A dogfight is averted - an apology attempted

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on February 25, 2011

This is the second in a three-part series of columns.

My teenaged son, whom we shall refer to by the mysterious name of “Fred,” and his canine companion whose name I have obscured to “Letty Boo” were walking up the neighborhood when two seemingly rabid Pekingese dogs bounded into their yard. My son relayed the events to me afterward, because something along his walk had prompted a neighbor to visit our home and complain about “Fred’s” behavior. I got home later to hear my teenager’s account of this same walk. In his version of the account, he was, of course, innocent of any wrongdoing.


The owner of the Pekingese happened to be in a state of gravidarum, which, in case you didn’t know it, is the medical term for pregnancy. By using obscure terms, it is my intention to either confuse or impress you. (Isn’t that an effective technique in many fields that use arcane terms? And shouldn’t I be getting paid more if I am impressively confusing?) The owner of the dogs had opened her front door, but she was then unable to coax her pets back indoors.


So, here is the Freddian version of events:


Letty Boo began snapping and lunging, Fred admitted. Regardless, Fred knew he had everything in consummate control. Or so he said.


He stood restraining his hound and fending off the two smaller dogs when suddenly, out of nowhere, a nosy and interfering neighbor came dashing across the street and told my poor, darling, child to get Letty Boo and himself to the other side of the street to minimize any potential, illegal, and as yet, un-betted upon, dogfights.


Fred, in his kindest and most civil manner, apparently told this nosy neighbor that he was in supreme control of the situation and that she could very kindly attend to her own affairs. Or something to that effect, but dripping with politeness and civility.


That’s not exactly the version of events that was relayed by the neighbor, who as a mother of four children herself, thought that the parents of Fred might be interested to know of his behavior in the great outdoors. She had come to our door, and since I was not home at the time, the matter had been deferred for Mommie Dearest to hear about.


I got to hear about this later that evening when I returned from the school in Reston where I was working last year. After some discussion with Fred, I insisted that he go up the hill to apologize. Fred balked. I want to warn you: Don’t balk with me. I am the Mother of Balkers, so if you try, you will be balking up the wrong tree. I described more and more elaborate reasons and ways in which the apology could or should be executed. Finally, I settled on the one below.


Many apologies are delivered with eyes rolling upwards, body and shoulders slouching downward, and a disgusted “sorry” muttered and mumbled to the offended party. The one who offers the apology conveys with everything except his words that the wounded one is probably some sort of oversensitive sissy, and most likely in error anyway. Such apologies are meaningless until any deeper feeling is attached. Often times, the best feeling to attach to apologies is pain. For Fred, pain usually involves lack of food and/or money.


This was going to have to cost him, I decided. Suddenly, I had one of those ideas that renews faith in my own abilities and intelligence, despite the children’s efforts to outwit me at every turn.


What would happen to you in the REAL WORLD if you were to mishandle matters? (Notice how we make our children feel they live in some alternate plane, as if the reality of their school and friends and daily pressures don’t amount to real life.) There might be legal and financial consequences. We had a joint little savings account, did we not? We had access to this savings account online and through the boy’s ATM card, did we not?


With dramatic flourish, I announced that such egregious behavior was going to have a price tag. It would cost Fred enough to hurt and to remember, but not so much as to maim and embitter him. The price tag for offending a “nosy and interfering neighbor” was going to be $ 25.


I called Designs by Teresa in Old Town because I’ve met the owner and SHE READS MY COLUMN. Whoa! It was too late in the evening at this point, and I wanted an immediate resolution and retribution.


We settled on making a transfer of cash from accounts online, handing Fred the cash, and whirling out to our local Safeway. The instructions were simple: take your $25. Spend it all on some tokens of your sincere gratitude and remorse. Flowers: $ 15. Two boxes of chocolates: $ 8. That left about a dollar on hand. Where best to spend a dollar but at the store with the eponymous name: Dollar Tree. One blank note card later, and it was a done deal. His money was spent, and so was his anger. Would it be tacky if I said, “Priceless” here?


