I have two sons: One knows how to swim really well; the other’s a disaster. And I don’t mean that meanly. Really, I don’t. But after three different swim teachers, our three-year-old is NOWHERE near putting his head under water. And we live at the ocean, so it’s kind of an important skill to have. But I heard about this guy – “the” guy – who has worked miracles with the most difficult of fish. “He’s amazing,” moms have told me. “But good luck getting in.”

“Well, what’s he look like? Maybe I’ll hang around the pool and bat my eyelashes and see if he bites.” THIS was my pathetic plan.

“Um, he’s kind of big. As in large. Not sure you’re really his type.”

“Oh.” I said, undeterred. I’ll just sweet-talk him on the phone, then.

The problem, of course, was in the phone number acquisition – NO one would give it up. So when I finally tracked down an 800# with an elaborate phone tree that would undoubtedly NOT lead to him directly, I almost didn’t bother.

“Swim World, may I help you?” some young guy answered, when I finally dialed.

“Hi,” I said. “I‘m looking for a particular swim instructor for my son.”

“What’s the instructor’s name?” he asked.

“I don’t know,“ I admitted. “I just heard that he’s big.”

“Big as in buff?” he asked.

“Well, not exactly.” I answered.

“Tall?”

“Um…no.”

“Can you give me anything else? Like, big, as in…his hair is big?”

“No. Big as in too-many-cheeseburgers big.” I cringed.

“You mean, fat?” the teenager asked.

“Yeah, I think so. Maybe “

Silence.

“Speaking.” He said. “And my name is Joshua.”

Suddenly, I was the one drowning. But, miraculously, he took Benji as a student. I’ll keep you posted on the status of his crawl, grovel and my-mother’s-an-idiot stroke.

I wasted an entire traffic light thinking about what this license plate could possibly mean. Don’t get me wrong - I understand it’s a version of “I love you, too” (I’m not that sleep-deprived) - but what I wanted to know was if this car was a gift. Like an, “Aw…you bought be a Range Rover because you love me? Well, here’s a new Mercedes because IHRTU2” Or, maybe the driver in front of me slipped one night, told her boyfriend she loved him in the heat of passion, he said nothing back, they had a terribly awkward breakfast and then she left. That slam of the door could have been just what he needed to get his butt to the dealership…

IHRTU2, he’d point to the shiny new car in her driveway. “I just have a hard time saying it.” I could see this whole thing going down before the light changed today. The teary embrace, the full body hug…sweet.

Kind of like Patrick Swayze’s whole “Ditto” thing in Ghost. Except that he died (Not in real life. He’s going to fine, I know it.) in the movie without ever telling his wife he loved her. His one regret.

Tell people you love them, everyone. No hyphens. No abbreviations. No baby talk. (unless that’s you’re thing.) Just say it.

So I love you, Patrick Swayze. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family. 

I hurt my knee last week, running.  It’s like a pulling, twisty sensation that radiates up and down my leg. Oh, and it’s hot - really hot. I keep thinking it will go away, but it hasn’t yet. My husband said I should really get it looked at, and that I may need a brace or something. I started crying immediately when he said that. And it wasn’t because of the pain – I can handle pain.

“It’s all I have that’s mine,” I sobbed.

“Your knee?” he asked.

“No, my run. My two miles, MY music, MY thoughts. It’s all I’ve got that’s my very own.”

I said this while sitting up in our fluffy king-sized bed, staring out at the Pacific Ocean, in a beautiful beach home he built just for us.

“It’s all you’ve got, huh?”

“Well, you know, I’ve got you and the kids and everything. And the house.  And friends, great job, yadayada…but this knee holds the key to my sanity.”

“Are you sure it’s not your key to running away?” He said with a laugh and then he left to get me a cup of coffee.

Hmmmm…you know, I never thought of that.

With Mother’s Day closing in on us, I’m particularly sensitive to all things mom these days. I loved this book review from Parent Talk Today’s, Kathy Sena…yet another reminder that many, many journeys into motherhood begin long before that blessed stick.

http://parenttalk.typepad.com/parenttalk/2008/04/knock-yourself.html

We have a 2008 version of the Chutes and Ladders game at home. There are four players: 2 boys (1 Caucasian, one African American); and 2 girls (1 Caucasian, 1 Asian-American.) I always pick the Asian girl because I like her hairstyle – a cute black bob with bangs. My five-year-old son, Jackson - a lily-white, freckly-faced toe-head – always picks the African American boy.

