I grew up with only one television set in our house.  That TV was black&white until 1980 when my parents proudly brought home a big cabinet-style color TV.  That day was cause for much celebration in my childhood home!

Remember when this was the height of fashion?

We only had 3 channels and those 3 channels only broadcast from 6 a.m. until 1 or 2 a.m.  No cable TV for me, no VCR (until 1987), no premium channels, no movies on demand, no hulu tv on the internet, nothing that we mostly take for granted today as an ability to watch pretty much whatever we want whenever we want to watch it.

All of the choices today and the easy availability of constant entertainment have some experts arguing that TV is too important, too much a part of our daily routine than is good for us, and certainly more than it was 20 years ago.  I'm not going to dispute whether that is true for everyone I'm simply making the statement that's it's not true for me even though I make use of just about every single technological advance available for TV viewing.  Here's why:

Back in the 'old days' I'd be outside playing with my friends.  We'd all be involved in a game of kickball.  Or pickle.  Or Smear the Queer (because political correctness was not yet a soundbite in the '70s).  Suddenly doors would open all over the neighborhood as mothers called their children to come inside because the Charlie Brown special was starting in 5 minutes.  The kickballs, softballs, and baseballs would all be abandoned as each child stopped playing to go inside and watch television.  In the old days if you missed a show when it was aired you had to wait a whole year, or possibly longer, for the show to be aired again.  Not so these days, my friends.  My daughter frequently asks "Will you TiVo that show for me?" regarding some Disney special, ABC Family movie, or Nickolodeon premiere that she wants to watch.  "Sure," I say, "I'll make sure it records for you."  I program TiVo and then we both forget about it until one day when we are sitting down to watch TV and the desired program magically appears in our TiVo To Do List.  Our children don't have to stop playing in order to see a desired program.  They don't have to schedule their lives based upon the TV schedule.

I think the technology also helps me better screen the choices available to my daughter.  Before the advent of the internet a parent had to go by the 1 or 2 reviews of a movie that we published in the newspaper.  They may have gotten some word-of-mouth reviews from other parents who had seen the movie, but there wasn't an easily accessible, wide variety of information and opinions about any given movie.  Now if I want to decide if the Twilight series is appropriate for my 11 year old (my vote is NO, not for my 11 year old!) I can read thousands of book reviews, thousands of movie reviews, and see enough trailers to feel like I have a handle on the movie content.  When I was 11 my parents let me go to the theater and see Poltergeist a movie I had absolutely no business seeing and a movie that my mother was appalled that I had seen when she finally saw it herself.

It's no secret that I am a huge fan of technology.  I believe that the latest advances relegate TV viewing to a lesser importance than 30 years ago because it can be at our convenience, with informed consent, and doesn't have to interfere with any 'real life' activities.

What do you think?

She wants an Itty Bitty Teeny Tiny Hot Pink Flowered Bikini...

My daughter's BFF just bought a new swimsuit. Sigh. Did she buy the standard Land's End Tugless Tankini with privacy liner, you may ask? Nope, she did not. Then she must have bought the LLBean Rash Guard with matching Swim shorts, you may be thinking. Sadly, no, not the rash guard and swim shorts either.

She bought a tiny little hot pink hibiscus flowered bikini with lime green trim, circa Target, 2009.

So guess what my daughter wants now? Yep, you guessed it, she wants to know when she can have a bikini. Now for the record, I am not actually against the bikini. I think there is a fairly wide spectrum of swimwear and I know we can find plenty of 2 piece suits that fall respectably within the bikini part of the spectrum but are still appropriate swimwear. I also know that to forbid the bikini is essentially to throw down the challenge: how frequently can you wear a bikini behind my back and get away with it? I know this because I was forbidden to wear a bikini. When I was 12 we visited my cousins in Kentucky. My aunt dropped us off at the pool where I immediately went into the restroom and changed from my mom's-choice-really-cute-one-piece to my cousin's friend's mom's quite-ugly-but-at-least-it-is-a-bikini abomination from the early '70s. Then when I was 14 I had babysitting money so I simply purchased my own bikinis, wore them underneath my clothes, put my one piece in my bag, was dropped off at the pool and mom was none the wiser. This went on for probably a year or so before I was "found out." My mom was mad at being lied to, mad that I went behind her back, mad that it had been going on for so long, and felt helpless because she realized that there wasn't much point in telling me I couldn't wear something I had been wearing for years.