Stay tuned for the final part of this series.

A neighborhood stroll is no walk in the park

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, Feb. 18th, 2011


This is the first in a three-part saga.

This tale involves flowers and candy, but not on Valentine’s Day. It began with my teenaged son taking a walk in the neighborhood and ended with him buying and delivering flowers and chocolates to a neighbor lady – a married one, at that!


I will not name this son of mine because every once in a while, I like to think about my children’s feelings. I don’t let this happen too frequently, because that could impinge on my parenting skills as well as my liberty to share with you embarrassing scrapes they get into. But he actually gave me permission to write about this. This happened well over a year ago, and so my “broadcasting license” on this one is just a tad stale, but you don’t really expect me to try to renew it, do you? First of all, I’m writing this at 4 am. Secondly, what if he were to change his groggy mind? I don’t want to lose my license any more than you want me to.


So I don’t implicate which particular brown boy of mine was involved, I have created a Writers’ Protection Program. In writing this piece, I will call this boy of mine ‘Fred.’ It doesn’t matter what I call him, actually. I don’t know about your children, but mine don’t respond to any of the names we agonized over before their birth. When you’ve roared that unique, amazing, and etymologically significant name of theirs four or five times, that’s when they start thinking about possibly responding to that clever name you gave them. Only when your face is contorted and red, and when your ugly uvula is exposed like some sort of maniacal cartoon character, do they respond. Might as well call the kid Fred, after all.


Also, because our pre-named shelter dog features in this, I shall obscure her name as well. The canine will be referred to as Letty Boo. See how clever I can be in the predawn hours?


So, this is what happened last winter:


I came home one evening to the news that a neighbor had recently descended upon our door with a complaint about Fred’s behavior. This was a novel experience for me, and novel does not necessarily mean nice. It was tinged with embarrassment. We all have these great expectations of our children; we pour our very souls into them, and then they become the taint of the neighborhood. Nice.


My husband had earlier dispatched one of the older girls to trudge up the neighborhood with our son so that he could offer his apology, but they were unable to find the house, and the woman’s name had been garbled in the message. We weren’t sure which neighbor had been offended, or where she lived exactly, but there was offense in the air in our neighborly little community.


It was just getting dark. My mood was getting darker. I may botch some details here, but you’ll extend me a little license too, right? My memory is not what it used to be.


And let me exonerate myself in case I should botch any details: I may tend to repeat or omit details. After all, my memory is not what it used to be. Or did I just tell you that?


The facts of the matter, as retold by my fuming Fred, were something like this:


Fred and Letty Boo were innocently and congenially taking a walk up the street in our neighborhood. Fred was most assuredly carrying a bag to collect any deposits that Letty Boo might decide to make, even though who can imagine a perfect pooch doing such a thing? He had probably waved to neighbors and friends and helped old ladies cross the street. Furthermore, Fred may even have filled up the bike tires of struggling small children along the way. And the birds, of course, were undoubtedly chirping.


Suddenly, out of nowhere, two vicious Pekingese attack dogs bounded into their own yard next to the sidewalk occupied by this young model citizen and his canine compatriot. That particular yard has an underground electric fence, and although Fred knew that these two rabid animals could not possibly cross onto the sidewalk and into their realm, unfortunately, Letty Boo did not. Not being privy to this vital bit of engineering, Letty Boo began snarling, snapping, lunging, and drooling at her two furry, snack-sized foes.


Stay tuned for the second part of this tale.

Valentine’s Day and Tough Love

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, February 11, 2011
Valentine’s Day is around the corner. Hopefully you’re a great planner and have everything lined up. Otherwise, you can show your sweetheart, with a few clicks, that wonderful gizmo you are ordering on Valentine’s Day itself. Disclaimer: this is not the recommended method.


