I get on a plane tomorrow for my third high school reunion. And it’s not because I’m 20. The Colorado Springs School was, in fact, my third high school – 1,500 miles from the first one (Convent of the Sacred Heart in San Francisco), as well as my second (Lick Wilmerding, also in San Francisco.) You might say that that’s quite a commute, no? But it was really only a hassle on Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter Break.

Ah, boarding school..images of privilege and punishment dance around our heads. Which is why I rarely mention it. Or, why, when I do, I say (lie) that it was a school for the gifted. The truth is, I had a GPA of 1.6 and something like 433 absences getting on the plane – not a lot of collegiate options packed in those duffel bags. But that was the school’s forte – stripping you of rules so you had none to break. Crafting a curriculum around your strengths and then tie-dyeing your weakness to make them more appealing. You really had no choice but to excel.

You also had no choice but to wear Birkenstocks.

The eve of my departure (I was 15) marked the last time I ever had my own room, closet or bathroom. That’s the irony of the whole privileged theory. My room in San Francisco was expansive, with its own walk-in and sink. At boarding school I had half a wall and about fifteen minutes a week on a pay phone we all shared.

Dare I say it was the best time of my life?

There’s a Billy Joel video with a big pillow fight – what is that song? – that embodies the biggest dorm cliché/fantasy known to the eighties man. All these girls laughing in their underwear, painting their toenails, talking about the boys from the dorm next door…well this really happened at my school. We were piercing each other’s ears/noses with stolen vodka and a safety pin, of course, but the sisterhood was there.

And our parents weren’t.

So tomorrow marks my first time getting on that plane since I graduated in 1988. My luggage is lighter – as is my hair – but I still feel like the same person. A tad off-path at times, but a gal who’s found her way.

It’s true - we have portraits of naked ladies all over our house. And I never think to mention it simply because I forget that it’s a sensitive topic. No, I am not trying to force nudity or art on anyone’s kids - nor am I willingly forcing the ‘what-do-you-call-your-privates’ conversation on you or your families. It’s usually just an honest oversight.

So this is my blanket warning to you.

If you want to come over for a glass of wine, milk or a mug of Joe’s favorite brew, you will pass a few boobs, an elbow and a rainbow-colored ding-dong depending on how far down the hall you go. So go ahead and tell your kids that we’re weird on the ride over – it’s ok. Or that we like elbows and rainbow colored ding-dongs. I really don’t care.

But just because you say ‘matching-white-shirts-and-jeans-on-a-beach family portrait’, and I say, ‘what, and take down a painting to make room for faces I see every day?’ doesn’t mean we’re so different. It’s simply a tomato/tomahto thing.

Now let’s take all our clothes off.

Jackson was invited to a sleepover a couple of weeks ago at Wes’ house. Wes is a nice kid – ‘Wes’ was also a back-up name for Jackson, so, naturally, I like Wes. But after I agreed to the overnight via voicemail, it dawned on me that I had no idea who Wes’ parents were, where they lived or if they had guns, a pool, faulty railings or tantric sex. My good sense had clearly passed out from I get-a night-off-from-one-of-my-kids giddiness. So I did what every good parent would and tried to back out.

Here’s a brief transcript of what went down:

Voicemail #2: Hi, this is Cynthia Jenkins again – scratch that last voicemail. Could Wes come here instead? We have a tree house. Call me back.

Returned voicemail from Wes’ mother #1: Hi, Wes’ mom here. Actually, I will be out of town and my husband Larry will be watching the kids and he thought it would be fun to have a “guys” night. See you Saturday at five?

Larry. A rash was beginning to crawl up my neck.

Voicemail #3: Hi. (LONG PAUSE) Do you have guns? (ANOTHER LONG PAUSE) This is Cynthia. Call me back.

When we finally connected, Wes’ mom could not have been more accommodating to my neuroses. She gave me a list of references and permission to stop by unannounced to check her cabinets. When I did that - (I actually showed up an hour early on Saturday) – Larry escorted me into their living room and told me to “have at it.” Now, there’s really only one word to describe a woman who behaves like this – WHACK. JOB. This was not a normal activity mothers find themselves participating in. And despite how ho-hum Larry was acting about this whole situation, I was certain he was thinking the exact same thing.