I'm hoping to avoid that particular fight with my daughter by applying some of what I've learned from own poor behavior and from other friends' stories: I won't forbid the bikini because in forbidding it I set myself up to be lied to and my daughter to be sneaky. I also completely forfeit any say in the style of bikini because my daughter would be choosing it with her friends or (God forbid) her boyfriend and I wouldn't even know she was wearing it.

So back to the bikini issue, it's not really me that will be the great roadblock in her plans to bare her midriff. It's Steve. Steve cannot imagine any situation in which it will be okay for so much of his daughter's skin to be on display. He cannot fathom why I wouldn't be as adamant about this as he is. Well, I guess it's because I've been there. I've done that. I realize that wearing the bikini is (right now) more about fitting in with friends' cute fashions and not really (yet) about sexuality. There will definitely be a time when the swimsuit choice is all about attracting a mate, showing off what the Good Lord gave her, and trying to be mature and frankly, more than ever, that's when I want to be able to weigh in on the swimsuit choice. I recognize that there will still be times when I will be lied to. When my daughter will sneak around behind my back. When she will see just how much freedom she has or can take. I'm no fool now and I was no angel back then.

But for right now I still have her. She's still mine. She still obeys because she doesn't realize yet that she has a choice. And for these last few precious weeks, months, or years that this is true I want to cultivate as much of a my-mom-is-reasonable-and-can-be-reasoned-with relationship as I can.

'Cause I know this for sure: it's not about the swimsuit. It's never just about the swimsuit.

"Me" Time

Today is the last day for uninterrupted, at my own leisure, on my own schedule "me" time. Tomorrow school is over at 11 a.m. and my real job revs up from 11:01 a.m. on June 19 to 8:29 a.m. on August 26th. I am ready for this school year to be over. This has been a year of ups and downs, excitement and sheer terror, sadness and loss coupled with wonder and gain.

I think 4th grade is a hard year no matter if you move 800 miles and start a new school or not. I know my 4th grade experience was terrible: I was extremely awkward looking, my parents were having a lot of marital problems, my best friend Maria didn't want to be best friends anymore as she discovered her 'inner jock' and I discovered loneliness. My homeroom teacher Mrs. Gatchell had favorites and I was not among them. My math/science/gym teach Ms. Toby was scary beyond all reason. I was struggling academically, emotionally, and socially. I had absolutely no one to turn to at home but school was also a battleground of loneliness, isolation, being excluded, and feeling baffled about how it had all gone so wrong so quickly.

Needless to say I am glad that's over.

Now the dreaded 4th grade year is ending for my daughter. Our "newness" in Massachusetts is wearing off. Our closing date on our house is approaching. I am consuming a little too much sugar, exercising too little, and worrying a lot but I know it's all symptoms of stress and that too will soon end as soon as the moving truck arrives. A new kind of stress will take its place: the stress of full-time parenting. Decorating. Not enough time for myself. Too much time with the neighbors. The good kind of stress. The kind of stress on which I thrive.

Needless to say I can't wait for it to begin.

Weekly Wellbeing: Losing my mind

I have lost my filters, lost my temper and lost my composure. I have turned into a screaming banshee who is incapable of discussing things rationally. I disregard time, place, audience, and appropriateness of content. Sound like a description from a mental heath journal? Well, it probably is a description of someone: someone who has lost their mind.

Usually I am the master of keeping cool under pressure. I used to have such a tight rein on my emotions that I defied even a botoxed southern belle to keep a straighter poker face than I could.

Recently, I seem to have lost all that ability.

I am not sure that it's necessarily a bad thing to be expressing my feelings. I mean all that the tighter-face-than-a-Botox-babe thing really got me was irritable bowel syndrome and a brain tumor. It's not having the feelings that is bad, it's how they are being expressed that is not really working for me. Or my marriage. Or my parenting ability.

Breathe.

Once upon a time, a very healthy time, I did yoga, didn't consume sugar or animal products, and regularly got together with other women for some good ol' fashioned girl talk. Now I couldn't do a downward dog to save my life, I eat anything that doesn't run from me, and I live in almost complete isolation saved only by my cell phone and 2 dedicated friends.

