Boogers, snot, and mucus; the childhood "triple threat."

I’ve spent the better part of the past two weeks watching my baby daughter perform magic tricks with her nose. (No, this isn't her. But I feel this parent's pain.) Every year February hits, and I’m crossing my fingers and legs that our family doesn’t get hit with the winter crud, but inevitably, everyone seems to come down with some version of the latest and greatest cold.

As a rule, my youngest daughter’s body tends to manifest colds and viruses in the form of fevers, ranging anywhere from four to ten days. I’m used to these fevers, know how to deal with them, and even keep a fever journal. It’s not uncommon for my daughter’s viral fevers to hit 105 degrees. I usually wait 72 hours, before taking her in, only to have our pediatrician tell me to “continue piggy backing Tylenol and Motrin, and come back in about 6 days if her fever hasn’t broken.” Well, okay. I can do that. The last time I brought my daughter in for her well visit, he asked me about her fevers.
“So, it looks like here (reading her chart) that she hasn’t had one of her fevers since November.”
“No, actually, she had another fever bout in December. It got up to 106,” I replied.
“You mean 100.6? Or 106? That’s a huge difference,” my pediatrician stated, with a tinge of worry on his face.
“No, 106,” I told him. “I just kept giving her Tylenol and Motrin, like we usually do.”
“Okay,” he starts off. “I know you’re used to dealing with her high fevers, but when it hits 106, we really should take a look at her,” he told me, incredulously. As I was leaving the office I overheard him telling another pediatrician, “…her child had a fever of 106, and she didn’t bring her in because she is so used to dealing with them…” laced with can-you-believe-this tone. Okay, point taken. Apparently there is a limit to how hot your child is allowed to be.

I mention this little episode, because until two weeks ago, my youngest had yet to catch the common cold, typical of every little person from birth to ten. Which is why I was so unprepared to deal with her nose. She didn’t sleep 24 hours a day like her feverish episodes. She’s in a quandary about whether to breath or suck on her binky, and at her very young age, has managed to create a hybrid system where she can do both. It’s suck-suck-suck-suck-BREATHE-uhh-BREATHE-uhh-suck-suck-suck-suck-BREATHE-uhh-BREATHE-uhhh. The binky’s enveloped in a web of snot, and she’s up, running around, leaving a slime trail all over the house.

One minute she’s playing with her toys, face clean as you please, and the next I look over and her head is a glistening pool of mucus. She’s got a snotty nose that could rival the best stereotypic-diaper-clad-trailer-park-two-year-old in winter. She was making some magnificent sounds the other day, until I looked over and found that the snot was bubbling around her vibrating lips, lending a new instrumentation that-while grotesque-was oddly pleasing. Curious to hear more, but feeling the mom-guilt stab at me, I grabbed for the tissue and put and end to her melody, but silently wondered what the rest of her opus would have sounded like.

In addition to her musical talents, she also performs a version of the rainbow-handkerchief-up-the-sleeve trick, wherein I’ll wipe her nose, and there’s a long string of booger that refuses to give in. I’m pulling-wiping-pulling-wiping, and it’s changing colors; it’s blue, now red, here comes the green one, next is yellow, and finally after pulling-and-wiping and changing tissues five times to no avail, I relent and break the dammed booger off, leaving the stringy end in her nose to be pulled again at a later date.

If it’s not the stringy booger trick, it’s the “where’s the slug?” trick. You’ve all seen this one; that thick yellow slug-booger slowly inches its way down the upper lip and just before you lean in for the kill, SUCK! its gone again. You wait, staring at your toddler’s nose for the booger-slug to emerge. Seconds later, there it is... the nasty little creature slimes it’s way out and down the lip, but you’re ready this time, you’ve almost got the fleshy booger in your grasp, and SUCK! it disappears. At this point I really want to yell at my 20-month-old daughter to “QUIT SUCKING IT IN!” but she’s running now, with the slug on her lip, and a new slug emerges, sitting-bitch to the next one, both going for a joy ride on my daughter’s face while she laughs and runs in the opposite direction from me. You can faintly hear those slug boogers chanting, “You can’t catch us, we’re the booger-slug men!” I finally trap my daughter in her room, coming after her with fifteen tissues, and find her “hiding” from me on her sister’s bed. “Hiding,” for my toddler, consists of covering her eyes and putting her face down so she can’t see you. Never mind she’s standing there in the middle of the room in plain sight. I make it over to her only to find…you guessed it. Dead slug-booger carcass all over her sister’s sheets. Lovely.

