter came into our room this morning and said, "The tooth fairy was too busy, so she did not come last night," my heart sank.

Too busy. Those were the words that hurt. Too busy for our little Ella? No, no. Just forgetful, just easily distracted.

Grrr. That Tooth Fairy!

Thank God at least that this was not Boo's first tooth. The tooth fairy and I would have had a smack down, which means I would have slapped myself in the face repeatedly while looking in a mirror.

I am very sad to confess this is not the first time for our kids that the Tooth Fairy has been tardy. It has happened on a few occasions, either because there were no two-dollar bills available or because the two adults in this house responsible for reminding her of their sweet, gap-toothed children forgot.

Yes, I feel your scrutiny, but I don't have the heart to defend myself from your opinion of my parenting.

When the fairy is overwhelmed with the millions of teeth shed across the world, we tell our kids to be patient, because she WILL come. She's just busy. She just didn't have the chance last night, but she is faithful, if sometimes late.

That's where Ella got the "too busy" idea, in hearing our conversations with her older siblings. I was sad to hear the words come back to us.

We comfort ourselves that her being unpredictable makes her more believable, more realistic. It works, I guess, because our ten-year-old who argues everything, including religion, still believes. What's funny is that our sweet, compassionate eight-year-old girl has some big doubts. Does she perchance see too much of her mother, who does not do things when she should, who forgets so many things, who is distracted at every turn, in the unreliable Tooth Fairy?

I particularly feel this shame, because somehow over the course of raising our children, I have relegated the Tooth Fairy responsibilities to my husband. He goes to the bank for the special bills. He usually gets down the pillow, the one his mom sewed, per his request, especially for our kids. And because I really stink at sneaking, he slips the reward into the tiny fairy pillow late at night. I don't even do a good job of reminding him.

He told me this morning as we whispered together, "You've got to help me. If you think about it, just tell me."

So a night like last night happens, and I am hanging my head. What is worse is that I see how the disappointment affects my little Ella Boo. She's more touchy about everything, including little things at preschool, and when she tells me after I pick her up, "I'm just having a bad day," I can't help but feel it's all my fault. The Tooth Fairy isn't a fairy at all.

One thing did help - oh and how I thank God for other moms who reject a chance to judge - and that was Ella's preschool teacher saying to me with meaning in her eyes and kindness in her tone, "Yes, I do. I do know how that goes, but the Tooth Fairy will make it up tonight."

Dang right she will, because she does care. She cares so much more than it shows sometimes.

Clearly, now

For the past several months I have been walking around with a virtual sign on my forehead: Dweebs Anonymous...no more!

Okay, maybe the sign was situated more over my eyes in all its wire-rimmed, reflective, come hither glory. No actual words proclaiming my identity - just scratched, scraped, smudged lenses strongly hinting at it in mangled frames, bent so far out of shape that they hung at a 45 degree angle on my face.

I wasn't trying to blow my cover as a sophisticated, learned woman of the world. I mean I do know it's possible to look classy and cultured in glasses, but it's not possible if you're a parent. Wearing spectacles as a mom is like affixing a nice, bold target on your person.

The danger is always there, present in my four rambunctious children. Eventually, a toddler is going to come jumping off the couch or a block, elbow, knee or light saber is going to come whistling through the air, and BAM! My brown, simple frames are going to be smashed into my face, nose pads embedded in tear ducts and the bridge driven into the bone between my brows, leaving a permanent indentation. When I recover from my slight concussion and examine the frames to find that they did in fact make it, I know - oh I know! - that it will only be a matter of time until the next scary, humiliating incident. And the next time we might not be so lucky, my frames and I. The threats to our demure nerddom are ever present.

So when the kids landed on my face for the 3700th time recently, I buried it in my hands and went radio silent for several moments as they huddled around, begging to know if I was going to pull through. I wanted to keep them guessing, make an impression. But of course I rallied, probably because I'm a Super Dweeb with the power to overcome being slammed in the face with glasses thousands of times before I eventually - I'm guessing - implode or fly to the nearest Lasik specialist.