“Why did you pick him?” I asked him this morning.

“Because I look the most like him,” he said.

“Really? Show me how you guys look alike.”

“Look at his smile,” he said. “I laugh just like that.”

If I died today - and I’m not saying I want to, but if I did - I’d die a very proud woman.

I am SO honored to be included in this book (see info below.) Book signing info to come!

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE     

April 26, 2008

Real Moms Write about Motherhood in Debut Collection

“If motherhood did come with a manual, this would be it.” -Coast Kids Magazine

LAGUNA BEACH, CA, APR. 26 – The Mothering Heights Manual for Motherhood, Volume 1: What we wish we knew before we became short order cook, shuttle driver, laundress Mother, a hilarious and poignant collection of essays on motherhood, debuts next month in time for Mother’s Day and summer reading. The book is a culmination of the 2^nd Annual Mother’s Day Essay Contest held by Christine Fugate, the popular writer of the Mothering Heights column and blog. Twenty-nine essays and four poems were chosen from over one hundred entries from Israel, Germany, Australia, and thirty U.S. states.

“I wanted this to be a celebration of motherhood – and for readers to laugh,” says Fugate, editor of Manual for Motherhood. “But some of the essays were so powerful, they had to be included. While we moms need to laugh, we can also use a good cry.”  The essays and poems offer stories, contemplations and advice about what it means to be a mother. Highlights include the mommy drive-by, not making meatloaf, and parenting with a coffee can. Serious topics such as finding an adoptive child’s birth mother, raising a Down syndrome child and recovering from post-partum depression are also featured.

Among the contributors are Us Weekly’s film critic Thelma Adams and novelists Patti Callahan Henry and Patty Friedmann. Fugate, a film and television Producer, is excited to also include writers who have never been published. “I started writing my column in an attempt to understand motherhood. I wanted to publish women who are not professional writers –they write because they want to make sense of motherhood.”  Additional essays submitted to the essay contest are featured online in a Mother’s Day Anthology at MotheringHeights.net.

Mothering Heights Manual for Motherhood, Volume 1: What we wish we knew before we became a short order cook, shuttle driver, laundress Mother, edited by Christine Fugate (trade paperback, $12.95 Mothering Heights Press, 2008) will be available May 11^th at MotheringHeights.net and June 15^th at Amazon.com and bookstores.

My husband comes home tonight, after ten days of surfing in the Maldives. It’s been easier than I thought, actually - talking care of the kids, the house, laundry, fevers, school, lunch, t-ball - but that doesn’t mean we didn’t miss him. In fact, this morning both kids wanted mohawks for his homecoming. (They do that a lot. For random special occasions, they roll out the hairspray.)

Last time we spoke was three days ago. He told me about a rash he got from the water. And then something about a pulled tendon? I don’t know…we must have had a bad connection, because I thought we were talking about how much he missed me. And how grateful he was for me not only taking care of our children, but his beloved cantaloupe garden. And for filling in for neighbor boy’s paper route that JOE committed to handling while neighbor boy was away.

I know I sound bitter, but I’m not. My husband deserved a vacation – he hadn’t taken one since his twenties! Not a real one, anyway. But if he doesn’t come running off that plane with arms filled with loot and eyes brimming with tears, it’s over.

So over.

“Let’s take your kids to Disneyland this weekend!” My girlfriend emailed me last week, knowing that my husband was out of town, knowing that I’ve never taken my kids there even though it’s 30 minutes away, knowing that I hate amusement parks.

“No.” I replied.

“Come ooooooon! I’ll be right there with you – it’ll be fun.”

“No.”

“Well, my offer expires this weekend. And Disneyland IS in your future, you know. You can’t avoid it forever.”

She was right, of course. Joe and I will eventually have to take the kids – at least for the first time. And Joe will undoubtedly pack boring, sack lunches and keep them in his “authentic” camo backpack, which will carry everything from surf wax, a sketch pad and forty-seven napkins but no sunscreen or water. He never remembers the sunscreen or water.