How is all this a weekly wellbeing? Well, sometimes it takes hitting bottom to really begin to look up and let me tell you: my head aches from hitting bottom so hard. So now I wake up, pick myself up, stop feeling mixed up, hook up with some friends, clean up the house, open up to my husband, fix-up our marriage, count up my blessings and move on (up, of course!).

I'm exhausted. I think I'll have a few doughnuts as a pick-me-up (just kidding!).

Just because they make it in your size....

...doesn't mean you should wear it! I'm talking today about sweatpants with words on the butt. I walk into the grocery store this morning and coming toward me is this twenty-something. She's had a rough morning if I'm to judge by her appearance: dark, unwashed hair caught up in a sloppy bun, cigarette dangling from chapped lips, giant hoop earrings, tight pink camisole under dirty white sweat jacket, even dirtier white sweatpants, clog-style sneakers, no socks, sunglasses with bling all around the eyes and earpiece, but with one earpiece broken off, giant oversized metallic bronze shoulder bag, and lots of attitude. She is a young woman who is losing her figure rapidly: the camisole is too tight, the sweat jacket is too short and is tight in the arms and her sweatpants stretch perilously across her thighs. She grabs a cart and roughly pushes it toward the automatic doors, stopping only to crush her cigarette on the pad inside the store.

It's when she passes in front of me that I see it. A word. A single word written in glitter and jewels right on her butt: Sexy. Really? Sexy? Well honey, not today you aren't. Seeing her got me to thinking about the sweats with words on them. Are they really a good idea for anybody? Is what's written more important than where it's written? Should there be an age limit? A size limit? I found a few pictures to help me decide.

The athlete. The cute young tween in sweats with the writing down the side. Adorable.

Did I mention a weight limit for sweat pants? Though you gotta give her credit for having attitude!

The future porn star. Is there a parent involved in this wardrobe decision? A form of child abuse, in my opinion.

Probably the only woman in these United States who can carry off this look, but does that mean she should? It's like a before and after picture from the girl above, only add in the 'tramp stamp' (tattoo on lower back just above buttocks).

Let's face it, even the awesome ass girl featured above looks stupid with 'Juicy' written across her butt. We need to help all these fashion challenged individuals that treat their butt like the bumper of their car.

Hmm, bumper stickers on cars...that sounds like a blog for another day to me...

With any other job I'd have been fired by now

Steve has been mentioning (complaining) lately that I don't say anything nice about him in my blogs. Clearly he hasn't read many of my blogs because I constantly wax on about how much I love him and find even his minutest personality detail to be adorable. BUT, never let it be said that I don't take criticism well...so this one's for you babe:

I am a stay-at-home mom of an at-school-all-day kid. I admit it, my life is softer than that fake cream filling in a Twinkie. Not that I don't sometimes work hard because I do, I just don't always work hard. For example, this is how our room sometimes looks...

And this is how our dinner sometimes looks...

And frankly, this is how our child sometimes looks...

So I know the truth, from any other job I'd have been fired. The cleaning is haphazard, the cooking is boring (or worse), the child is dirty. My only responsibilities are to keep the house clean, the family fed, and the child clean. I don't always live up to my job description but I rarely ever hear a complaint.

So, thanks Steve for being such a good sport.

...and that's why I have a prosthetic finger!

We went roller skating on Sunday. I am a very good roller skater. In Toledo there was a 12 mi round trip trail that I skated on daily. I usually did all 12 miles. Did I mention I'm a good skater? In the '70s when I was in school I faithfully attended every skating trip our school offered. I logged endless hours in my basement, stirring up the dust as I went round and round and round. I begged for my own skates and cut my teeth on the metal adjustable kind that need a skate key and are guaranteed to face-plant you as you navigate the seams in the sidewalk. I finally graduated to the boot-type and thought I was the queen of Egypt. Good times, good times.