You can imagine, though, that after those multiple collisions my frames were twisted like Ebenezer Scrooge's heart, the lenses were ingloriously scratched, and the world around me had lots of confusing dots and lines through it. So while trying to wrangle the frames back into proper alignment for a few weeks, I complained to the one who took the oath to bear all of my complaints.

Until one day he brilliantly yelled, "Just go get new glasses!"

I did. The frames I picked out were more stylish than my usual dull brown ovals, with a hint of blue at the side, and also more delicate because I'm a vain nerd who hungers for punishment.

They are also just slightly lopsided on my face, tilted lower over my right eye, but that's alright. You see, last time I got new glasses I discovered something about myself. I noticed they rested unevenly on my face, so I marched myself into my optometrist's office and demanded that the young man there fix those damn frames to land straight on my imperious nose.

He examined the frames for a while, found nothing wrong. Then he examined my face and found the problem. He said very carefully, "Uh, ma'am...there's only so much I can do, because, you see, one of your ears is lower than the other. But that's perfectly normal...really! We get that all the time!"

Sure you do, and you probably meet a Super Dweeb with an unbreakable face every day, too.

Nevertheless, life is good, because I can see clearly now. The scratches and dots and squiggles are gone. The blue of the Arizona desert sky is brilliant.

But the threat of battered frames and abused lenses is always there before my eyes.

How I Found My Life (guest post by Dad)

Many, many moons ago when I was just a rotten teenager, I remember watching my dad trying to slick back his hair and comb his beard in preparation to pick up my mother from work. He examined the results in the mirror for a brief moment and asked me:

"Do I even remotely look good?"

I responded without thinking, "Yeah, sure - very remotely."

I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I meant to say, "Yes, very good", but I couldn't convince Dad of that. Still, he laughed good-naturedly, gave me a pat on the back for my home run sarcasm, and left to pick up his lovely lady.

But now, just look: these many years later when I am still rotten but no longer a teenager, it makes for an introduction of sorts to this tale of how he felt he was a dweeb's dweeb as a young man, but he still managed to meet my beautiful mother.



My mother always told me that I probably wouldn't marry before I turned thirty, I suppose because of the fact that I've always been disposed to deal with the exigencies of life in a  pragmatic manner rather than a romantic one.  In general, I was inclined to agree with her (I found teen-aged girls to be confusing, exasperating, and less interesting than a game of chess or even a good book).

In the summer after I turned eighteen, however, I found myself living alone.  My parents were traveling in the east with my younger sisters, my older brother was also in the east, at college, and my eldest brother had long since finished college, moved away and started his own life.  I intended to work for a year before going on to some sort of higher learning myself.  So – there I was, alone, working six days a week, maintaining a silent residence at night.

Now, I have always thrived on routine.  All that summer I went to work at seven every morning, got off precisely at six every evening, and twenty minutes later was seated in my car at the drive-in, ordering the same meal – hamburger w/ketchup, mustard, and pickles only, medium fries, and a chocolate shake.

One evening, I pulled in and parked as usual.  Before I could lean out the window and punch the buzzer to order, I found my meal being delivered.

The girl shrugged.  “The manager says you always get the same thing at the same time, so why make you wait?  Here it is.”

After she walked away, I looked down and considered my meal, and the thought came into my head uninvited.  I'm far too young to be in a rut like this – I think I want a wife.  Yes, that was it.  No lightning bolt, no shock, no rumble of thunder; just an abrupt urge to not be alone – and maybe get the chance to eat a home-cooked meal again.

So, every evening for the next week or so, I went to the library and read books on marriage.  And women.  Yes, I read books on sex, too.  I mean, you never know, I might actually find a wife and there were things I would need to know which, until now, I had been disinclined to learn.  My research taught me, among other things, that for a young man of my disposition to find contentment in the marital state, my ideal bride would be exactly seven inches shorter than me – in other words, I needed to find about five feet, five and one-half inches of woman.  After thinking about it, and as a purely personal preference, I also decided that I wanted her to be a stunning beauty.