There are so many forms and degrees of love, but I’ve decided to go with a tougher topic. I know you’ve grown accustomed to some hardcore, hard-nosed journalism here every week, so I don’t want to disappoint you, especially before the big day, V-Day. Valentine’s Day is all about love, but that can come in as many varieties as there are types of chocolates, flavored coffees, or kids’ cereal. Let’s be decisive and restrict ourselves to one kind: tough love.


Tough love is so called because it is not pleasant to receive, and is equally unpleasant to mete out to your beloved child. Life, I believe is built on a very pay-now or pay-later system. Either way, you’re going to have to pay, so the only decision is whether to put it off for later or to deal with it head-on. While I am a confirmed and avowed procrastinator in most things, when it comes to my children, I prefer the pay now method.


About a month ago, our doorbell rang in the early hours of the night. A father was desperately trying to collect the last hundred dollars to bail out his child from jail. Ordinarily I don’t have much cash on hand – I know, I know, I REALLY need to put together an emergency kit, with cash in it, for crises like these – but oddly enough, I had taken exactly that amount of extra cash out of the bank that very day.


I know the man who was at my door. He promised to return the money in two days as soon as he got paid. My husband says I’m gullible, and while it’s true, I had no expectations of ever seeing that cash again. Isn’t that how we’re supposed to lend things? So far, my expectations have not been disappointed. Neither have I, to be honest. Certainly, I haven’t skipped any meals or opted out of filling the gas tank because of it.


I’m more amenable to this type of solicitation than people pitching pesticide programs on my doorstep. This distraught dad offered me his cell phone number. I said no. I trust him. Obviously, he knows where we live. That’s good enough. I have no attachment to that cash. If it never comes back, it’s okay.


I’m going to tread carefully, because I might hurt some people’s feelings, specifically, three. Considering that might account for a significant chunk of my readership, I’ll try to target only those thirty toes.


I’m also going to guard myself because I have children of my own. We never know what life holds for us around the corner, and we don’t really have the power to control any being other than ourselves, no matter how necessary it might feel. Forget about controlling others; sometimes we can barely control ourselves: Infancy, toddler-hood, early childhood, the ‘tweens, the teens years, young adulthood, midlife, and old age seem to stand out as phases of life that pose such difficulty.


Tomorrow my child might shame me. Then you can toss out my advice along with the paper. Until then, please allow me to pontificate.


Bringing up children is all about carefully watching that bubbling pot. You have to keep adjusting the temperature, stirring things up a bit, and occasionally suffering a burn or two. You can’t turn off the heat, though, or it will just sit there, bored and stagnating. At times you have to sweeten things; other times require bitter herbs. Should you adopt a hands-off philosophy (let the pot do the cooking), you will enjoy brief, carefree moments followed by the risk of having a big, scorched, mess. At overflow, the mess tends to be more public than pleasant.


I don’t know all the details of this parenting fiasco. Granted, some children are harder to rein in than others. There is the occasional child who proves immune to parental guidance and correction. Did this child bypass time-outs in the formative years? Did s/he exempt the exam on the section that says certain actions have negative consequences? Or was this child genetically hard-wired to inflict headaches and heartaches upon the parents? I don’t know. I doubt many people do. The Nurture versus Nature battle rages on.


Was it all those summers when the child was technically old enough to be left alone all day, and was, that might have played a role in this degenerate behavior? Was it the result of marital problems in the parents? Was it lack of spiritual counsel and moral guidance? Was it the influence of peers that outweighed the influence of parenting? The questions can be fired more rapidly than the answers.


Next week, we’ll tackle the other twenty toes. It’s an incredulous thought, but I suspect that neither party mentioned reads this column. Do me a favor. Just this once, don’t tip them off.

The Perils of Potty-Training

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend January 21, 2008


With brilliant foresight, our youngest and eldest children were born nearly fifteen years apart. Many people congratulate us on timing things so that the babysitters are built-in. But this timing also necessitates teaching the one to drive while training the other how to use the toilet. Stop being silly. You know which kid is learning what. Either way, I live in fear that one of them might “have an accident.”


