I had to make a very difficult phone call this weekend to Gigi, Jackson’s new desk mate in first grade - the girl I’d hoped he’d marry. But lice trumps all plans – even those best laid. So when Jackson’s head came under attack this weekend, I had to call her mother.  It’s what any good citizen SHOULD DO.

“NOOOOOOOOO!” Jackson screamed as I picked up the phone.

“Honey, Gigi won’t judge you. But she may be pretty angry if she ends up having to shave her head, if gone untreated.

“NOOOOOOOOO! DON’T TELL HER!!!!!” he screamed again and then he picked up his skateboard and ran out the door. (Sadly, he’s only allowed to ride to the mailbox unsupervised, so his dramatic exit was short-lived.)

Gigi DOES NOT HAVE LICE, by the way.

But it felt good to do the right thing. Lice are evil. Not dirty, not a reflection of character, but evil. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE tell your friends if your kids have it. My son is now bald and potentially girlfriend-less. I realize this is no one’s fault, but had there been a slight chance of a heads-up, perhaps Jackson’s head wouldn’t be so down.

Or bald.

The transition from kindergarten to first grade has not been easy on my son. “It’s not too hard, it’s just too fast.” And then he broke out in a terrible case of hives.

Jacskon’s six.

But there’s always a silver lining, right? Or, at least, it’s my job to find it.

When I picked him up yesterday, I was greeted by one of my favorite girls from his kindergarten class named Gigi. She has the kind of hair that defies the brush and a closet that would make any fashionista proud. I not-so-secretly want Jackson to date her, fall in love and marry her. “Think how much fun we’d have,” I’d tell her when I’d volunteer.

Gigi would just roll her eyes.

But yesterday, she looked concerned. “Mrs, Jenkins,” she started. “Jackson was moved next to me today in class.”

“Oh,” I said. “You don’t look too happy about that.”

“Actually,” (There’s that sliver of silver…NOTHING better than a six-year-old who says ‘actually’, right?) “I think I’ll help him focus.”

“Thanks, Gigi.” I said. And then I whispered, “Have him focus on your ring size too.”

“Not gonna happen, Mrs. Jenkins. Not gonna happen.” And, finally, there was my silver lining because there is NOTHING more prophetic than a six-year-old who says, ‘not gonna happen.’

Great things always happen, Gigi. Just when you need it.

My son has decided not to go as a princess this year. He’d like to be a purple unicorn instead. 

phew.

I read somewhere that if you’re gay, you were born that way. That’s what Oprah thinks too. Anyway, this is what I told my husband after our son told us he wanted to be a princess for Halloween.

“He is who he is.” I explained.

“Cynthia, parading him around in sparkles and heels could set him up for a really bad night. People will make fun of him.” He pleaded.

“So we’ll skip the sparkles and heels.”

“You’re missing my point.”

But I wasn’t missing his point at all. I mean, Cinderella in briefs is not exactly an image you want of your son. Not an image that he wants, anyway. I think it’s hilarious.

“Look, he’s not even four.” I told him. “Who knows what this means?”

“Well, can he at least wear fangs?” he compromised. “Like a tough, vampire-ella, or something?”

Sure, honey. That’s much healthier.

I’ve received a lot of feedback regarding my “religious” column, published in this month’s ParentingOC (http://www.parentingoc.com/sugarmama_0809.html) - too much to answer individually, so I thought I’d issue a blanket acknowledgement here. Some emails have been supportive of my “loosey-goosey” faith…most not. The common theme within the latter is “damnation” - specifically in regards to my fate after death, as well as my children’s. “Damnation” is a really scary word, and while it forces a certain tone to each letter, I know that most of you are simply speaking from your hearts. So I thank you for that.

It also reminds me of a story.

As a young girl, I went to a friend’s house on a Friday after school whose dad was an Orthodox Jew. Coming home that night (Sabbath), he got stuck in a terrible traffic jam, forcing him to pull his car over to the side of the road in order to “cease” and wait out the night, in observance of his faith. When I called my Episcopalian mother to tell her she’d need to pick me up because he couldn’t drive me home, she happily obliged, completely unfazed by my explanation.

No one around me thought it was weird, so I didn’t either. To each, his own was my take-away that night. That and an overwhelming desire to know he had made it home safely.

So I appreciate all feedback - the good, the bad and the damned. I will continue to respect you and your faith(s) as you have (or even if you haven’t) done mine. 

xo Sugar Mama

The only thing I remember about first grade was my mauve pair of glasses. They were thicker than four storm windows and as large as two dessert plates - on each side. And due to an uncommon hybrid of far-sightedness and astigmatism, each eye was magnified about forty times its normal size and skewed ala fishbowl. The funny thing is that I hid behind them – I actually thought they made me inconspicuous.

Wrong, of course. Within no time, I was the first grade four-eyed freak who barely made a sound.

Anyway, clearly I still have issues. So when my oldest son, Jackson, entered first grade last week with a shocking pair of enviable lens-free eyes as dazzling as the deep blue sea, I heaved a huge sigh of relief.  “Normal” was all I had hoped for. “Stunning” was simply a gift.

Last night was his open house – a chance to meet the teacher, other parents, etc. And while the teacher introduced herself , I snooped in Jackson’s desk and found his writing journal. “I can play Star Wars Wii and lift almost 50 pounds,” he wrote on Page 1. No he can’t! I thought to myself. And then I laughed out loud. Too loud.

At the end of the night I went up to introduce myself to his teacher, but she beat me to it.

“Your Jackson’s mom.” she said to me.

“Yes, I am…how did you know?”

“You have the same laugh,” she smiled. “And those same dazzling eyes.”

God, I love re-do’s.

You know that girl in school who everyone knew? The one who had a signature style, like a macramé poncho or a pierced nose?  Well, there was this one girl from college whose signature was, quite simply, being perfect. Every day Shannon wore a ponytail wrapped in a scarf  - her lips some complementary hue - and she was always smiling.  “I guess I’m just happy,” she used to say. And why shouldn’t she be? Her hair was perfect, she got good grades and she had more friends than I could count.

Believe me, I tried.

Anyway, we have since Facebook re-friended and I’ve fallen in love with her all over again, despite the fact she now has a pony-less bob. But the reason I mention her is because she runs a very successful PR business, specializing in women’s and kids’ fashion, accessories, etc. and there are many of you who fall within her client expertise. Although I LOVE the freebies I get, I urge you to take your marketing efforts to the next level - her level…the pretty, perfect and popular level.  

Check her out at www.pitchpress.com and tell her Sugar Mama sent you.  (She actually knows me as Cynthia, the girl who tried to copy her ponytail/scarf signature - unsuccessfully - but that may not be the best opener.)

…my editor’s in-box is sure to be full by Tuesday. Oy, let the tomatoes fly.

http://www.parentingoc.com/sugarmama_0809.html