As part of her search for a new best friend, my daughter asked if we could take her and a classmate skating. No problem, Steve and I like to skate. We pick up classmate and go to skating rink. I love skating rinks: the disco ball, the oh-so-cool-skating-referee-in-his-black-and-white-shirt-trying-to-look-not-embarrassed, the middle-aged roller queen wearing spandex and neon, the little kids in Fisher-Price plastic skates pinwheeling madly as their wobbly parents try to help them, the smell of scorched popcorn and sweat, the ringing of the arcade, the garbled PA announcements -- the roller rink has something for everyone. I was blithely skating along when the garbled announcement (are they even speaking English?) crackled something about a limbo contest. I hadn't had a skating limbo contest since 1982! I immediately skated to the center of the rink, lined up and prepared to limbo. First round: no problem. Second round: confidence up, I glided beneath that bar with panache if I do say so myself. Third round: a little less panache, a little more grunting, but I cleared the bar. Fourth round: grunting, sweating, trying to suck fat roll in so I can get lower, barely cleared the bar. Fifth round: disaster! Had too much speed, wasn't low enough, crashed into bar, bar went flying, I went sprawling and somehow, in all that mayhem, I managed to roll over my pinkie finger.

Fast forward about 2 hours: finger is throbbing. Finger is black. Finger is so swollen and shiny that I wonder if a finger can burst. I worry that I'll lose that nail.

Fast forward another 2 hours: finger is a dusky blackish-gray. Forget about the nail, I wonder if I'll lose that finger! I have trouble sleeping because I see explosions of stars everytime finger is touched by blanket.

Current update: finger is still attached, blackness is giving way to purpleness. Hitting the 'A' key on the keyboard is an exercise in pain. I think I'll live.

Did I mention that Steve won the limbo contest?

Can you feel the love tonight...?

Well, not in our house, and certainly not tonight. I am fed up, I am done, I am ready to throw in the towel, go down for the final count and say "okay, you two want to act like idiots go ahead. I'm changing my last name so no one will know we're related and I can't be counted on for bail money."

I am the Bad Guy and my husband is the Good Guy. He gets to propose irresponsible, sometimes dangerous, usually in poor taste antics and I have to be the one to put on the brakes. Or do I? What would happen if I simply gave up my role as Voice of Reason and allowed him to go ahead full throttle? I'd like to think that the fun would get old and Steve would actually burn out on acting immature and return to responsible parenting. I'd like to think that, but I'm not so sure. I actually think it's more likely that my daughter would take over my role as parent and begin parenting her father. It's already happening to some extent. She is impatient and irritated with the constant 10-yr-old-boy-hair-pulling-and-being-gross routine that is Steve's usual milieu. She is already aware that if dad says she can eat it she should probably check with mom. She is already coming to me for the important stuff and relegating her dad to good-times-only status. That is the downside of always being the Good Guy.

Of course I frequently feel like the parent of 2 children. I have to hear constantly "stop harshing our vibe" , "stop being a buzz kill", "Oh Beth, lighten up!" Times when I want to plan something and have fun are getting to be fewer and fewer because we've usually spent all our "fun" money on unplanned, spontaneous things that are fun for Steve and our daughter but not always so fun for me. That is the downside of always being the Bad Guy.

I sometimes feel like a fifth wheel in my own home. I see our situation as "them against me" and it's isolating and depressing.

A lot of this is gender-related. I once read an article that talked about how while men would frequently laugh hysterically at a Three Stooges routine, women found the Stooges baffling, immature, and not really all that funny. To be fair, some of Steve's comments are certainly warranted: sometimes I do forget how to have fun. Sometimes, just because their idea of fun isn't the same as mine, I condescend, as though I somehow have the rules for what shall be considered fun and breaking them is a crime. Also, I am wise enough to know that our daughter comes to me more for the "important stuff" because we are the same gender and I am the one who is home.

Still, I'd like to develop a more balanced relationship in our home. I'd like to create an atmosphere that is fun, a little whacky, a hint of danger every now and again to keep everyone on their toes, and mutually inclusive and loving.

I think I'd like perfection (sigh).

That little voice should be telling you something...

The big scary anvil that has been hanging over our heads since we moved out of the house in Toledo, Ohio and into a rental in Massachusetts has finally been removed. The house in Toledo is sold. We are removed from the ranks of the "sellers" and get to join the ranks of "buyers"-- a place I am told that is much nicer than being a seller.