 I have potty-trained five kids. I chant this to myself like those little motivational cheers that consultants charge hundreds of thousands of dollars to teach to corporate cubicleoids. (Cubicleoid: a lifeform that dwells in cubicles, typically on weekdays, 9 to 5.) The consultant comes in. Everyone drops their meetings and schedules and whatever real work is normally accomplished in between the two. The consultant teaches everyone to hold a polished stone and meditate while releasing negative energy into it. By week’s end, that stone is holding so much negative energy that the cubicleoid is fantasizing lobbing one Sacred Soothing Stone at the unsatisfiable boss’s head or pushing it down the throat of the catty coworker who keeps stealing the credit.


So I chant this refrain, “I have potty-trained five kids.” I do not hold any stones. I do not pay $5,000. Those five have remained potty-trained. (Won’t that impress their friends at school?) Why am I having trouble with this youngest, my sixth trainee and most recent graduate of Mama Ribeiro’s Potty Training Academy?


The problem couldn’t have been the timing. He had just turned two. Ever since he was sitting up at six months old, whenever I knew he needed to go, I would hold him on the potty insert that fits right on the toilet seat. (I hate to admit it, but my husband was the one who discovered these $10-wonders years ago and came home with one for each bathroom. You would not appreciate this restraint unless you knew how gadget-happy this man is…ask him to bring bread from the store, and he brings bread AND a breadmaker. If you see him in the grocery store, you will know things are dire at home. Please feel free to reach over and remove any electronic items from the basket. I will thank you later.) Who wouldn’t want to trade bundling up a bio-hazardous diaper for a quick flush? This March, three members of our household were overcoming the flu, so we were already isolated, homebound, and contending with germs. What better time to potty-train?


Since he already knew what to do, things went very well, and within days, we were done with diapers. I got the best tips from my sister-in-law years ago. She always made sure her tots were well hydrated during the training period (not that she let them shrivel otherwise, but it is harder to get results), and she set her microwave timer for thirty minutes. Every half hour, we visited the toilet. That’s right, you might as well cancel your other plans – you are not going anywhere or getting anything else done in those 29 minutes in between.


There is a very anti-sugar contingency in mothering. Let it be known that I store all kinds of treats and bribes to get a kid to the toilet. I used to give them only as a reward, but with this latest model I found it was easier to show him an M&M and walk toward the bathroom. He could have one just for sitting there, and a couple more if he actually peed. The Pavlovian pee-pee response to seeing M&Ms is now so strong, I am afraid to take him through the grocery store checkout.


And speaking of going anywhere, those first outings are an exercise in tenuous, tension-filled brevity. Any location you visit, especially those without public restrooms, will be met with the happy announcement from your little one, “I hafta go to the bafroom.” What can you do? You are held hostage by that tiny bladder, and I have the cowardly philosophy in public: “Better safe than soggy.” You comply with every request while they wield their newfound Power of the Pee. When you walk into the store next-door just twenty seconds later, look upon the shining face of your little one. They cannot resist checking out the facilities, no matter how many times you have to plead with a clerk to find yourself scrambling over boxes of inventory to get to the Employees Only restroom.


Recently I had taken my two youngest to the play area at McDonald’s. I know we are not supposed to admit to feeding our kids there, but the French Fries do have an addictive quality and when the weather is not its best, they can still enjoy running around in the company of other children. Until Bladder Boy sounds his call, that is. Then you pick up your belongings, get the kids to locate their shoes and put them back on. Like any assemble-it-yourself project, this always sounds easier on paper. You make the dash all the way around the building to the other side (where it dawns on you that the play area must have been an afterthought) where the ladies room is.


The little one, after all that effort, produces about 5 ml of liquid. You are caught between needing to praise him for his efforts but wanting to punch him because of all yours. Don’t worry; the maternal side wins. But by the fifth trip around the building during the 90-minute stay, the maternal side is getting dangerously weaker. You find yourself yanking the other child in sock-feet through the obstacle course of yellow easels warning of the odd spill. You find yourself a little less thrilled by this teaspoonful. You find yourself packing up to go home.


