I was faced with Frost’s proverbial fork in the road last night at Ruby’s Diner. Going left would have meant scooping my toddler up who had just sprayed the two of us fresh throw-up and scurrying home. Going right would have meant running to the bathroom, stripping him down to wash off what I could, loaning him my over-sized shirt while I endured exposing my bra fat in a ratty camisole, tipping big for an emergency sterilization clean-up and catching up with my longtime girlfriend who held her nose across the table for 30 minutes.

Look, I don’t what old ‘bert Frost would have done, but my guess is that if he hadn’t spoken to anyone over four-feet tall for thirty-six hours, he would have gone right, too.

I actually haven’t read the book, but do I really need to? Isn’t it just a re-packaging of the timeless ‘positive thinking can alter your destiny’?

Regardless, I am here to challenge it.

Because I’ve tried it.

In fact, every college football season I’ve tried it.

I wake up every Saturday morning, put one yellow and green shoe on after the other, and think positively.

“The Oregon Ducks are going to win today. I can see it. I can visualize it…”

And then they blow it.

But not this year. And I’m here to tell you why. Because this season, I converted every single one of my positive ions into negative ones, reserved exclusively for USC. Now, I know I’ll lose about half of my subscriber-ship by saying that, but I’m ok with that.

As ‘Secret’ believers would say, “I’ve chosen my destiny.”

But did I choose hoards Trojan fans throwing popcorn in my yellow and green hat at last year’s USC/Oregon game? No. Did I ask them to scream “Get the quack out of here!” to my face? No again. Nor did I visualize a little ten-year-old USC cheerleader-clad girl in the ladies bathroom at the Forum telling me that the “Ducks suck it.”

My destiny seemed – as did my Ducks’ in that bloodbath of a game – quite bleak last season. Despite all of that positive football thinking.

So this Saturday, when I woke up next to my yellow and green shoes, I visualized WAR. WAR of the Ducks’ curse. WAR on the Trojans’ reign. WAR on the USC fans who were so cruel to me.

And the Ducks won.

USC lost.

“WHOAH!!!! What did you differently this year?” a reporter asked the Oregon football coach moments after the game. And before Coach launched into his litany of offense/defense mumbo jumbo, I could have SWORN I heard him whisper, “Sugar Mama…Sugar Mama’s new…”

What can I say? Me and all my negative thinking? This year’s not-so-secret duck sauce.

The thing with an alias is that it’s supposed to obscure an identity, not call attention to it. Kind of like that ‘which cup is the little ball under’ trick? You know, where you distract the viewer over here while you’re strategically maneuvering the ball over there. But what’s happened with MY alias of Sugar Mama is that my real identity has been called to question. A lot.

So my real name is Cynthia Penney Jenkins.

I know.

Stop yawning.

And I’m not even related to J.C. Penney as I have bragged about thought I was until very recently.

Sugar Mama simply seemed like a nice change. And, according to my publisher, it serves as an umbrella for all the stuff I write about….sticky situations with my kids (sugar’s sticky), finding the sweetness (sugar’s sweet) in seemingly ugly situations involving my kids, etc.

But that’s not why I picked it. I wish it were…flawless analogies, really. Genius, in fact. Which is precisely why he is the big cheese and I am, well, a mere hole in an aged Swiss.

So the truth? My husband calls me “sugar”. And I’m the ‘mama’ to his homies, get it? Put it together and you’ve got ‘Sugar Mama’. Without the boobs. And with nothing really urban about me. Or rich.

Does this disappoint? Too sweet? Nothing worse than a sugar headache, I know. Except for maybe my real name, which, let’s face it…

ain’t no sprinkles on that.

A woman come up to me in the school parking lot today and said, “I don’t know howwwwww you do it.”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Do it all. You know, the kids, the husband, the house, the writing career. You seem to have it all.”

I had never met her before today. And I’m not one of those oblivious, ‘can’t-possibly-be-bothered-with-anyone-new’ kind of people. In fact, I actually know who most people are in my town, as well as their kids names, the cars they drive…completely in an insecure, stalkish kind of way.

Most, I’m sure, have no idea I even exist.

But this one woman who thought she knew me had me all wrong. I don’t have it all.

I don’t have a straight part in my hair. Ever.
I can’t seem to keep a white t-shirt white for more than one washing.
My husband is a better cook than I am.
My five-year-old is a better cook than I am.
I have an unsightly mole above my right eyebrow that my husband insists I keep.
My best friend wants to move to Oregon.
It is my sole responsibility to scoop the cat poop in my house.
My ‘check engine’ light is perpetually illuminated.
My blond is fake.
My freckles aren’t.
And despite the fact that I nursed both of my kids (albeit for a nanosecond), the biggest my boobs ever got was a B.

I’ll admit that I do have a lot.

But not all.

I should know better than to compete with a redhead. They’ll steal anyone’s heart faster than you can say ‘freckle’. But I didn’t expect it to happen to my son’s at the ripe age of five! I’ve got to hand it too him, though – the redhead in question is leggy, funny, and, well, drop dead gorgeous. Here’s the problem, though. She’s MY friend – the mother of HIS friend. So when I observed him acting odd around her when I picked him up, I just thought he had gas.

“Honey? Cat got your tongue? Don’t you want to say ‘thank you’ to Mrs. P for having you over for dinner?”

Silence.

“Jackson? What do we always say about using your manners? We thank people who do nice things for us.”

Still nothing. And manners are kind of his schtick, you know? Like in an Eddie Haskell sort of way.

Had to have been the grilled cheese. So Red and I kiss-kissed and I whisked him away fearing a big belch coming on. But in the car, my son was suddenly all talk.

