Look, I know this is controversial. And that many of you (ok, all of you) roll your eyes whenever I bring this up. And I get your side - really. You want to be accessible to our children, cultivating an open forum for free dialogue as a proactive disciplining measure – if we’re “pals” with our kids, we may glean some secret information about kissing boys or smoking cigs. So you ask your kids’ friends to call you by your first name and you encourage your kids to call me by mine.

But - and I know this sounds awful – I’ve got enough friends my own age. And if you’re fearful your kids will smoke cigs, (which they will, by the way) tail them, read their email, track cell calls, do what any good parent should do.

Frankly, your daughter ain’t my homey, and she’s not dishing nothin’ to me.

What your daughter is doing is combing through my fridge for a snack of her pleasing, when she pleases. She is also in my closet, strapping on a pair of my prized Weitzman’s. This, of course, is after she’s belted a tunic (a mere blouse on me) with a string of pearls she’s found deep in a jewelry box on the other side of my bedroom. This all happens in the time it has taken me to go to the bathroom, where, by the way, she waltzes right in for my private fashion show.

“Don’t I look just like you, Cynthia?’ she beams, that gorgeous grin intact. I’m not at all offended she’s likened me to a streetwalker. I am, amid the awkwardness of pulling my undies up as inconspicuously as possible (how’s that going to sound at your dinner table?), quite appalled. Not even my husband’s allowed in my closet.

Liberated from daily showers and dawned in Target Tees, I get that I don’t exude the kind of respect Beyonce commands. But is it too much to ask for a few boundaries?

So here’s my new initiative, backed by the age-old tradition of respect. As our parents and those before them addressed their elders, the same goes in my house. My name is Mrs. Jenkins, my husband’s is Mister. Please don’t call me Miss Cynthia (I’d make a terrible Sunday school teacher). And the handful of yours warranting ‘auntie’ status, know who you are – earned by HISTORY…years of stalking boyfriends, alcohol and cigarettes… - not simply by going to the same dry cleaners. While we’re at it, snack-time is at 10-ish and 3-ish every day. I promise to feed your kids, wipe their hands and faces and when asked politely, addressed by my married name, I’ve been known to buy them their own Weitzman’s.

Look, if one of my sons ever came to your house to comb through your closet full of ‘when-I-was-cool’ threads, I KNOW you’d tell me.

Scratch that - don’t.

Sincerely,

Mrs. ‘I-Swear-I’m-Not-A-Snob,-Just-Maybe-An-Old-Fashioned-Has-Been?’ Jenkins

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting. - e.e. cummings

I was reminded this weekend that I quoted this in my high school yearbook. Which was a really ‘know-it-all,-aren’t-I so-deep’ way of saying that it takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. (Another quote by Cummings, by the way.)

So as I clutched my mug of coffee this weekend at a ranch outside San Antonio with my best friends from high school – two women I hadn’t seen since 1988 - I felt as though I was looking into a mirror of reckoning. Had I failed to become myself, those four eyes (two hazel, and the other two an unforgettable green) would see it. It was like a judgment that I had dragged my two kids on two planes to be served.

“So what’s this I hear about you wanting Ellen DeGeneres to get you a cat?” Hazel Eyes says to me, breaking our comfortable silence.

“Her husband won’t let her have one, so she’s taking her plea to Hollywood”, Green Eyes explained after another peaceful pause.

“Oh.” Hazel took another long sip. “Anyone’s cell phone work out here?”

Not a blink. Not an eye roll. It was our new, united mission.

And then our six kids (between us) charged though the porch, breaking our trance. These were the kids we dreamed about having, all best friends, living on the same street, after marrying three brothers so we could be REAL sisters never to be separated.

Except that these kids had never met until the night before.

I didn’t know their dads’ names until last week.

And we live thousands of miles away.

But as they tumbled and giggled and painted toenails together – mini-hazel, green, and blue eyes all searching for the perfect pink - it became clear our dreams had, in fact, come true.

I became me. They became them. And that we were always - and forever will be - a family.

(Now all we need is a cat, Ellen.)

It occurred to me last night that if Operation M.E.O.W. is going to work, I need to take it on the road.

I’m talking about recruiting.

So I racked my brain to find the most influential folks in my circle. Who has achieved the impossible? Who has really made a difference in the live of others?

Bingo. And all three live in Texas.

There are three women (and I’ll change a letter in each of their names to protect their privacy) who have played tremendous roles in my past – shaping who I am today, really. If they can’t get through to Ellen (it’s just a silly cat, right?), then no one can.

My first target is Grenda. Grenda is a walking phenomenon. She can apply one coat of lipstick in the morning, sip coffee till 10, have a burrito for lunch, a glass of wine for dinner and her lipstick is STILL flawless. And she NEVER reapplies! Hands down, she’s someone that can make things stick.

Farcy is number 2. She wrangled me a prom date the DAY OF, when most people left me for hopeless. AND he was hot. Farcy – I need you to reel me in a winner again.

