Me (coming upon this sign Scotch-taped to the back door): “What’s this?”

12-year-old daughter: “I lost my phone somewhere. So I made signs and put them all over the house.”

Me: “Oh. Makes sense…. I guess.”

12-year-old daughter: “I know! The only problem is that people can’t call me if they find my phone, right?”

Three years ago, I was a was single, driven career girl, with an even grasp on the corporate ladder and a swing in my step.  I had a new car, a new town home condominium that was spotless with everything had its place. I shopped at Saks, had “mani-pedis “with my gal pals and relished sushi lunches with fabulous friends.  I worked out five times a week for two hours and was getting back into good shape and good health.  Dates included lingering conversations over meals and movies — as well as the occasional candy and flowers.   Give me just a minute to say, “Ahhh.”

Fast forward to today!  To start with, I am now married to a great guy.  On Friday, our little boy will be two years old.  TWO!  One…Two!  Wow, they grow so fast.   Today, I work mostly from home running my consulting business.  My husband quit his job 18 months ago to stay at home with our son  and pursue ministry work.   So, here we are together… with our ball-obsessed dog, Maggie.   Snug as bugs in a rug.  Life is very different in this new place.  Very good, and very different.

As I have chatted and tweeted, laughed and cried with my other, now married gal pals — especially the ones with children — we have come to an agreement over the nature of a few, key changes in our lives.  My dear friend, Ann, encouraged me to share some of our thoughts with you here.

The new sexy: Hubby doing dishes, laundry and then vacuuming

The new “moo-moo” Yoga pants and a hoodie

The new workout: Picking up toys

The new mop: Calling the dog to lick up mess from floor

The new clean: Dishes out of the sink, everything else stuffed in a closet

The new gourmet: Anywhere kids eat free

The new sushi: Peanut Butter and Jelly cut into triangles

The new sleeping in: 8 am = Heaven!

The new Ann Klein: “Finale Clearance” (say this with French accent)

The new splurge: Expensive shampoo and conditioner

The new mani-pedi: Taking a hot, uninterrupted shower

The new good hair day: CLEAN

The new favorite outfit: Anything that FITS

The new dress up: Wearing a bra

The new date night: Staying awake through the END of the movie

The new foreplay: Kicking off the yoga pants

The new gal bonding: Half -completed thoughts uttered in between shouts of “NO, <insert child’s name> No biting!”

The new teething ring: The dog’s ball (builds immunity)

The new promotion: Transitioning from Pampers to Pullups

The new fabulous: Absorbing each new beautiful word my son says

The new sunset: The peace that comes after bedtime

The new romance: Knowing my husband loves me — even in my yoga pants

In short, life is good.  It’s not always easy. It’s often hard work.  I’ve learned to let go of control and my own “standards” and desire for order.  But in doing so, things have developed a curious order of their own.  I have been released into a life I’d only dreamed of.   It’s a life indescribable… and one I call, “The New Happy.” Memories of the old life aside, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The other day my 17-year-old came home from the Rhode Island School of Design, where he is spending six weeks this summer immersed in Art. (I didn’t realize quite how much I missed him until suddenly there he was, grinning at me in the kitchen, and as I wrapped my arms around him I thought of that line in the poem by Walter Dean Myers, “Love that boy, like a rabbit loves to run.”)

When I tell people that he’s loving the long hours he’s spending in the school’s clay studio, how he goes back after dinner, and how he wants to major in Ceramics in college, people often nod about how wonderful that is before they ask something along the lines of, “So how’s he going to make a living at that?”

I can’t blame them, really. It’s crossed my mind a few times, as well, even though I’m not truly worried. And about 25 years ago, it crossed the minds of my own parents, too, which is why my mother said to me, when I announced then that I wanted to be writer, that I might want to have a backup plan.

She wasn’t trying to be cruel; in fact, she just wanted me to have what she lacked: independence, and self-reliance, and the ability, when the guy you marry turns out to be a shit in a lot of ways, to not have to take it. It’s true that money can’t buy happiness. Yet ironically, I’ve noticed — and my mother certainly knew — that the lack of it can bring plenty of misery.

A few weeks ago my friend Paul Williams created something he called the Killer Phrase BINGO. We’re all familiar with the game BINGO: Fill out the game card, trying for five in a row to win and shout, “BINGO!” “One key reason new and potentially innovative ideas don’t get implemented at companies is because skeptics and scaredy cats kill ideas when they’re first proposed,” Paul wrote. “They use killer phrases like: ‘We’ve tried that before’ and ‘Yeah, but….’”