Armed with knowledge, I set off on my bride-finding search.  First, I scoured churches, then hunted through shopping malls, drive-ins, department stores – any place where a young and unattached woman might work or frequent.  Despite the fact that many people, including myself, considered me to be a total dweeb, I had surprising good luck.  Across the course of that summer, I dated twenty-five or thirty different girls, aged sixteen-to-eighteen.

I discovered that all the girls that caught my fancy were invariably pretty, fair-skinned, dark-haired, and dark-eyed.  I also discovered, usually after just a single date, that after catching my fancy, most of them did not hold it. In a couple of cases, I don't know why the girl didn't interest me for the long term; she just didn't.

So, inevitably, I moved on.  You see, I wasn't looking for a fun time, but rather for a serious relationship that would last a lifetime.  Ultimately, I set seventeen as an absolute minimum age (sixteen-year-olds would require too long a wait).  And I eventually had to widen the scope of my search to take in distant towns and cities.  As a result of my rapid movement through the available young women in my region, I soon acquired a reputation as a “wolf”.  Now, seriously, you would be hard-pressed to find anyone who is less of a ladies man than Yours Truly.  Cary Grant, I am not.  Even Cary Grant's ugly cousin, I am not.

Summer turned into autumn, autumn became winter.  My nineteenth birthday approached.

The day came when my endeavors ground to a halt.  You see, I was born and raised in one of the least-populated regions of the nation, where the countryside is vast and towns and cities are few and widely spaced.  The distances eventually became too great, and there were mountain ranges or broad rivers between me and any new territory – as well as tons of snow.  I became despondent, for by now my quest had become an urgent thing.  I really wanted a wife.

At the time, I was working with another young man who, if anything – and sadly – was even dweebier than I was.  And he was just about the last person I thought would be on first name basis with any eligible – or pretty – girls.  But I was desperate.  We had been carpooling and it was his turn to drive.  As I exited the car after work one night in January, I turned back and looked at him.

“Carl,” I asked.  “Do you know any girls I could date?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replied diffidently.  “You know the Asher girls?”

I frowned at him.  “Asher?  Any relation to Jim and Art?”

“Yeah, their sisters.”

“They don't have sisters,” I protested.  “I know – I've been to their house a thousand times.”

Carl shrugged.  “Yes, they do – Karen and Stephie – younger sisters.”

Now this was interesting for two reasons, both of them connected to Jim, the eldest of the two Asher brothers.  Art and I had been friends, working together in the orchards the previous summer.  He was a year older than me and had gone into the Navy after graduation.  Jim, two years older than Art, had been in the Navy for three years now, but had left behind a local legacy.  While Art was known as a tough guy, Jim – well, Jim was a Greek god.  Tall, golden-haired, well-built, and handsome, he had broken every young female heart in the valley at one time or another.  To us younger guys, Jim was everyone's elder brother, but to the girls?  He was more than Cary Grant – he was Dash Riprock.  In fact, that's what we all called him.

His charm and irresistibility to females can be easily demonstrated by a single incident.

One day, a few years earlier, I had been working in an orchard beyond the outskirts of town.  My old car had refused to start and I was walking into town to get one of my older brothers, both of whom knew more about cars than I did, to take me back out and try and get the old beast going.  A mile or so from home, a car pulled up alongside and stopped.  It was Dash.  He leaned out the driver-side window, his broad, handsome face lit up with beautific smile.

“Hey, Danny – need a ride?”

I stared in disbelief.  “Are you kidding?”

I mean, besides Dash, there were 8-12 girls in that car, a '58 Chevy two-door sedan.  I couldn't get an accurate count, for there were arms, legs, and pony-tailed heads protruding from every one of the car's window.s.  The young ladies didn't seem to mind the crush of numerous rivals for the object of their affection, so long as they could be close to Dash.