In fact, one doesn’t need to step too far into my home to see the slimy, gelatinous, mucus remnants from my daughter. There’s sticky residue on the light switches she reaches to click-on-click-off-click-on-click-off, there are clear stripes marking her place at the table, and of course the back of her chair where she pulls herself up. Clear dried residue from cheek to ear. Tacky little fingers encased in lint and dirt, from wiping her nose and playing on the carpet. At the height of the snot infestation, I would get her up in the morning to find a crusty, yellow conglomeration sealing the nostrils almost totally shut, save for two small air holes; looking like someone tried to paper mache a mask on her over night. The dried nose crust is the worst to try and remove. At some point in all our lives, we’ve tried to pop that little nose zit or black head, the one that makes your eyes water just contemplating, the one that you swear you’re going to let fester, because you cannot bear the pain of getting rid of it. I’m trying to figure which would hurt less; peeling the booger crustacean off with a putty knife? Chipping away at it with my pinky-nail? Trying to steam it off, with a humidifier and towel? Either way there is going to be screaming. My daughter is not going to be too happy about it either.

I’d like to know if anyone has ever thought of trying to harvest childhood mucus. My daughter’s yellow-ooze is so sticky I have a million uses for it at home. Hanging wallpaper, is one thing that comes to mind. Gluing the broken head on my Willow Tree figurine, is another. The kid’s many paper projects. Christmas crafts. Heck, I bet with enough snot, you could even use it as an adhesive under your laminate flooring. Forget super glue! Hot glue is so 90’s! Go “green” and repurpose your child’s infectious mucus. Imagine how much money you could save, if you follow the mantra, “Reduce, reuse recycle.”

But how to harvest the slime? A bucket around my child’s head, while cost-effective, seems a tad abusive and would get in the way of nap and bed times, which are prime booger-collecting opportunities. No doubt we’ve all got that classic blue bulb-syringe hanging around somewhere in the house. The standard-issue hospital parting gift, for dropping a few thousand at their facility to give birth to your baby. I love the fact that everyone gets one of these syringes, (which are sooo much more useful than, say diapers would be) and yet the pediatrician always tells you not to use them. My kids always had more fun using it as a teether (it can get way in the mouth for those back teeth cuttings) than I ever did trying to suck snot from their nose. We’ve all been there, one spouse trying to hold the child’s thrashing head still in vice-like grip, the other parent trying to keep the bottom of the bulb compressed while attempting not to give their child an accidental frontal-lobotomy cramming said bulb up child's very small nostril. No... decidedly, NOT effective.

I came upon the Nosefrida Nasal Aspirator, while doing a Google search on boogers. (It’s always amazing what you come up with when you Google such words.) This device actually has a mucus-catching reservoir, which would be perfect if you’re trying to use your child’s snot as family glue. Basically, you stick the reservoir end into the child’s nose, place the end of the tube in your own mouth, and then suck your child’s boogers right out their little nasal cavity. Don’t worry, you won’t get the salty mess in your mouth, thanks to the snot-trap at the end of the reservoir. Really, they’ve thought of everything. With only a $15 dollar investment, think how much snot you could harvest during a standard cold and flu season: 1 nose aspirator + 3 sick children= unlimited booger glue possibilities. Priceless.

Guest Bloggers!

Hey all! I wanted to let everyone know that I will occasionally be hosting Guest Bloggers on my site! This will give you an opportunity to read about perspectives other than my own (although freakishly similar, go figure.) I'd like to introduce my sister, Megan Rose; high ranking PR exec., fabulous writer, and mom extraordinaire! She's a hoot!