All this can lead you to long to return to the Day of the Diaper, which is the philosophy behind Pull-ups, which is why I never bought them…until recently, for the convenience, I suppose. But the message that a Pull-up sends is completely contrary to the message sent by pee-pee running down the legs. I just wanted to avoid dealing with that particular broadcast message. But I have re-realized that the sooner I get rid of the Pull-ups and we end this on-again, off-again relationship, the sooner my youngest son will be totally trained. Until then, all I have to do is resume my little chant and avoid public places.

Bedtime stories and the tales they tell

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend edition February 4th, 2011

This week, I’ve been reading a story to my two youngest at bedtime. It isn’t relevant that it’s Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift. The most significant thing, to me, is simply that I’m reading to them, because it’s been ages since I’ve done that.

It’s hard to have to admit that, considering that bedtime stories were vital when I was younger and newer to this parenting thing. Nightly reading was a must. It was a delicious time to bond together and to talk of the things that really mattered, to explain what words meant, and to go over life’s lessons. It was a time to delve into the next chapter and to hear how the Ingalls family had fared during The Long Winter. Or, for my young and male pyromaniac, I would read Matches, Lighters, and Firecrackers are not Toys by Dorothy Chlad. It never mattered then how tired I was.

Naturally, the children were never too tired for a bedtime story. They always seemed to be full of energy no matter what, and they relished this time. It was not to be taken from them. I now understand why kids have so much energy and we don’t. They sap it directly from us, right through the pores or something. Consequently, parents tend to be short stocked while the children have an ample supply – an overabundance, really.

Having the time and the leisure to read to my younger children (much less just for me) has been one of the “collateral damages” of my working outside the home. It has, sadly, fallen by the wayside. There just isn’t the time to squeeze everything in, because those 24 hours are as fixed and rigid in any given day, no matter how much you plan to accomplish.

Having been a stay at home mom for seventeen years, I almost felt like a professional at it. Granted, it had had its darker and duller moments. I had had those moments of self-doubt, but more often, it had had its supreme joys too. I feel that the time invested in the children then was something that has had a tremendous impact for them.

Apart from the cleaning, laundry, and cooking, I had loved being a stay-at-home mom. I know it’s not sophisticated to admit this, especially if you have set aside a specific training or education or have forgone a potentially lucrative career. I had come into stay-at-home-dom after having been the “working mother.” I use quotes to affirm that no matter whether you work outside the home or not, you’re pretty much always working.

For two-and-a-half years, I had left my firstborn child in someone else’s hands, right from the time she was six weeks old. I had hated every day of the separation. On occasion, when I got to work and got a whiff of the spit-up smell that was coming from my shoulder and hair, I realized that our separation was not quite as neat or complete as I had imagined. I used to swallow that lump in my throat every morning after dropping her off at the babysitter. I would pray bitterly, “Okay, God. Is this how You want it?”

Our move from Long Island to Northern California, where we lived for almost nine years, allowed me to be a stay-at-home mom without even feeling a financial pinch. When God answers our prayers, He not only meets our needs, He so often exceeds them.

It didn’t occur to me that my daughter would remember what had seemed part of the distant past. When she was four or five, I had pulled out my long dress coat from the netherworld of the back of the closet. Her eyes brightened when she saw the coat, “You used to wear that to work, right Mommy?” I was curious. I asked if she remembered that time. “Yes, Mommy,” she said. “I used to cry for you from the door.”

It is so tempting, especially in a country where material things are easily attainable, to think we need to give our kids this and that, when what they really need from us is our time and our love. You must weigh what you want for your child. If you want them to grow up with lots of things at the expense of training, you miss a tender time in your child’s life when you have the ability to help mold their character.

I feel the two biggest things you can do for your kids: be there for them, and be content in doing so. Success can be gauged daily: if your child has learned something and has a grateful heart, the day has been a success.