I pointed at the front of the car and laughed.  “Should I ride on the hood?”

He glanced around.  “I'm sure we can get you in.”

“It's okay, Dash,” I said, shaking my head.  “It's not far now.”

He shot me that dazzling smile.  “Suit yourself, kid.  See you later.”

So, my thinking (remember the two things?) when Carl told me of the younger female Asher siblings went like this: If good looks like Jim's ran in the family, at least one of Dash Riprock's sisters was bound to be very pretty.  The second thing was that – as the girls were his sisters – I wouldn't have to be in competition with him, a contest I would lose on every level.

I looked at Carl.  “You know these girls?”

“Sure, I go to church with them.  I've been trying to date Karen for the longest time.  If you could ask out Stephie, Karen might agree to go along with me on a double date, 'cuz Stephie's too young to go out alone.”

“Wait – how young is she?”

He considered.  “Seventeen, I think, or pretty close, anyway.”

“That's okay, I guess.  When can we meet them?”

Carl brightened.  “I'll set it up.”

He did set it up, for the following Wednesday evening.  When he came by to pick me up, however, his mood was glum.  He looked over at me with downcast eyes.  “Your reputation tripped me up,” he stated accusingly.

“What do you mean?”

“You're something of a wolf, remember?  Well, Stephie's too scared to go out with you – so she wants to go out with me.  Anyway, Karen agreed to meet you and see what she thinks.”

“How old is Karen?”

“Eighteen, I think – I'm not sure.”

“You wanna forget the whole thing?”  I asked.

His eyes went wide.  “No – hell, no!  Any time I can get a girl to go out with me, I'm not passing that up – and neither should you.”

I shrugged.  “Alright – let's go meet 'em.”

I had never met Jim and Art's parents despite having been at that house several times in the past.  Mr. Asher turned out to be a handsome, suave, sophisticated, knowledgeable sort of gentleman that I liked right away.  Basically, he was just an older version of Jim.  Within minutes, we were talking politics, local affairs, even global affairs.  I could tell that he liked me well enough, too.  Mrs. Asher was a sweet, gentle soul, dark-haired, very pretty.

After a while, Stephie came down the stairs and into the room.  She was tall, slim, blonde, and pretty; obviously Jim's sister in every respect.  Strangely, though, she did nothing for me.

She glanced doubtfully over at me, and then made for the couch where Carl sat.  “Hi, Carl,”  she said brightly.

“Oh, well, hi,” he replied, blinking, trying to stand, failing utterly.  Evidently, dressed up and dolled up, she did plenty for him that heretofore he hadn't noticed.

Mr. Asher turned to his wife.  “See what's keeping Karen, will you, dear?”

Mrs. Asher went over and called up the stairs.  “Karen – your young man is here.”

A moment later, she descended the stairs, rounded the corner, and entered the room.

I don't remember standing.  I mean, I always stand in the presence of ladies – I had stood earlier when introduced to Mrs. Asher – but this time I was propelled upward as if by an unseen, unknown, very powerful force.

Never had my eyes beheld such stunning, absolute, exquisite beauty.  Top to toe, from the soft, dark hair that fell gently about her alabaster face, from her enormous, dark eyes, perfect nose and rose-petal mouth to her delicate hands and feet, she looked like God's finest, most perfect creation.

My bones abruptly assumed the consistency of over-cooked pasta.  My heart caught its breath and held it, and my brain froze.

“My daughter, Karen,” Mr. Asher said.

I tried to speak, but I doubt if it was a successful attempt.  My mouth seemed to be filled with an immovable wooden substance where my tongue should have been.

She tilted her head slightly, smiled and spoke.  “I'm pleased to meet you.”  Oh, what a marvelously sweet and pleasant voice!  When she spoke, it was like the sound rendered by the lilting breezes of Spring as they move softly through the branches of the willows along the gentle, sun-dappled waters of the stream.  Well, sure, I can wax poetic now.  At the time, I must have appeared the complete dolt, stupefied, unable to speak, or think, or even blink.