“Mom, Mrs. P is more beautiful than you.” he tells me.

“Gee, thanks, honey. What is it, the freckles?”

“Yeah, she has infinity freckles and you only have, like, a hundred.”

Not true. I have at least a thousand. Just shorter legs and darker roots.

“Well, I write with my left hand. Does Mrs. P write with HER left hand?” I knew I was being ridiculous, but how many men in my life am I going to lose to a redhead????

“You do? Does your hand get all dirty when you write a lot?”

“Yup. Sure does.” He was mine again, I knew it.

“Cool…” he tells me. “Maybe you can teach Mrs. P how to write with her left hand.”

AS IF.

But I’m no dummy. I know what I’ve got to do to win him back.

Red highlights. Tomorrow.

…that she can’t change the length of her calves,
the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents.

- Maya Angelou

…which is precisely why we have high heels, Spanx, and insurance that covers psychotherapy.

- Sugar Mama

‘Everything bad happens at night or on a Sunday’ has earned its cliché status when it comes to kids’ health. Which is why I know the inner workings of the ER better than I’d like to.

At least, this is what I was thinking last night waiting for our turn at the triage.

My youngest contracted a strange case of elephantitus (my diagnosis) of the temples just as the sky turned dark yesterday. I’m not kidding – his temples literally swelled, changing the shape of his already misshapen head to a bulbous potatoey looking thing. I had to do a double take, as it was growing before our eyes (I was at the park). In fact, the other moms started cocking their heads and scrunching their eyes, which is how I knew something was wrong.

I’ve got to be honest – I HATE these moments. Your whole life flashes before your eyes. And I don’t care if it’s just a scrape on the knee – that fleeting flash of ‘is this a benign thing, or is this going to change the course of our lives?’ is always there. At least for me it is. Because with our oldest son, he was that one-in-a-million-this-never-happens kid when he suffered a spontaneous brain hemorrhage at six weeks old. He’s fine now – symptom-free - but I have since contracted a real phobia of my kids and their heads. In fact, as I scooped my youngest up and headed to the car I actually wished a compound fracture or a case of the measles on Benji instead of a head trauma!

As it turns out it was none of those things. Well, we have no idea what it was, despite the team of ER doctors who did just what my park friends did – cocked their heads and scrunched their eyes. Regardless, an antihistamine brought the swelling down considerably…most likely an allergy?

Anyone reading this want to weigh in?

He’s fine this morning, thank goodness. And he’s talking about the fish from the ER fish tank (an ER mandate?) so I know his brain is intact. He also finished his last Ritz Bitz bag from their vending machine (another sure ER thing) this morning, so his appetite remains unaffected.

So I feel lucky today. Another bullet dodged. Which is why I’m starting to like the ER. Nine times out of ten, they tell you it’s nothing.

For those of you who live in an igloo, Deceptively Delicious is the name of Jessica Seinfeld’s new book – chock full of tips on how to get your kids to eat veggies. It was referred to me by a friend who has since morphed into puree maestra…happily, I might add.

But anything involving machinery – especially in the kitchen – I avoid like kryptonite. (If I were Superman, that is.) (Or a man, for that matter.)

Is there actually such thing as Kryptonite?

So I asked her if she could possibly have missed my “ketchup” strategy for kid veggie consumption.

“Your what?”

“Just tell your kids everything’s a type of ketchup and they’ll eat it. All kids love ketchup.”

“Well, what happens when something on their plate looks suspiciously like…broccoli?” My friend challenges.

“Easy. Tell them it’s a ‘ketchup tree’.”

“What about carrots?”

“’Bunny ketchup’.”

“Blueberries?”

“Ketchup poop’. Which also works for mushrooms and figs. Kids love anything with ‘poop’ in it.”

She did say she’d try it, but you and I know both know I’ve lost her to a Seinfeld life of puree-ing.

See that? That’s not even a word.

I’d rather lie to my kids than teach them bad grammar.

1. I cut my nails just above the pink part because I despise long nails.
2. I throw away most of my kids’ artwork. In fact, I keep only those with me in them.
3. I listen to Annie in the car. Even when I’m alone.
4. I haven’t taken a bath since I was in my teens.
5. I get anxiety - serious heart palpitations - if my kids don’t poop every day.
6. I’m obsessed with anyone who’s Mormon.
7. I dip my pretzels in cream cheese.
8. The farthest I’ve ever run is two miles. And that was once,in my twenties.
9. My shoe size is a 7 1/2, but I only buy 8’s so I don’t have to break them in.
10.I adore my husband even though I pretend he bugs me. (gross, I know.)

Saturday (early, early, early AM)
My youngest wakes up screaming for juice (not a first). When I yell between bedrooms, “Do you know what time it is?!”, he tells me, “It’s five-forty-nine.”

He was right. He’s two.

So I got him the juice because I was scared.

Saturday (PM)
My five-year-old earns his first paycheck ($13!) for delivering newspapers in our (way-too-hilly-for-me) neighborhood. Sounds a little young, I know. But have you seen the cost of Slurpees lately?

It’s time he starts pitching in.

Sunday (AM)
My oldest goes to church for the first time with my girlfriend and her son. When he returned he told me they ‘stood up, sat down, got a donut and helped Jesus find his mother.’

“Well, did you find her?” I asked, perplexed.

“Shoot, I forgot! I was looking for a sprinkled donut instead.”

Sunday (PM)
I wear a dress to a wedding that I purchased last year, but had never worn. Evidently, you could see my underwear.

Which I guess was a good thing, considering I was wearing any at all?