I can’t say whether I’ve been or am a successful mom or educator. Kids are like baking a cake that takes 15 years to cook. While I might feel that the aroma coming from the oven is a good one, I am reluctant to say too much lest the cake flop, burn, or undercook. Only time will tell - but that’s no reason for me to let it slip away.

How I got Even with that Oddball Microwave

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend Edition, January 28th, 2011

I would never have believed that my appliances could be of such interest, but this may say more about the lack of salacious activity in Fauquier County than it does about my microwave. Here’s one indicator of the activity-deprivation: Last week, I used the puerile term “booger” and got a chiding email. While such verbiage might pass the editor’s desk, it doesn’t mean it will be acceptable to readers.

When we left off, it was Thanksgiving, and the 5, 7, and Auto/Defrost buttons on my microwave had put themselves into early retirement.


We have the home warranty that covers built-in microwaves. They declared the microwave unworthy of repair and sent us a check for the replacement cost of the microwave (but not for removing the old one, or installing the new one, or the $50 deductible that delivered the damning verdict.) Sometime over the summer, that check got consumed in our normal expenses.


Anyway, I reasoned, it wasn’t as if the microwave was completely unusable. Don’t say I’m inflexible. If you take away my odd numbers, I know how to get even. If you take away my auto defrost button, I won’t have a meltdown. After all, I had my handy and loyal “Quick Defrost” button that could be pressed repeatedly. It had not abandoned me.


We are, despite the accusations of older generations, not completely spoiled. We are used to suffering in our own sort of way, even though their cataracts don’t allow them to see that in us. For example, I once forgot to take my travel coffee mug to school, and I actually had to drink coffee from a gigantic Styrofoam cup! Yes, it was a plain cup and didn’t even have a cover, so by the time I got down to drinking the coffee, it had reached that reprehensible state of tepidity.


And who hasn’t had to put up with zones where their cell phone reception is as dead as your social life? We are not merely acquainted with suffering; sometimes we are best friends with it. Just put me into the Great Depression and you’ll see what kind of dandelion soup I can whip up. Don’t accuse me of being an alien to suffering. I’ll put a booger on you.


The penultimate occasion to the microwave’s death was when the Clear/Off button died. Without the Clear/Off, we were gonners. Now, if we meant to heat something for 34 seconds (not 35, of course), but we accidentally pressed the three-minute express button, we could not simply press “Clear/Off” and start again.


Now, we had to be vigilant and quickly open the microwave door as soon as the requisite time elapsed. In this new, “unclear” way of microwave life, it was safer to use the main oven’s timer to remind us when to yank open the microwave. The remaining time, which would be something like “2:25” was left on the microwave, so the next time we wanted to heat something, we just shut the door and pressed, “Start.” If you needed more time, when the 2:25 were expended, we could (finally) start anew.


Over Thanksgiving, at the height of our microwave misadventures, my incredibly sweet sister-in-law from Alaska accidentally punched in 90:00 into the microwave. Yes, ninety minutes of micro-waving pleasure, and no way to clear it. We laughed and challenged each other to use up all of this “banked” time. There was the occasional overflow of milk when we forgot to set the other timer, but no one cried over it. Instead, we rejoiced at the reduction in the sentenced time.


It felt like we were on a shopping spree in “Wheel of Fortune” and had ninety minutes to spend. “For one minute and thirty seconds, I’d like to heat up this mug of milk…for another two minutes, I’ll warm up this plate of leftover brown rice and chicken curry.” It was hard to be a big spender in the microwave time world. And also, it took a lot of time.


We cheered as if we had finished a marathon when we were ushered out of the nineties.


One fiercely windy morning a month later, our power failed, effectively resetting the microwave. It returned with a vengeance. It usurped power and demanded that we press “Clock” to set the time. Of course, the Clock button was now nonfunctional, rendering the entire beast unusable. We had no way to clear it. So we finally decided to issue the death certificate.


At Christmas, a quick trip to Tolson’s Appliance, which has been in business longer than any of us, squelched our microwave misery. It’s been a great way to start the New Year.