I do remember feeling utterly deflated.  She was so far out of my league that I might as well have been a Martian stranded on Venus.  For me to ask her out would be like asking the Princess not only to kiss the frog but to do so with the understanding that there was absolutely no chance he would ever turn into a Prince.

Finally, Mr. Asher tired of my mute immobility.  “So – are you kids going out Friday night?”

Astonishingly, Karen looked at me, smiled again, and said, “Sure.”

Are you kidding? I thought.  I mean, you must know what you look like – have you taken a really good look at me?

Well, we did go out.  She even sat close to me in the back of Carl's Thunderbird on the way over to Boise.  During the movie, the original Poseidon Adventure, there's a scene where a man unexpectedly falls to his death into burning oil.  Startled, Karen jumped and moved closer.  Instinctively, I slipped my arm around the back of her chair and found myself willing to sacrifice every single actor on the screen.  Let them die horribly, if it meant that this lovely creature would turn to me for solace.

Crossing the parking lot after the show, I drew in a deep breath, screwed up my courage, and reached down for her hand.  As her fingers intertwined with mine fire shot up the length of my arm and sent my heart racing.  Forty years on, it still hasn't slowed down.

Seven months later, to my utter amazement, she agreed to marry me.

Here she is today, as beautiful as ever, tilting her head slightly as she smiles at me and melts my heart.

 

 

Oh, yes, and by the way, she is exactly five feet, five and one-half inches tall.  Don't tell me research doesn't pay off.

Weekend Bookends

I had just given birth to another baby. TMI, but I remember seeing the baby's head and reaching down to touch her dark hair when she crowned. The nurses gave her to me shortly after, loosely wrapped in some kind of blanket, and then they acted as if they were just going to leave without checking her vitals or cleaning her up.

Well, I should have known by my surroundings that this wasn't going to be a normal delivery. I was giving birth in what looked like a garage. And not a small one. No, it was one that seemed suited to car thieves dismantling stolen vehicles. There was even a huge tool crate nearby in addition to the hospital monitors at my side. The nurses were dressed in short skirts, crazy tights and tall boots, and they had glam, dark make-up on their faces. They brushed off my protests that the baby needed a good washing up, and they headed for the door - no doubt for a date with their felon boyfriends.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That odd dream began my weekend. It is, I believe, what convinced me to go out to my dining room Saturday morning and sort through my toddler boy's baby photos in order to finally put them in his album. The project was arduous, but I prevailed, even filling the last several pages of our family album with a year's worth of birthdays, vacations and holidays.

After recovering for sometime from the headache of looking down for two-and-a-half hours, I then hauled the kids' white metal table out into the gravel of our front yard and unfolded camp chairs around it. My three youngest and I had a pleasantly simple alfresco lunch under the huge eucalyptus tree. There was a fine breeze, and clouds provided an enormous, benevolent canopy above. In general the weather was so gorgeous and unexpected that I swear we could see Autumn waving to us from behind a saguaro just down the street.

Reluctantly, we returned to the indoors for my Danny boy to keep his appointment with a nap. I then sent off a guest writer's submission to another site. (The anticipation of that was probably the source of my strange birthing dream.) Then I switched out the bunnies and pastels on my hutch for decorations that will hopefully entice Autumn to stride down the street in plain sight.

Of course, my kids also pleaded for the Halloween bin. I felt some of their excitement. I dreamed of stealing their chocolate bars on that ghoulish holiday as I watched them try on old costumes, turning themselves into mutant soccer-monster, pirate, vampire superheroes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This morning at approximately 12:38am, my Danny whispered in my ear, "Milk, Mama. Milk."

The whispers become more insistent the more I attempted to poo-poo them, so I grumpily stomped down the hall to retrieve a sippy cup from the fridge, That bought me about five more hours, and then he leaned close to my ear anew and breathed, "Mama, Max and Ruby. Max and Ruby, Mama."

Dear heavens, he was asking for television! How long had he been awake?

"NO! No Max and Ruby."