The Current Sad State of Human Interaction

Breaking News!! Third in line for the throne, the cute red headed soldier, Prince Harry, is single. Not really news in itself, I guess…but what is news (apparently) is how he found out…nope, it wasn’t a phone call late at night from a love that was fed up with his flirtatious ways…it wasn’t even a “Dear Harry” letter explaining that she just couldn’t be a part of his life anymore…it was that his girlfriend changed her relationship status on Facebook. Really?

Sigh. This makes me sad. The state of the human race is at stake…isn’t it? The dawn of the social media movement is really the curtain call for the face to face interaction of yesteryear. Maybe it is therapeutic. Maybe being able to hide behind a computer, phone or blackberry and tell everyone what you are doing or thinking (in 140 characters or less please) helps people bond. Maybe terminating friendships, quitting jobs or telling someone off is better handled via this new revolution. It certainly is easier- check your convictions (and spine) at the door and go ahead and hit send.

Social media has opened the door for regular Joes to opine in the world. I am not opposed to this. The question I have is what is the cost of this phenomenon? Many things take place when a conversation happens face to face, namely, that you can see the other person’s reaction. Oh- and accountability. That is an important one. Happy faces :) have taken the place of genuine, light up the room smiles. “LOL” has taken the place of hearty bellowing laughter. Am I the only one that thinks this is sad? Or- am I being like my grandparents who refuse to learn how to use a computer and email?

Can a value for people and relationships be fostered through this new medium of the 21st century? For me, I am still not sold on it. No text message will take the place of a firm hand shake and no status update will take the place of a good venting session with a friend over a glass of wine. I guess time will tell how it will affect us- for the good or for the bad. As for me, I will cautiously advance with these trends all the while holding firm in the knowledge that is time tested and mother approved- true relationships are formed without the intermediary of shiny PDA’s.

My Kids; Junkies?

My nine-year-old son has a problem. He thinks about it constantly, asks for it incessantly. Begs for it during the week, makes deals to use it, thrashes and sobs when we take it away. No, not alcohol as one might suspect, or drugs as one might fear. No, my son is addicted to his Nintendo DS.

I do not say addicted lightly. This $140 dollar metal poptart has stolen my sweet son, who used to have other interests and cared about his family. But wielding his DS, our family could be perishing in a fiery inferno, and my son would look up long enough to say, “I just beat level three mom and dad! It was so much easier than I thought!”

My son has also dragged his sister into this sick and twisted gaming world. My seven-year-old was oblivious to video games until about six months ago. It started innocently enough, with that gateway-game on the XBOX 360, Cloning Cycle. He showed her how to play it. How to get ahead. How to make the little guy jump and dive. How to score points. Suddenly video games were on her Christmas list. Her birthday list. My video-dealing son got her hooked and moved in for the kill: he introduced her to the big-time DS.

Although my daughter does not have her own DS system, she wants one. She plays her brother’s and they fight over who gets to play it first or who played it longer. Their thumbs are starting to dislodge from their joint sockets, allowing for 360 degree thumb rotation. So much better for multi-tasking those buttons, but those same kids can’t pick their socks off the floor.

Our family has a no-tv-or-video-games-during-the-school-week-policy. We do let our son use the DS when he is in the bathroom, for a variety of really good reasons that I won’t mention here. But to keep things fair, we figured we also had to allow our daughter to play it while on the commode, but no more than 10 minutes at a time. There has been an amazing spike in the number of times my children need to use the restroom now. They must be eating and drinking machines at school, because they announce they need to use the restroom about 50 times a day. They grab the DS on their way to the bathroom. “Wait a minute! You can only use it to go #2!” I yell. “I better see some poop in that toilet!”

Things hit a real low for my son the other day, when my husband and I discovered for the second time (gasp), that he has been sneaking his game-heroin at night. Playing it in his bed while we think he’s sleeping. So that’s why he wakes up in the morning, groggy, miserable and bag-eyed. And I thought his pillow was too stiff.