The move to Massachusetts was a leap of faith, really and truly the kind of faith where you think God may be telling you something and you are pretty sure you should be listening. Once, about 5 years ago we heard that little Voice and chose not to listen. The result was Steve being laid off from his job and a frantic search to find a new job, a new house, a new life when all we wanted to do was curl up and lick our wounds. We learned from that experience to listen to the Voice. And then about 4 years ago the Voice said that the painful muscle spasms in my face weren't just stress. I listened, I got an MRI, and then brain surgery. I'm still here and I credit my existence to listening to the Voice. Finally, just this past summer, the Voice was screaming at Steve "Get out now!" and we just couldn't believe it: leave our home, our daughter's school, our church, our lives? Leave and go where? Massachusetts? We don't know anyone in Massachusetts! I finally got the house painted the way I like it! It's a terrible market to sell a home! Our daughter likes her school! We had many, many reasons to ignore the Voice and only one reason to follow it: experience. We leaped. For awhile it seemed like freefall and there was a lot of doubt: what if it wasn't the Voice at all? What if Massachusetts was the wrong place? Why isn't our house selling? Why is it so hard to make friends? When are we going to find a decent Chinese restaurant? But now as things are starting to slow down and settle in, I am once more confident that we have done the right thing.

And now, now I am ready to listen to that little Voice once again as it guides me to finding the perfect house at the perfect price.

It's fun to be a buyer!

I was kidnapped by a tribe of mini-sloths

My family would probably take issue with being called mini-sloths. And, okay, I wasn't actually kidnapped, I believed at the time that I was choosing this life while being of sound mind and body. Right now I am trying to think while being asked constant questions, being told amazing facts, and being given a constant stream of drink orders. But wait, isn't today supposed to be a SCHOOL day?? My dearest daughter was sent home from school today, her prognosis grim: headache, sore throat, stuffy nose, and body aches. Luckily by the time we reached home a miracle had occurred! Suddenly the headache had disappeared. Her throat couldn't have been too sore since she chattered the entire way home, and if her body ached, it didn't ache enough to prevent her from doing "robot" dance moves as she took off her coat and kicked off her shoes.

I am a creature of habit. I like my schedule and I feel comfortable knowing that on Mondays I wash clothes and pay bills. Tuesdays I volunteer at school and grocery shop. Wednesdays I do an extra long workout and run errands. Thursdays I volunteer at school and wash all the bedding. Fridays I do an extra long workout and clean the house. Sounds peaceful doesn't it? That's why sick days, snow days, federal holidays and winter and spring break send me into a complete breakdown. Those long hours without routine, form, or plans make me sweat. I think back longingly to my days as a computer programmer. I knew what to do all day long. I was rarely overwhelmed, disappointed, or bored. I had purpose. I couldn't recite most of the dialogue from Beauty and the Beast.

But then my daughter gets sick at school and I remember all the reasons I continue to stay at home. I stay home not to honor a routine, cook meals, clean a house, or be available for errands. My routine is merely the pause to fill the hours until my real job comes home from school. I like to think I am my own boss, and sometimes I probably am. I'm a Mom and whatever form that takes each day is the job description for the day.

Life in captivity isn't so bad, and besides, I like my mini-sloths.

Tag Team Parenting

Yesterday we took our 9 1/2 year old daughter clothes shopping. While I am sure it was not as bad as it will become when she is say, 13, right now it's pretty surprisingly horrible for my husband and I. Ah the good old days when you could pick up any adorable onesie, pair it with any cute leggings and the child was dressed, happy, and content. I remember thinking that I was going through the "hard part" of dressing a child when I had to struggle onesies over my infant's still-too-large-head. I was so naive. Now the hormones have kicked in and the child is rarely happy and content.

All we needed to get were 2 pairs of jeans, 2 sweaters, and 2 long sleeved shirts. Admittedly, that's 6 items but there was a time, even a year ago, when buying 6 items could take 15 minutes, including the checkout! We were in Justice-Just for Girls for an hour, followed by a crying jag in the restaurant that lasted 10 minutes, followed by another trip to Justice (just me and my drama queen this time) that lasted another 1/2 hour.