He humphed at me, and then proceeded to his sisters' room to wake them up. They were already up (at 5:30 am!), so I scolded them and told them to force themselves back to sleep. Then I told my toddler that if he wanted to sit in a dark living room by himself, so be it. I just want sleep, dammit, so I returned to my bed down the short hall to snuggle against my Man.

Presently I heard a doorbell.

"Ding-dong, Mama! Ding-Dong!"

Maybe he was being a doorbell, or maybe he was calling me a ding-dong. Lately, though, this is something he has been doing whenever he wants someone's attention, and they are not properly engaged in what he's doing or saying.

The doorbell was only going to get louder, so I kissed my bed goodbye - with tears and sad, weak waving that went on too long, and I promised we would someday be together for real.

There's nothing to do but stagger out, kiss your children and face the day, opening the curtains and praying the sun's rays have all the mood-enhancing and energizing power they're said to have.

My mood improved a great deal by the time I was driving my oldest two to school. I put on a Beatles CD and sang and bobbed along to Baby, you can drive my car, looking back at my smiling son who has not yet learned to roll his eyes at everything Mama does.

"Beep-beep, uh beep-beep, Yeah!"

Here's looking at you, Week. You'd better be a good one.

Haboob

You walk outside with your recycling, and it's like standing between the ruts on Main Street at high noon in a lawless town. Eerie. The residents are hiding in their homes and businesses. Maybe they're watching from behind the shutters. Maybe they can't bear to watch. It's just you and that imposing wall of dust browning out the sky as it sweeps in from the south. Or north, east...west.

You could hide behind the recycling can, or you could hunker down in the carport. Or, smart one that you are, you could skedaddle back into the house, which you do, but only to hastily grab more recycling before brazenly walking back into that fog of dust particles. You're breathing in all the fertilizers, pesticides and natural hazards of the arid soil in this dirty old town, stirred into one huge, threatening cocktail. It's not healthy, but you can't help but feel the excitement of another haboob.

A gang of those fiends have terrorized our town this summer. Nothing can defy them. The wind picks up; the sky is sullied; and when they leave, in their wake a layer of dust over everything. Okay, maybe the word haboob makes it hard to take seriously. But, my friends, read my fingertips: a dust storm is no joke.

It just ain't.

Hoboken Style, Baby!

I want a New Jersey cake, and I want it in the shape of the Mystery Machine, only I want the figures of my four kids, made out of modeling chocolate, to be sitting in it with Scooby-Doo, sticking their smiling faces out its windows.

Come on, Buddy. I know you can do it. After all:

"They call me Buddy...I'm the BOSS!"

My whole family has been saying that repeatedly lately, trying to get the Italian-American, New Jersey accent just right. Challenging each other by doing really bad to middling impersonations of Buddy Valastro, from the TLC show Cake Boss, one right after the other.

Our little Ella-Belle does it the best, and she's not trying all that hard. Working on her 100 piece puzzles and not even glancing up, she just throws it out there with bravado after one of the rest of us fails miserably, They call me Buddy..I'm the Boss. She looks a little Irish, but speaks American-Italian, I guess.

Cake Boss, with Buddy, has definitely been one of our favorite discoveries on Netflix.

And thank goodness for Netflix - so cheap, so worth it. Since my husband and I got married, we have never had cable. Never. We didn't even have a television for the first several months. We used to spend our evenings sitting around coloring in coloring books and listening to San Antonio Spurs games on the radio. Playing card games. Listening to our neighbors' conversations. We didn't know what to do with each other until we started having babies.

And now, with our four kiddos, we've fallen in love anew over Cake Boss. And my husband knows that he's in big trouble if he watches one without me. We scatter ourselves about in the living room on weekends to watch a talented man with an unusual vocation make beautiful and interesting cakes to bring joy to New Jersey residents and the world.