My husband and I staged an intervention. Their 20-month-old sister was there to attest to the turmoil these games have caused in her life. More than once she has fallen down the stairs or ate some foreign object from beneath the baseboard heaters, because her siblings were too absorbed in the DS to look after her. We would have called in our pet guinea pig to testify that he too was ignored and abandoned due to the children’s obsession with gaming. But we got rid of Shadow a while back because….you guessed it….the kids couldn’t be bothered to look after another living being in the house. My husband and I each fought back tears as we choked out how much we loved them (our children) and how scared we were for their future, should this addiction continue. “Your grades will suffer!” we chanted. “Your eyes will pop right out of your head!” we cautioned. “You’re becoming kids we don’t even recognize! We can’t take it anymore!” we bellowed.

We threatened to send our son to Amsterdam, where there is a video-game detox program, ready to help and lend a hand. My son wasn’t quite ready to move across the country. We researched the contact information for On-line Gamers Anonymous, and read the signs and symptoms of game-addiction. My husband and I have wracked our brains trying to figure out where all our strict parenting went wrong…is it us? Is my son predisposed to addictive activities? Or perhaps is it a brain disorder like some claim?

I’m sure we’re not the only parents dealing with this childhood sickness. You may be thinking I’m over-reacting. I suppose you could be right. In fact, my good friend Pam actually plays video games with her sons; helps them beat the tough levels, helps them kill those virtual foes who simply throw the fireballs too quickly for a seven-year-old thumb to react. Apparently she is one of those “cool moms” that embraces things her children do; one of those parents who enjoy partaking in their children’s fun. She claims she teaches them such novel childhood lessons as being a good sport, taking turns, handling disappointment when they lose. She’s even been known to get so lost in the DS games herself (trying to help my son and her sons beat a level) that she actually told my son to shut up. I don't blame her. I’ve no doubt my addicted son was jones-ing for the DS-bong, nervously tapping his foot on the floor, waiting his turn to try and beat the level, repeating the phrases, “IcandoitletmetrynoIcandoityoudiditwrongletme-tryletmetryletmetrynorealyIbetIcandoit..” in eerie monastic monotones over her shoulder, and she snapped. I suppose the thrill of the video-kill could do that to a person. Or worse.

Have you heard about the 17 year-old teen in Ohio, who killed his mother and shot his father in the head, because they wouldn’t let him play Halo3? I know, it sounds too far fetched to be true. But the kicker is that the only thing he took from the house after the incident, was the Halo3 game. Okay, so not all video-game-playing kids are this sick. It only takes one jack-ass to upturn the apple cart and spoil it for the rest. But I have to admit, after reading this article, I might be peeking through my hands when my son says to me, “Close your eyes mom, I have surprise for you.”

Halo is also a game my son wants to play. He keeps asking when he can play games that are rated “M.” I keep telling him that when his is an “M” I’ll let him play M games. “What does that mean?” he asks me. I paused. Thought. And replied:

“You can play “M” games when you can explain to me in significant detail what ‘the dignity of the human person’ means.” This has stumped him for awhile, and he keeps insisting, “It just means be respectful to others, right?” Well, there’s more to it than that. I figure by the time he’s 15 or 16 he might understand it, and then we can revisit those “M” games. Right after his volunteer hours with the food pantry, homeless facilities, and battered women shelters.

And if you were all still concerned about the state of our economy, apparently not all businesses are going under. According to the Wednesday edition of the Wall Street Journal, Gamestop Corp. is alive and well, thanks to their sales of new and used video games. Sales from games are expected to reach $2 billion dollars, up from $1.6 billion dollars last year at this same time. If you are unemployed, you might want to apply at Gamestop, because apparently, in these tough times, what us American's need to fight off the recession and get our minds off the cost of groceries and our late mortgage payments, is a little gaming distraction. And I'm pretty sure they are an equal-opportunity employer, although a skater t-shirt and a body piercing probably wouldn't hurt your interview image.

Well, as a concerned parent, I'm trying. Trying to put the focus of life back where it belongs; in school, family, faith, and friends. (Not necessarily in that order.) I'm glad to know that my husband and I are on the same page, dedicated to protecting our children and helping them aquire some perspective.

The other day my son was looking for his DS, couldn’t find it anywhere. It wasn’t where he put it. It wasn’t charging. It was a weekend, and he needed to use the restroom. He was beside himself. I walked into my bedroom to help my son look, and find: my husband playing the Nintendo DS in our bed. “Have you been in here playing this the whole time?” I asked. “What kind of lesson does this teach the kids?” I grumbled.