“Fine.” I emailed back. “I’ll pick you up at 3 on Saturday.”

I simply can’t bear recounting all the details right now. The crowds, the six-dollar-pretzel, the eighties perms…but I will tell you that I am still very, very sore. Sore from carrying my youngest on my hip the entire time (YES, no stroller); sore from restraining my oldest from jumping off the Pirates of the Caribbean boat to settle a score with Jack Sparrow who had just sprayed him with water (he really did look real); sore from a pulled groin muscle I suffered mid-sprint to remove my youngest from Mickey’s leg in the middle of the parade.

Sore from smiling, smiling, smiling.

So I’ll admit it. Disneyland packs in the magic. And, Wendy…you packed in some serious fun. The boys owe you big time. xoxo

Welcome to my NEW site! Nothing much has changed except that now I have more space in the cyber world. (Oh, and that I’ve finally come to terms with my short hair, hence the new photo.) It was right around this month last year when I posted my first blog entry on my old site, so I thought I’d post it again here.

MY FIRST:

It PAINS me to say this on my first blog entry – your introduction to me. To quote something so mainstream is so…mainstream. But Forrest nailed it on the bench that fateful day - life is like a box of chocolates. The only part I disagree with is that you DO always know what you’re gonna get. There’s always the nauseating, cherry-filled cube, perpetually flanked by the coveted caramel-filled nuggets (why are there only two per box when they’re everyone’s favorite?). And you’d be hard-pressed to miss the tri-fecta of those heath-bar wannabe wafers.

ALWAYS THE SAME LINE-UP. And if you custom-order your assortment to include only your favorites, you’re cheating fate. That’s my opinion.

How See’s candies provide an analogy for life – at least life my life as a mother, daughter, sister, friend and wife – is easy. You’ve got to subject yourself to the sticky, chewy muck of a mess called life to get what you’re really after. Of course, some of us have to eat more cherry-filled’s than others. (I happen to be one of these people.) Perpetually in sticky – often, nauseating - situations, I’ve become a master of swallowing as quickly as possible. For I know first-hand that - once digested - life’s lessons can be sweet. Hence, my alias: Sugar Mama. A sucker for the sticky.

Or maybe I’m just a sucker…with an impending weight problem if I don’t switch gears.

But that’s the thing with me – I can use any analogy to support any theory. And I am a big believer – and user – of cliché’s. Once, when asked if my son might be a piano prodigy, I responded with, “That’s about as likely as an acorn in a plum tree”. In other words, ‘no’. That gem’s rarely used (or could I have made it up?), but most of the sayings I use you’ll know, like, “He who smelt it, dealt it.”; or, “I know you are, but what am I?”; and, my personal favorite, ”It’s Miller Time.” (These may even be used simultaneously.)

But I’ll stick with Forrest Gump and his candy and shrimp for now. (All that wisdom in just 2+ hours was not lost on me.) Because when it comes to our own little shrimps, you can sauté one, fry his brother, or sprinkle their father with lemon - it all goes to the same place: your gut.

But not before they sear our hearts.

I was at my oldest’s school today, picking him up. I’ve been there a lot this month due to April being “my” month for this character counts initiative I’ve been working on. But this month also happens to mark a lot of other exciting things for me, professionally. So Sugar Mama’s been a little higher profile than her typical meager existence lately. Anyway, a mom I don’t know by name came up to me by the school playground today and said, “What are you, Wonder Woman? I keep seeing your name everywhere and then you’re here, volunteering…Geez, is there anything you don’t do?” It was a rhetorical question, of course. What she meant to say was that I bugged her.

“Actually, there are a lot of things I can’t do.” I offered.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“I can’t wind up a hose in perfect circles, even though I have one of those hook things. And I can’t fold a fitted sheet to save my life. And both are things I’m forced to do several times a week.”

“Well, maybe you should hire a gardener, then, or someone to do your laundry.”

She was killing me.

“Do you think Wonder Woman had a maid or a gardener?” I asked.

Our eyes locked.

“I know how to fold a sheet. And a hose.” She offered. “I’ll teach you sometime.”

Folder Girl. My new favorite superhero.