We also watch his family tease, prank, argue with, celebrate, and display abundant affection for each other. It's one of the best things about the show. All the cousins and in-laws and the matriarch, Buddy's Italian mama, are in everybody's business, but they also hold family as being more important than anything else. Every new marriage is a beautiful, honored occasion, and every new baby is a supreme blessing. I like that. I know there are good and bad sides to everything, but I wish my kids could grow up surrounded by grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles.

The show does make me jealous, however. If only I had a gift with fondant. If only I could mold Rice Krispie treats into anything on the planet or in the stars. If only I could make a thousand different fillings for cake and perfect buttercream instead of frosting that tastes and operates like Spackle! I'd be somewhere by now. I'd be really something. I'd also probably be fat, because I cannot easily resist ganache.

Instead my baking life is like this: in order to include them and spend quality time with them, I bake with my toddler and preschooler who think that germs are a necessary additive to any batter. My Danny Sammy dips his finger into the flour and then licks it. After I admonish him and then turn my back to grab a utensil, he does it again. And my Ella Belle is looking at him and nodding, You go for it!, because she is happily pressing brown sugar into her mouth or digging out wads of batter with her nails to shove in her pie hole.

But regardless of germs for flavor, how could I ever make any kind of dessert as presentable, nay - beautiful, as Buddy makes his cakes? Sugar flowers, outrageously smooth fondant, brilliant colors, carefully sculpted chocolate. It cannot be done by me, because I was born without the plating/decorative gene. I was dropped onto this planet believing that as long as it tastes alright, and goes down decent, how it looks doesn't matter. It can be strange, unappetizing colors, but as long as it's edible, I believe in it, and it will surely land on the table.

When I was a girl, I went over to my friend's house one afternoon, and we made chocolate chip cookie batter. After watching me drop a few tablespoons of the batter onto the baking sheet as quickly as I could in order to get those cookies cooking, my younger friend began to scold me shrilly, "What are you doing? That's a mess! They're going to be ugly cookies. You're supposed to make them perfect little mounds like this!"

"All that matters is that they taste good," I retorted. "Who cares what they look like!"

She confiscated my spoon.

This is why I make the birthday cakes in this house, but my husband decorates them. It's our collaborative gift to the kids. My extra gift to them is staying far away from the "make the cake look pretty and special" magic. Because you know, when I do my best at frosting a cake, it looks like this:

Umm-hmmm. That was my poor son's celebration cake for getting elected to Student Council. Tasted good. But that is definitely not worthy of Buddy's exclamation, "That's how we do it Hoboken style, baby!"

Make of me a Saint, a Mother

I wish I were a perfect mother. I want to be a perfect mother, constantly gentle, letting go easily and without bitter commentary, accepting that life, especially with children, is unpredictible, and meeting every challenge - every test of patience - with an unflappable Mona Lisa smile and even voice.

I'm not like that. I like to have a fair amount of control. My children know my expectations, and they should be met in a reasonable time frame, I feel. I want the routine of naptime every day at high noon with at least an hour's sojourn in Neverland. Peace is something I fight for, and by doing so, of course, I often forfeit all hope of it.

Today I read an interview with Lisa Marie Presley. She was asked what she loved about motherhood, and she responded, Everything. But she also pointed out that motherhood is painful, because you worry yourself to death.

It is true, and to that statement I add that it is also very painful, because you beat yourself down for your mistakes. Again and again and again. You wish that you were perfect.

I wish that I were perfect. Please God, let me be so. Make of me a saintly mother, and may I never again feel the guilt of falling short.

Know thyself. I say if you want to know yourself truly, become a parent. You will learn extraordinary things about you. Wonderful things. Depressing things. But you will know what kind of a person you truly are, and you will know how much of yourself you are willing to give, sacrifice for others. What's more, the world will know you by your children, or at least it will judge you so.