“I don’t know..” he replied. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em?”

Money Matters

My son has been hounding me to come up with a list of things he can do to earn money. He would like to amass wads of cash, not to give away to a local shelter, or buy something nice for the mother who cares for him 24/7, or even to save up for a really big item that would be beneficial for a boy his age—say a new mattress for his bed, or efficient lighting by which to study. No, my son would like wads of cash to purchase games for his Nintendo DS. This cursed thing was brought by (who else) Santa, even though I was previously pretty specific about what I wanted each child to have. (Damn Santa.) This hand held video contraption is now my kryptonite, closing in on my other arch nemesis, the XBOX 360. Buying video games is now the sole reason my son wants to engage in any sort of physical labor or has even a slight interest in performing a duty with a purpose.

My son needs this list of money earning activities because he doesn’t receive an allowance. Although he is nine, we haven’t started the allowance thing for a number of reasons. For one, I don’t feel right about giving him money to do chores. Chores in my book, are things you do

because you are part of a family and everyone has to pull their own weight. Dishes, vaccumming, putting your laundry away, wiping the dust from the baseboards, these are all things I feel my kids should do because I let them live here. No one pays me to cook dinner and pick my underwear off the floor, why should my kids be any different? The opposite side of that argument is that I also don’t feel like I should give my kids money just to give them money. Allowance isn’t a basic human necessity and I’m not handing money over to them simply because other parents are doing it, or to teach them the “value of a dollar,” or any other rhetorical crap parents use these days. You know when it comes right down to it and Johnny is short $1.23, the majority of parents will chip in, thereby defeating the purpose of managing money to begin with, so allowance these days doesn’t really teach kids anything. Besides, last I looked nobody was handing me money for the freedom of it, so there you go.

Even if my husband and I decided to give our children allowance, what's a reasonable allowance these days anyway? Surely it has to be more than the $5 bucks a week I got when I was nine. I found this allowance calculator helpful. It suggested that allowance be $1 for every year of age per week, so in my son's case, $9 dollars a week. But wait, that's $432.00 per year, for my son to buy things as he pleases! I don't even spend that kind of money on whatever I want. Why does my nine year old have more money than I do, and he doesn't even work? (I do work BTW.)

No, I want my kids to earn the money somehow, but not by doing chores. This leaves me to come up with a list of activities and the dollar values associated with each. I don’t want the kid to have to shovel snow for 50 cents an hour, but also don’t think that clearing the front walk is worth 10 bucks. As much as I complain about all the things there are to do around my house, I’m really having trouble coming up with a list of things for my son to do.

• Chop Firewood? No, too dangerous. (Even though my husband has given my son a hatchet and lets him cut kindling, I’m not going to be around when CPS comes to inquire about my son’s missing digits.)
• Make Dinner? Only if we wanted to eat frozen waffles with peanut butter, and granola bars.
• Iron Clothes? Requires too much attention to detail, namely, not burning the item of clothing while he focuses on the steam coming out the top and wondering how it’s doing that, and looking to see where the water will go in…
• Babysitting his sister? This task can only be completed if its no longer than 15 minutes at a time, there is no external stimuli such as tv, music, and definitely not video games, and if they are both secured to one room with only baby toys. Then again, how much is 15 minutes of babysitting worth?

I found some more helpful suggestions on Moneyinstructor.com. A lemonade stand. Good one, but it's 20 degrees outside. Washing the car. Another good one, but the resulting water would turn our driveway into an ice-rink. Pet grooming. This would have been a keeper idea, save for the fact that we no longer own any pets, because my children wouldn't take care of them in the first place. Gardening. Wrong season. Argg.