Frequently I wonder how Steve and I will navigate the landmines of parenting our daughter: our styles are completely different, our methods generally at odds, and even our goals sometimes make it appear that we're on different teams. Yesterday, though, I figured out why we will make it through, mostly unscathed. We tag team parent. We're not the kind of parents as presented on the Cosby Show or Disney channel who appear together in the child's doorway, arms around each other's waists as they lovingly but firmly lay down the law as a unified team. We are not able to finish each other's sentences or nod along supportively as the other parent presents the thoroughly discussed-agreed-upon-and-sanctioned-discipline for the child. We actually parent best if we don't know what the other person is saying, doing, or God-forbid, caving on. We have only 1 thing in common with our parenting, but it apparently is the most important thing for us: we like each other.

My own parents were not able to jointly parent me or my 3 siblings. I don't know how much my parents loved each other but I know they never liked each other. I didn't realize how important liking your spouse was to parenting until after our daughter was born. Especially in the moment when you're not sure how much you like your much-loved child.

I can't imagine being a single parent. I need to be able to tag-off when I am fed up, irritated, irrational, tired, disinterested, bored, busy, or distracted. I need to be able to walk away for a minute, knowing that a pinch hitter will step in to save the inning. I don't know how I'll know who wins this game, but I sure am glad I'm playing on a team.

The Things I do for Love

Today I spent the entire day traipsing through poison ivy, swatting at bees, casting a wary eye at the threatening rain clouds, picking “stickers” off my jeans, trying not to breathe the “eau du manure” too deeply, eating a soggy sandwich and drinking warm water, and pasting a permanent, if strained, smile on my face through endless lectures. It was field trip day at my daughter’s school and I was a volunteer.

For the record, I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else in the world. I love my daughter and I know that she needed extra support today during this field trip. The one friend she has made in Massachusetts happens to be on vacation this week and my daughter was feeling nervous: who will sit with me on the bus? Who will eat lunch with me? Who will be my partner if we pair up? Who will be my friend today? I also know that I have limited time left for my daughter to be open enough with me, vulnerable enough to actually ask for my help, want my presence, and hold my hand as we hike through mud, horse manure, and leaves.

I am grateful that I was on the field trip today. I got to see my daughter cope with navigating tricky nine-year-old friendships, especially when the teacher did tell the kids to choose a partner and there was an uneven number of girls. I got to sit with her at lunch when she otherwise may have sat alone. I got to hear other girls clamor for her to sit next to them on the bus. I got to see her face light up and the forlorn, lost look be replaced with hopefulness, happiness, and relief. It’s one thing for me to feel lonely, it’s an entirely different thing to see that loneliness reflected in my child. I learned a lot on this field trip, most of it having nothing to do with the life cycle of dairy cows. I learned that my child is resilient. She is human. She is more aware of the social pecking order than I had previously thought. She is more popular than she realizes. She is kind. She is smart. She has a big heart and all she really wants is to have friends to sit with, friends to eat with, a few friends she can count on to choose her when it’s time to pair up.

Wow, she really is her mother’s child…

I crawled through pee for you, you little ingrate!

Yesterday I was driving my daughter and a friend home from school. As the driver of the vehicle I was completely anonymous, invisible, and not worth worrying about so the girls were talking as if they were alone. My daughter was lamenting to her friend how her mother "never plays with me" and "Bethany's mom and dad are so cool because they always play with their kids!" The girls were in agreement that I was useless and cruel, meanwhile I was flashing back to my worst moment in my playful parenting history: the day I crawled through pee.

I had taken my then-4-yr-old daughter to the Museum Center in Cincinnati, Ohio. She wanted to play in an area of the Children's Museum where there are numerous tubes and walkways to climb through and explore, and a very narrow maze of levels that the kids can use to exit the play area. My daughter was too young to go up in the tunnels on her own without getting lost and scared. My husband was too big to fit through many of the child-sized tunnels. I was elected. Now at the time I didn't know that I was mildly claustrophobic, I hadn't had any experience with mazes and tunnels, as I am a product of the 70s when such things didn't exist. I was okay on all the main stairs, large rope tunnels, and even the tinier crawling spaces were fine.