This week a few things have reminded me of just how greatly after 10 years of child-rearing I still need to improve. My son did not take a nap for three straight days. I grew short in temper and stern in the face and hardened myself to his adorable antics as I spent over an hour in his room each day, making him return to his bed repeatedly, yelling at him. I just could not let go. To calm the sea of stress inundating my brain, I even tried to meditate, but that didn't work well at all with a toddler in the background jumping on his bed, thumping the wall, and in between jabberings, asking, "Out, Mama. Out?" I did eventually give up, let go, and let him out of his nap, but too late to save my mood which progressively got worse as the day - and days - wore on.

Earlier in the week as I was trying to finish writing a piece to send to another site, my toddler son got up from his nap and went out to the living room with his sister. I knew I should quit the computer, especially because my little guy falls down constantly, tripping over every little thing, but I kept working, wanting so badly to complete my task, to do something for my own interests. Suddenly, after several minutes of listening to them playing with a tea set, there was a crash. I leaped up from my computer and tore out of the bedroom. Simultaneously, I heard my daughter wailing and running toward me. We collided, and she cried with wide, frightened eyes, "Mama, Danny fell down! Danny fell down!"

Terrified, I ran to my baby boy, who was crying as he does when he is either badly hurt or scared, and I lifted him into my arms. I pulled my little daughter to me, too, because she was still shaking from the scare of seeing her brother fall from the kitchen play set, which he had climbed. It had toppled over toward the dining room table, and he had fallen against the wall. He could have broken an arm or leg or hurt his neck, and all because I was not there to tell him to get down.

With my children still in my arms I sat down in a recliner and pressed them to me. They were both crying still, and I was trembling and cursing myself for being negligent. It's not worth it; it's not worth it, I repeated over and again to myself. When we had all calmed a little, I asked my baby to show me what hurt. He pointed to his back, but as I checked him I could not find a bruise or bump anywhere; he was badly scared more than anything. I thanked God that he was alright, but it was no thanks to me.

Motherhood can be joyful as you watch your children playing together or when they come up to you, "Mama! Mama!" arms stretched out and with so much adoration in their faces. But it can be miserable, too. Yesterday afternoon I was driving my two youngest around town before picking up their brother and sister from school in order that my littlest could fall asleep, for just forty-five minutes, please!, to the sound of wheels on pavement. My thoughts were black and blue, as my dad would say. I was contemplating who I am and who I have been as a mother. So often we hear people say, You can't take care of your family if you don't take care of yourself. But I feel burdened by my own desires, my own selfish wants, and a point of guilt is a rod with which to beat yourself forever.

One afternoon when my oldest, Berto, was a toddler, I was trying to get the dishwasher running before getting him down for a nap. He was cranky and fussing at me, If You Give Mouse A Cookie clutched in his hand. I told him to wait, practically pleaded for him to just let me finish what I was doing, and then Mama would tend to him. While I was occupied with my housework, my fella fell asleep on the floor on top of his mouse book. With the dishwasher growling behind me, I went to pick him up, feeling abruptly sad and lonely. As I lifted him off the book, I saw he had a poopy diaper, and my heart fell to the floor. I couldn't believe I had not responded to him, hadn't listened to him. He didn't even wake up when I changed him and cleaned the poopy, where it had overflowed, off one of his favorite books. I held him in my arms as he slept, looking down at his face, rocking him and regretting.

I still have that book, and, yes, every time I see it I'm sorrowful, remembering my selfishness. I wish that seeing it would produce some kind of magic to make me remember never to repeat that mistake, but I still struggle with letting go of what I'm trying to accomplish when my children clamor for me. I am more mindful, but not near perfect.

As I think and cry anew over this and the multiple mistakes I've made in this most difficult job, I try to remind myself of my triumphs: deep conversations with my kids about God in which I admit I don't know everything but urge them to always seek Him, song and dances in which I've made myself look like a fool just to have fun in the moment, countless morning walks and bike rides and park excursions, games I've made up just to include them in my housework like "Sweep Monster", and endless hugs and kisses with all my love and best hopes for them and for myself poured in.

I am not a saint. No, nor am I a monster. I am something complicated. I am a mother, and very honored by that prestigious title. But sometimes I am in pain, and only a fellow mother could understand.