I remember being a kid and asking for a list of things to do to earn money. I remember that this lasted well into my young married days when my parents hired me to faux paint various rooms in their house. I think it’d be great if we could return to those days, earning a little allowance for yourself by doing things for the neighbors. You could fund little outings with your spouse with this ancillary cash. Here’s what that might look like:

Husband: “Hey honey, you want to get a sitter for the kids on Saturday and catch a movie, maybe dinner?”
Wife: “That sounds great! How much do you think we’ll need?”
H: “Well, $35 for movies, $25 for dinner at Wendys, and $300 for the babysitter for four hours, that comes to…$360.00 total.”
W: “Hmmm. Okay. I’ll hit up the Smiths on the corner and see if I can clean their bathrooms for 10 bucks each; then I’ll call the Waverlys and skim their pool and scrub their cool-decking for 10 more bucks; and I’ll check with my parents and see if I can get a $15 IOU for any weeding my mom might need come summer. What about you?”
H: “I think I’ll call up Harold and see if I can chop a cord of wood for him. That would net me about $25. Then I’ll call up my sister and see if I can re-caulk her shower stalls and switch out all her lead plumbing to copper. That should get me about $100. I think Grandma needs some errands done, so I’ll only charge her $30 for my time. What’s that leave us with?”
W: “210.00.”
H: “We’re $150 dollars short. Those damned babysitters make so much money!”
W: “Do you think our son could do it? Babysit for the others, I mean?”
H: “What, and leave a nine year old in charge of two other kids for four hours at night?”
Silence.
H: “That sounds like a great idea! We’ll offer to pay him $20—our son does want to earn money after all—which gives us an excess of $150 bucks! Want to go away for the weekend?

Well, I’m no closer to coming up with a good list for my son, even though I told him I had a list ready. I suppose I need to be grateful he wants to earn it, rather than assuming I will simply buy it for him. Perhaps as this generation of children get older and enter the work force, it won’t be work-for-pay, but work-for-videogames. Maybe video games will become the new currency and will replace the Yen, Euro and dollar bill. At least this is what my son wants to work for. And millions of boys just like him no doubt.

"News" Years Resolution 2009

The new year has begun and to help ensure that I am more successful than last year, I have decided to make only one New Year’s Resolution. I’ve been thinking about blogging, but honestly have been feeling a tad overwhelmed at the state of our current world and life situation. It’s difficult to be funny when there isn’t much to be funny about. So...

My New Year’s Resolution for 2009 is to be more unaware of what is happening in the world. It would have been to become part ostrich and burry my head in a hole in the ground for hours at a time, but the former resolution was easier. For example:

If a world war breaks out because of the conflicts in Gaza and Israel, I don’t want to know about it until bombs start landing in my yard. If Russian professor Igor Panarin’s prediction comes true and the United States as we know it breaks up because of a civil war due to our country’s moral decline, and the East Coast comes under British rule, I don’t want to find out until they start making me eat scones and crumpets for breakfast every day. If my stocks continue to tank, leaving me with no retirement, and no way to effectively pay for my children’s college education, I will consider my children’s non-admission letter to the university, plenty of notice.

If one more person in my family gets sick or is hospitalized, or if any more of my friends or friends’ family gets cancer, or if anybody else dies, please do not give me the details. Simply tell me to put your name on my ever-growing list of things to pray for, and I’m on it.

If more houses on our street get broken into, by whom everyone assumes is a teenager looking for things to steal, sell, and purchase drugs with, I don’t want to be informed until that said teenager is standing in my living room holding a beer, my watch and my $10 earrings. At which point I will offer that teenager my $20 earrings along with the kid’s lunch money and promise to help him/her post their stolen items on Craigslist, right after my husband kicks his or her arse.

If my house continues to be valued at less than I paid for it, eventually reaching the point where I will never be able to move, let alone pay off a 60-year mortgage, I will consider myself as finally having some roots, so keep me in the dark.

If I hear about one more filthy rich person who has bilked thousands of people out of billions of dollars so they could own a dwelling big enough to house a small nation, and sip martinis on their yacht collection at 9:30 in the morning, I will have to jump off the roof of my paltry $350,000 dollar home into a pile of burning leaf mulch. So don’t let me hear about it.

And on the local front, if I bend my ear to any more petty squabbling about how South Easton residents are inferior to North Easton residents because our pocketbooks aren’t as fat as the Northies, and the trailer park in the Southie section brings us down, or how the two zip codes in town define us, I’m going to have to remind everyone-especially the crusty-uppers who care about such matters, that they are living in EASTON after all, and not in a quaint brownstone in Back Bay, or in Dover or Wellesley. I’ll have to remind them that it’s easy to be a big fish in a small pond, and if they really want to throw around dollar signs, they need to relocate to the ocean.