Now Thannon – she could crimp my hair to perfection (yes, I’m that old), using just one hand. (She was helping Farcy dial for prom dates with the other).

So I’m packing the kids up tomorrow and getting the first flight out of LAX to Austin. I’ll let you know how it goes from the road.

Wait, do they have computers in Texas? I know, I know…they’re just really BIG.

Fingers crossed these gals remember me from high school. And that my husband won’t notice we’ve left.

So after my “I heart Ellen” blog entry, I understand that some of you sent her my link. And ONE of you took it at is far as asking her to buy me a cat since my husband won’t let me have one. My first reaction…honestly?

I like the way you think.

Joe would NEVER turn away a cat from our doorstep, especially one from a celebrity! Sheez, he’d probably even name it Ellen! So despite the fact I have heard NOTHING from her (or her people) to date, I am undeterred. We simply need to pick up our game!

Are you with me?

This heightened initiative will be called Operation M.E.O.W. – as in ‘My dearest Ellen, you Owe me nothing, but won’t you please send me a cat With short hair?”(In case there’s a shred of truth to Joe’s “cat allergies”). Here’s how it works: Everyone with a few minutes to spare can email her at: http://ellen.warnerbros.com/show/dearellen/ with a link to THIS entry. Maybe you can open with, “Ellen – you’ve got to check out Sugar Mama. She’s curiously obsessed with you and wants you to help her manipulate her husband into getting a cat.

Nah – she’ll never go for it. Maybe tone it down a bit. Like, ‘Sugar Mama loves cats almost as much as she loves you?’

Seriously, how would SHE feel if she couldn’t have her dogs? Go ahead! Ask her.

Oooh…this is gonna work, guys. I can feel it.

Maybe I’ll make us Operation M.E.O.W. T-shirts….just a thought.

Who needs toilet paper when you can use a piece of bark???

Seriously, all that camping anxiety for nothing. Our First Annual Fathers Day Camping Trip was a huge success! And I have no doubt we will have ALBUMS to show our grandkids commemorating years of fond photographed camping memories to come. Sure our sunburns will change knees and poison oak breakouts may switch arms, but one thing will remain constant: There’s nothing that bonds a family like a couple of sticks and a heap of dirt.

Why is that, do you think? Is it really because there are no TVs or video games to distract us? Or that S’mores count as a meal?

I, personally, think it’s because the earth is what binds us. Because no matter where you lay your hat, your home is where your family is. A little sappy, yes – but the moment my husband found out about this blog, (about an hour before we left on our camping trip) my ‘throw-him-under-a-bus’ days were numbered. Specifically, to 365 minus 2. (His birthday and Father’s Day are sacred…”no below-the-belts”, he says.).

Thankfully for us, they both fall in June.

See you in July, honey. Better keep that bug spray handy:)

We’re going camping this weekend for Father’s Day – a tradition in our family. (Starting this year.) But I am struggling with how to make it special. Breakfast in bed is out, because I have no idea how to cook over a fire. Letting him sleep in is an impossibility because you’d have to be asleep to begin with. And leaning back in his chair, sipping coffee and reading the paper is a little far-fetched when angling your hiney on some log.

But what papa wants, papa gets.

I’ll check in with you all when I get back. Wish me luck. And an outhouse.

I have another goldmine of parenting advice. And this tidbit was inspired by a four-page note a mom left me regarding the proper care and feeding of her son. Granted, I was watching him for seven hours – spanning at least two meals (uneaten) and just as many snacks (also uneaten). And emergencies do happen, I suppose. Not that I wouldn’t know what to do…

But I suppose I shouldn’t judge, because I used to do the same thing. And if I ever felt too embarrassed to leave lengthy instructions, I would simply phone every twenty minutes feigning some reason to call. “And, oh, while we’re on the ozone…what’s Jackson doing? Has he eaten? Has he gone poop? What did it look like?”

And then I had an epiphany. (And a second kid.)

MY RULES STAND AT MY HOUSE. YOUR RULES STAND AT YOURS.

So if you feed your kids popsicles all day and my kid’s over, he’s hit the jackpot. And if your kid’s at my house and carrots are his thing, he’s one lucky boy.

Same goes with video games (none at my house), baths (daily requirement), cussing (you won’t get in trouble unless you say ‘stupid’ or ‘retard’) and Ellen (we watch her every day at 4pm).

Seriously, unless there are allergies or other medical issues, enjoy your day free of instruction!

(Look, I’ll admit it - kids have been known to leave my house a little hungry. But almost always a better dancer:)

Ready for some parenting advice that will knock those tantrums right out of your hair? I’m not kidding – faster than you can say “grey”.

I’ll act this out for better recall. This one happened just this morning.

Jackson: “Mom, may I have ice cream for breakfast?”

Me: “Ummm…..no”

This is my stock answer to anything I won’t consider. Nine out of ten times it works and here’s why. That extra beat after ‘um’ conveys a moment of consideration, which this new breed of kids demands. It’s the 21st century version of “Because I said so” whose memorial was held the moment we started listening to our kids’ needs and wants, nurturing their independence and making them a part of family decisions.