Then we came to the narrow step maze. My daughter went down first and so I was committed: I had to follow her down. I slithered my body down one level and then another. Locked in an 'S' shape I found myself having a difficult time moving down to the third level. I couldn't go down, I couldn't go up. I was stuck. I wriggled and pulled and tugged myself forward and came face to face with a crying child of about 6 who apparently had no doubts as to his claustrophobic state. We eventually manage to pass each other, mostly because I allow the child to step on my hands, stick his butt in my face and use me as the step to the next level. I reach my hand down to pull myself downward again ... and I feel it. A puddle. My hand has landed in a puddle and I know with every fiber of my being that the puddle isn't water. Well, not pure water, that is. I have put my hand in pee and now I am forced to drag my entire body through the pee in order to exit the maze.

I finally exit: shaken, disheveled, and wet. My daughter and husband are waiting impatiently for me at the bottom, acting as if I am deliberately drawing out this experience just to keep them from moving on to the next fun spot. Of course no one is ready to go home. Of course while I have 2 complete changes of clothes in the car for my daughter I have nothing for myself. Of course sympathy has never been Steve's strong point and he laughs at me until he grows bored with my complaining and then tells me to "let it go." Of course I never even thought twice about going back to that torture chamber because OF COURSE that maze became my daughter's favorite place in the entire museum. Of course. I'm a mom. This is what I do. And my daughter's a child. Lack of appreciation. That's what she does.

But just so we're all clear: I crawled through pee for that little ingrate.

Trick or ...Carrot Stick?

I've been buying a lot of candy lately because it's almost Halloween. Buying candy for me is like an alcoholic buying drinks...it's only a matter of time before I'm going to eat some of it. I'm not going to want to, I'm going to try my hardest not to, I'm going to regret it even before I do it, and still, I am most likely going to eat some of that candy.

I'm addicted to sugar.

A sugar addiction is socially acceptable, not usually seen as an addiction, and just as dangerous and deadly as any other addiction. But oh my God it tastes so good! I have always had a sweet tooth. Until about 4 years ago I thought that handling problems by eating chocolate was not only a good idea, but also fairly healthy. I am not one of those women who will demure coyly saying "oh, that's too rich for me!" I have never, and I mean never turned down something for being "too rich." I have quit sugar many times: gone cold turkey, weaned myself off sugar, substituted natural, unrefined sugars, tried just eating fruit, every trick in the book has been attempted. I always go back to sugar. Sugar is insidious! It's in everything from bread to barbecue sauce!

I can directly relate my sugar intake to my mood: feeling bad? eat a lot of sugar, feeling good? eat a lot of sugar, not sure how I feel? hey, here's something to do, let's eat some sugar! Moving to Massachusetts hasn't helped at all because Dunkin' Donuts is everywhere in this state. There is actually a Dunkin' Donuts across from a Dunkin' Donuts just down the road from my house. People here say there are so many Dunkin' Donuts stores because the coffee is so good. I don't drink coffee (one addiction being enough, thank you) so if you see me at the Dunkin' you can be sure I'm going for a Munchkin fix.

So now for the most sugar filled holiday of all: Halloween. My daughter is too old to fall for the "just checking your candy" ruse, and too wise to believe me when I say I just want one little miniature Snickers bar. I have, though I'm not proud to admit it, been reduced to sneaking candy out of her bag after she goes to bed, lying to her about the number of candy bars she had, eating so much of her candy that to hide my indiscretion I tell her I "donated" it, and forced myself to go to bed when she does to avoid eating at night. All for sugar.

My next hurdle is to somehow not pass this addiction on to the next generation. I feel I am failing already as my daughter will do almost anything to get dessert, a trip for ice cream, or bubble gum. Restaurants that give candy with the bill are among her favorites. She considers chocolate a food group. She gets cranky if denied sugar and even sometimes appears to get a headache if she hasn't had sugar in a while.

She is her mother's child.

But all is not lost. I once successfully had no sugar at all for 6 months and wouldn't have broken that streak except I was too embarrassed to refuse dessert when it was offered by a woman who intimidated me. I have days, weeks, sometimes even months where I am able to make better food choices and feel great. I have not purchased sugar foods for our home in months, thus only consuming the occasional dessert when we go out for dinner.

But it's Halloween again, and the Trick is avoiding the Treat...