But I won’t be receiving anymore such news. I won’t because I’m eliminating all information from my daily routine and lifestyle. I’ll have to stop watching all television (except for the Food Network), and cease reading all newspapers. I will no longer be able to frequent any restaurant with a t.v.-which pretty much limits my choices to Wendy’s and Subway. Now, the fact that I am trying to make a tiny living out of writing for such mediums does present a conundrum, but I’ll have faith in myself to figure it out. Limiting my restaurant choices and places I can frequent will help me save money, help me save calories, and both will make my body healthier and my husband happier, which will lead to marital bliss. (All those things being ancillary New Year’s Resolution bonuses.)

It’s so drastic! You scoff. Just Relax! You cry. Believe me, I have tried. My first thought was to start looking for prime real estate somewhere in Canada or Montana perhaps, some remote mountain location with a snuggly, warm cave and a thriving forest on which to provide for my children. Something a reclusive family would be proud to call home. Alas, my husband simply wasn’t on-board. So I changed my mental parameters, and came up with my resolution to be less involved and informed about the world. It’s a win-win situation for everyone: our family saves on media expenses, my illusions for hope for the world remain intact, I can continue raising my children without wondering what kind of world they will inherit, and we don’t have to move. Whew.

Now, for those who are worried about my mental synapsis slowing due to lack of informational stimulation, have no fear. I have found plenty of media outlets to keep me healthy and challenged. These Web sites offer only good news, positive news, things that make a human glad to be human. For those who are also interested in browsing these sites, you have four to choose from: The Good News Network, Happy News, Heroic Stories, and Only Positive News. A couple you’ll need to subscribe to, but I figure that since I’m not paying for the Globe or Wall Street Journal, I have a few bucks I can throw towards that. In fact, I bet they accept freelance writing…..hey…wait a minute….
my aforementioned conundrum, solved.

I’m curious to hear about your New Year’s Resolutions. Losing weight? Eating your way towards health? Quit smoking? Swearing? What is it that is motivating you this year? Post your New Year’s Resolutions and share your good news!

(Photo credit B&W poster, 3500cm2 project curated by Lorenzo Benedetti, for Blue Room in Rome)

Dear Santa:

I wanted to get a jump on writing you this year. In 2007 you had some difficulty delivering my son’s three-way game table. I’m not sure how this happened since you are Santa, you built the game table yourself, and I would have thought you’da figured a way to get it in the sleigh, but whatever. That’s last year and we’ve moved on. You’ll be glad to know that my son-who could not live without this-never plays with it at all.

This year I’m sending the list instead of my children. That’s because I’m tired of you bringing toys that a) they don’t really want b) are not at all practical c) require $40 bucks in batteries or d) have one million small choke-hazard parts. I’m keeping it simple this year since I know you’ve been feeling the effects of this fabulous economy. All those elfin layoffs must’ a been a headliner at the North Pole no doubt. I’m only asking for one small thing per family member. Since I’m not being selfish, I really hope you can deliver.

For my baby daughter, I’d like a glittery bike helmet.
No, you’re correct, she’s only 17 months old and way too small for wheeled vehicles. I’d like to have the helmet because this cherub of mine’s new habit is to rub her hands through her hair while she eats. I’m not sure if she is fascinated that she now has enough hair to grab onto, or if she prefers her locks to the typical napkin or shirt sleeve. Regardless, it’s gotten outta hand. Last night after her bath, we scraped enough remnants of Chicken Divan from her head to constitute a good-sized lunch. This morning her peanut butter waffle morphed into edible hair wax, and she distinctly resembled the Joker as she dragged her side-hair out into points. There was really no way to get rid of the greasy look without giving her another bath, so all day she looked like I wet mopped a cafeteria floor with her head. That, and she smelled a little nutty. A helmet would go a long way to alleviate the food-hair dilemma. She likes anything that glitters, so I figure she’ll wear it. Just make sure it isn’t too heavy. The last thing I need is her heavy helmet head diving into her pasta.