After a quick assessment, I deemed Wes’ environs squeaky clean, as I did Larry. So much so, I could have fallen asleep (the stress of all this) right there and had my own sleepover. But I managed to pull myself away from their beautiful artwork and kitchen-big-enough-for-a-party to wait for Larry’s “they’re asleep” text* later that night.

The next morning I arrived at Wes’ house at 8:30am – a little early for a Sunday, no? Regardless, a dressed and wakeful Larry graciously offered me a cup of coffee as well as my unharmed kid back – neither of which I accepted. I’m kidding, but my point is that, well, I was sort of falling in love with Larry.**

As I was packing Jackson up and saying our good-bye’s, Larry asked me if he was going to be reading about this someday.

“Excuse me?”

“Aren’t you Sugar Mama?” he asked.

“Oh, that.” I answered. “No, you’re safe. I only embarrass myself on my blog.

Which, of course, is how this entry came to be.

*Larry’s text actually read, “You’ve raised a good one. Smart kid. They’re winding down right now. See you tomorrow”

**This happens to me when I’m under stress.

My six-year-old’s Little League coach asked me to act as the team’s “scribe” – the gal who gets our team some ink. Actually, that’s a lie – I volunteered for the job. (Apparently.) Two problems, though. I haven’t been to a single game and the one practice I did attend was, well, a yogic blur as I wound myself into a pretzel in order to sustain cell service on Thurston’s field. But I wash the same white pants and blue shirt/sock combo every week so I’ve gleaned the following information: My son plays for the Surf Vival team and he is number 5. From the looks of his pants, he hasn’t caught many grounders. By his newly acquired freckley nose, I’m guessing that he isn’t keeping his eye on the ball either. Or perhaps he’s lost his hat.

But this isn’t about player #5, is it? It’s about a team of thirteen six- and seven-year-olds who answer to a hot* guy named Fish two times a week. It’s about learning new things with new people and achieving new personal bests.** So to make it up to all of you, Drake, Jeremy, Trent, Grace, Lucas, Trevor, Brooks, Caleb, Kayden, David, Josh, Geste and Jackson, I offer you the following scrapbook clipping.

 TEAM SURF VIVAL REMAINS UNDEFEATED*** FOR THE ’09 SEASON, THANKS TO THE MASTERFUL LEADERSHIP OF COACH FISH!*

 GOOOOOOOO TEAM!

* Yes, I know he’s happily married. So am I.

** Sadly, I’m unable to report them here due to my absences.

*** We don’t keep score yet.

Yesterday my youngest had a play date with a little Peruvian boy whose mother I had never met. We were supposed to meet at the park after school and “hang out” while the boys made sand pirates. This scenario represents one of my biggest beefs as a parent – feigning interest in someone’s gifted son while you lie about yours. For an hour, no less, on a splintery bench.

I remember one time this mother said to me at the park, “Your son can count to a hundred, right?”

“Totally,” I lied. Our kids were two at the time.

“Oh good. I was starting to wonder if other kids were just really dumb or my kid was brilliant.”

This brilliant banter went on and on until my lie was blown wide open by my son not uttering one word during the entire hour. They ended up packing it up, eventually, after my son drooled all over her kid’s flash cards. 

Or another time when I met a mother who said she had to mail a letter and came back 2 ½ hours later. Thanks, doll. Let’s do this again.

So there’s really only one thing that could make stranger play dates more palatable to me: IF THE KID’S MOTHER IS A STUNT WOMAN WHO SHOOTS GUNS, FLIES OUT OF BURNING CARS, AND DIVES THROUGH WATERFALLS. What are the chances, right?

Well, yesterday was my lucky day. Irene is a kick-ass, cooler-than-any-of us-will-ever-be HOT MAMA.

Anyway, I’m back on the play date circuit if anyone’s interesting interested.