Here’s another.

Benji: “How ‘bout a popsicle, Mommy?”

Me: “Ummm…not today, honey, ok?”

See what I did there? I mixed it up a bit in this instance, because in most cases (like today), you’re late for school/work with no time to spare on a running through a litany of freezer items.

In case you didn’t catch what I did, I nipped a crappy breakfast in the bud with a veiled (albeit untrue) ‘Maybe some other time’, which, of course, any 2007 kid will see right through.

Not to discount the merits of ‘getting down on their level’, ‘nurturing their ability to reason by giving them choices’, but…ummm…maybe I’ll try that some other time, like, ummm….on a Saturday when I have more time.

p.s. They had eggs.

I’m recounting his tidbit of information I gleaned from a women’s studies class in college, which immediately followed Trampoline 101 – so, undoubtedly, my facts are jumbled and memory full of holes. But I pass it along simply as an analogy, so pay no heed to bogus names or dates.

But – apparently – the women of the fifties were feeling over-tasked and under-fulfilled. “Spreading Their Wings” and “Searching For Independence” were new, emerging mantras. (Hmmm…maybe it was the sixties.) Again, thank the trampoline. Anyway, the goings-on in the kitchen were among the first ‘female-freeing’ shifts to evolve. In fact, this era marked the birth of INSTANT: instant coffee, pancakes, cookies, cakes. So Betty Crocker (I think) made it her mission to corner the market with her no-fuss, no-mess, ‘in-a-box’ time- and life-savers for her armies of girdle-wearing sistahs (unless this was the sixties). Simply open a box and pour!

But an interesting thing happened. Women felt liberated, yes, but too much so. Their identity had been challenged, their creativity squashed, and their free time? Dreaded. (Who wants to go work in a factory in your spare time when you could be home licking cake bowls?)

So Betty re-formulated her recipes and incorporated the need for an egg to be added to her boxed wonders. This way the ladies of the house could feel as though they had contributed and could accept a ‘Gosh, dear. That tasted swell!’ from her husband, void of any guilt.

I was waiting for the professor to tell us the new formula bombed. I mean, who would actually WANT to cook when you could be smoking cigs (before you knew it was bad for you) with your homegirls? Well, quite the contrary. In fact, look at our shelves today – they’re lined with hybrid ‘made-from-scratch-minus -the-messy-part’ cardboard boxes. Evidently, the same principle holds true today as it did in the fifties (sixties?).

Always a skeptic, I put this theory to test yesterday, as it was my husband’s birthday and I couldn’t spend it with him. I had planned to bake a cake for him and leave it on the counter for when he got home – delicious and piping hot so he would know how much I loved him. Except that I HATE to cook. And if some cake is a deal-breaker in our marriage than we have bigger problems than my flaking on his birthday. So I decided to compromise and get an instant mix, from the ‘just-add-water’ variety. Combing through the aisles, kids in cart (screaming), I simply grabbed the one closest to me. But then I heard a faint whisper (from our fore-mothers?)… “Push a little harder, make that extra effort, take pride in your domestic spirit.”

Boy can those ‘ol gals can sing.

So I did. And I selected a boxed recipe that required not just one egg, but TWO eggs, some water, butter and some nuts. Truth be told, this cake could have been entered in a fair. It was THAT good.

In fact, when I got home, Joe said that it was the swellest cake he had ever had. “Golly!” he beamed.

Again, blame the trampoline.

But seriously. It’s no ‘aha!’ that we have a full plate as women. But taking the extra time to add a little sugar makes it taste that much sweeter.

Happy 44th, Shoog. You’re my hottest cake yet.:)

It’s no news to all who know me that I’m luke-warm on the whole soccer craze. It has always felt cultish to me…where everyone meets on Saturdays, speaking the language of knee pads and coffee mugs – Farsi to me. Or perhaps I’ve simply blocked it out? You see, I, too, played soccer when I was young. And I know EVERYONE says this, but I really was the last one picked to play. The rest of you who say that aren’t being truthful. It simply isn’t mathematically possible – at least not if you played with me. I OWNED that position.

But with two sons – one finally eligible for AYSO – my friends convinced me I wouldn’t regret participating. So I signed him up last night. And signed. And signed. More forms than I filled out for Jackson’s school. More than I signed to drive a car. Possibly more than my college app’s? But three long lines and a fat check later, I bought my way into the Soccer Cult.

I’m now starting to embrace it. Already researched online the Toyota Sienna’s vs. Nissan Quest’s! And I’ve looked into potential team names and colors. My son has these dazzling blue eyes, so I want to secure a good color pallet. (I think he’s a Spring?) And if we have a choice between being on a ‘Barracuda’ or a ‘Boa Constrictor’ Team, for example, I’m picking the ‘Cudas. (Snakes completely freak me out.)

So I’ve made the inquiries and no word back yet. The buzz on the street is that questions like these will seal my son’s fate as my own – kicked to the bench.

But I HIGHLY doubt that. Not after the ‘Cudas get a taste of MY coffee.