For my middle daughter I would like a feedbag. I know what you’re thinking Santa, “how cruel.” Rest assured it’s not for food, but for the million small paper scraps that follow my daughter like the dust ball behind Pig Pen. I check her hands nightly, but to my amazement, they really are just simple chubby digits, and not 10 sets of sharp blade action. The feed bag would allow her to cut all her crafts, cards, picture frames, paper dolls, books, library markers, tickets to performances, tree ornaments, and holiday pictures right over the bag, eliminating all that messy clean up. This would be great for both of us; I am going hoarse yelling and nagging about the constant ankle deep scraps I wade through, and she would no longer need to stomp, whine and clench-her-fists-while harumpfing-through-clenched-teeth about cleaning up her crap. It would save us both a lot of hassle. If you could make that feedbag pink or purple and put a big picture of Joe Jonas on it, I know she’d wear it always. (At least during her waking hours.)


For my son I would like to increase his hard-drive capacity by at least 25 gigs. While my son is very smart, he has apparently used up his current memory with information like the secret passes and codes to all his video games, or miscellaneous facts on how and when tornadoes strike, the different elevations of weather related disasters, and plans and traps while playing chess. There is no more room for things like where he put his library book, remembering to turn in his homework, or any sort of ability to stay the least bit on top of things or organized. At first I thought it might be a genetic flaw on the y chromosome, (it still might be) but while I can’t do anything about that, I can try to add some available HD to his person. This would save us both a lot of time-him wandering aimlessly about the house looking for some important school assignment or item, and me not having to swallow my tongue while my anger tries to push the word “idiot” out of my mouth. He’s not (anything close to an idiot), and I haven’t used that word (and won’t) but my controlling sense of order goes haywire when my son is clueless. I’m hoping the extra brain space helps, although, he’ll probably figure out a way to use it to construct a life-size replica of Sponge Bob Square Pants out of leggos, or develop an alternate-time system so he can play his Gameboy and his X-Box 360 simultaneously. All we can do is hope.

For myself I would like some type of reality-filter; something I can wear, ingest, sniff, or glue on, that would take the reality of things and filter that information so only the happy, content illusions get through. Something that allows me to see debris and hairballs on my floors and respond with a genteel smile, instead of a germ-vision infused stomachache. Something that would allow me to sit on the couch and laugh with my children about their lack of reading and inability to stay organized and exclaim mantras such as “At least we’re having FUN!” I’d like to see the crusted urine at the base of the toilet and giggle, kick up dirty laundry with my heels, laugh, dance and sing amidst chaos, destruction and filth. I’d like to go to bed every night dreaming of lollipops the size of my head and what movies I’m going to watch for the next 24 hours, instead of how I’m going to pay the bills and what dinners I can make for under 10 bucks. Since you are Santa, if there is any way you can make this filter also leach patience, I’d greatly appreciate it. Apparently I used up my store of patience in the second week of my marriage 10 years ago, and have been operating in the red ever since. I’m pretty sure my family would write you letters of thanks for this one.

For my husband I would like a pair of Allen Edmonds shoes, size 9 ½. Oh of course there are other things I’d love for him to have; a magnifying glass perhaps to see the fine details, or a wide angle lens to get a glimpse of the big picture. A honing device so he could find the laundry hamper instead of the floor, or special glasses that allow him to read between the lines. I’d love for him to have all these gadgets, but then he would actually have to use them. I’ll be honest with you, it’s a pretty good bet that those gifts will end up gathering dust on top of that must-have game table. So I’ll stick to asking for something I know he’ll wear and enjoy. Allen Edmonds shoes. After all, my man deserves a nice pair of leather foot bling. He does knock out the mortgage after all.

So you see, Santa, my list really isn’t all that long. It’s not selfish. Not filled with materialistic greed or avarice. (Unlike some people’s lists in New York, no doubt.) Simple, to the point. Downright altruistic. I’d really appreciate it if you could deliver these things for our family on time this year. I’m giving you 23 days.

Sincerely,

Rachel G.