I took my oldest to church yesterday morning - a new one. During the kids’ portion of the sermon the pastor asked them, “what is love?” One said it meant ‘getting married,’ another said ‘chocolate.’ (I realize that there are volumes of mini-paperback, impulse mom gifts on this topic, so I won’t bore you with cliche kid quips.) They were then asked to draw what love meant to them. Most of the kids drew themselves hugging their mom, their dog, licking an ice cream…but not Jackson. He crafted his into a paper airplane and launched it across the pew, avoiding my gaze. When I unfolded it, there was a lone heart divided into several red- and pink-hued sections. Interwoven within each were Christmas lights. My first reaction was that there were no humans in it - and that I was conspicuously absent as was he. Detached is how a teacher once described him. But I allowed him his privacy and waited until we were alone.

“I like your heart.” I told him in the car.

“Thanks.”

“Are the different sections like a map?”

“Yeah, they’re where all the things you love live.”

“And the lights?”

“Whenever one of the sections is activated, it lights up,’ he explained. “Like Christmas.”

“Am I in there?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does hate live in there?”

“No. hate is In your mouth because it’s just a word. Love is a light that has to live inside you otherwise you wouldn’t be able to sleep.”

I have no dreams of publishing my own book of jackson-isms, nor do I think that one six-year-old  is necessarily wiser than another. But there is something to looking inside your heart to propel yourself forward as opposed to relying on external forces to make you happy.

This is my Monday thought for you. Now get to work.

One of the publications I was in last month received an angry email from a guy named, huh…he didn’t give it. Anyway, he called me a hedonist who doesn’t understand the “wink” of a joke. So a ’sensually indulgent comedic failure’ in layman’s terms. The editor calmed him down for a full thirty minutes on a subsequent phone call, she said, and asked how I felt about that.

Well, you know when you’re up to bat in the ninth inning and the bases are loaded and it’s a tie and you strike out? I feel like the guy who’s left early to beat traffic. Grateful. For had it not been for, sorry - didn’t catch your name - I never would have looked up the word ‘hedonist,’ which happened to follow the word, ‘hedgehog rat’ in my dictionary. And had I not looked up hedgehog rat (a West Indian rodent with stiff hair) I never would have come up with a name for you.

Aw, I’m just kidding. See? I am funny. Now someone hand me my grapes.

I added two new sites to the right.

1. www.remodelista.com has the most beautiful, modern, practical design tips and is updated on a daily basis. So before you tear out that toilet, get inspired here first. I’m not even remodeling and I check it every day.

2. www.pamperedladycruise.com is setting sail again in June - a fun, 3-hour cruise in Newport Beach with just girls. Champagne, appetizers, spa treatments and a “tease” instructor on board. I heard the husbands were very happy when their wives got home from last cruise.

True story. Right before the swim event at my triathlon this weekend, I cried. It was six am, all 1,060 women were inked with their race numbers on their calves, fore-arms, breasts - it was like a lake-side butchfest of wetsuits and bathing caps. And the current - i’ll say that again - the CURRENT was against us that morning. “This leg’s gonna be a bitch,” I heard from behind me. But then there was a roar of encouragement, a couple of high five’s and rythmic chest pounding all around me. “BRING IT ON! BRING IT ON!”

These aren’t my people, I thought to myself. My people are still asleep, blissfully hungover with one of their kid’s feet lodged in their ribs. 

Which is when I started to cry. Not out loud, mind you, but in silent, salty tears which barely loped into trickle. I can’t even cry like an athlete, I thought to myself. But then my heat’s whistle blew and I was in the water.

There are so many metaphors surrounding water if you think about it - births, rebirths, immersion of souls…so I was waiting for some divine meaning to my madness that morning. Will this make me stronger? A better mother? Lover? Why else would there be so many of us taking our bodies to the limit for two hours that would be better spent at the nail salon?

I have no answer. But when I finally crossed that finish line (22 minutes faster than J-lo, thank you very much) I cried again. The kind of tears an athlete cries this time. Those globby, goopy tears accomplishment that seep from every pore. Because a trainer or personal chef didn’t do this for me. Nor was there some divine miracle propelling me to the finish line. This was simply the rawest form of doing what I set out to do. 

So those other ladies? Still not my people, because I am my people. And whenever that cold, dirty, fish-infested current goes against me,  I now know that I can always count on me.

Fingers crossed Prudential has a sense of humor.

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