And so it goes in parenting, too. How many of the phrases do we use, as parents, because our own parents said them to us (here’s where I’ll admit to “Don’t make me turn this car around!”) or because we can’t bear to see our kids in pain (”Don’t make the same mistakes I did…”)? How much of our own parents do we bring to our own roles in the job, all over again?

Once, when my mother and I were having an uncharacteristically frank discussion about sex, she said to me, “Your generation didn’t invent sex, you know.” But didn’t we? Isn’t it up to every teenager to figure it out mostly on his or her own?

In that way, too, every generation thinks it invents parenting. Or, maybe, it’s every person who is reinvented as a parent: Sometimes, we are inspired by our own upbringing, and sometimes we exorcise it. And sometimes, as is the case with me, it’s a little of both.

In any case, Paul created this BINGO card for parents strictly for fun. But then again, you could use it for awareness, too—a reminder, of sorts, that we didn’t invent parenting, but we certainly can guide its evolution.

Last week, I thought that someone had written books for adults based on the hilarious Numeroff/Bond children’s series that includes If you give a mouse a cookie & If you give a pig a pancake - but I was wrong. No one had done it, so I wrote one myself called, If you give a mom a martini…and now…I can’t seem to stop. Again, feel free to illustrate this story in your own mind or send me the name of your best friend, the illustrator or publisher.

If you give a 40 year old man a Ferrari…

He’s going to want a pair of leather pants to go with it.

When he starts remembering how good he looked in these pants, he’ll realize that he also needs a 20 year old blonde so he can show off his leather-clad derrière.

While you’re calling the blonde, he’ll fish his leather pants out of the basement.

He’ll have a terrible time pulling them up over his hairy legs and gut, so he’ll search frantically for the BowFlex he got for his birthday last year.

When he finds it, he’ll hop on and start pumping away, doing as many exercises as he possibly can.

This will make him very sweaty and he’ll tell you he needs to take a shower. But on his way to the bathroom, the doorbell will ring.

“It’s the blonde,” he’ll shout. And, then, he’ll ask you to answer the door.

Just as you start to open it, he’ll come tumbling down the stairs, because he can’t walk with his leather pants down around his ankles and because he, quite possibly, tripped over his own excitement (if you know what I mean).

He’ll land on the ground in front of the door.

When he sees the blonde standing there, looming over him, he’ll ask her what she stuffed her bra with and how she made her breasts stand up so high.

She’ll smack him hard with her Fendi bag and declare, ‘These are real!’

And then he’ll look at your boobs - sagging and low from feeding the fruits of his loins - and he’ll remember what real is.

So, he’ll kindly explain to the blonde that he made a mistake and that she should leave.

As you politely slam the door behind her, he’ll grab you and start kissing you with all he’s got. Which will make him feel like a virile young man.

He’ll get so excited that he’ll try to pull on his leather pants again…

And chances are, if he gets those pants on…he’s going to want a Ferrari to go with them.

Image Credit: fiskfisk

We have a lot of children’s books in our house - what with two 3 year olds and all. As a writer, (with 5 children’s books written and just waiting for a publisher to swoop in and make them as real as the Velventeen Rabbit) I’m a pretty huge snob when I’m reading to our children.

I’ve been known to stop mid-way through a book - interrupting my sleepy. sweet, ‘let’s go to bed’, mommy voice - to shout at Patti, “Can you believe they publish this CRAP?” Really, I just don’t understand. My books are well written, they make sense, they have a purpose. And some of these books are just nonsense.

But I digress, there are also many wonderful books with great writing and hilarious concepts…and one of my favorites? The ‘If you give a (something) a (whatnot)” series. Laura Joffe Numeroff writes the books, Felicia Bond illustrates them - they make a perfect match. There’s, If you give a pig a pancake and If you give a moose a muffin and If you give a mouse a cookie to name a few. And I love them. They follow a sweet child on a journey with a couple of ballsy animals that want, want, want - full circle. “If you give a mouse a cookie, he’s probably going to want a glass of milk…” which leads to a milk mustache which leads to a bath which leads to… - you get the point, right?

The formula is delicious - I’m a big fan of circular writing.

Which is why I got so excited when I saw Jessica Smith’s post about a new book called, If you give a mom a martini. It turns out this adult book offers 100 ways to find mommy bliss and alone time - and I was terribly disappointed. I wanted the other book - the kids book for grown-ups.

So, what’s a writer to do? Well, write the book you want to read of course. I don’t have the illustrations, use your imagination for the images - and feel free to send your illustrator and publishing contacts along…

Ready? Here we go:

~If you give a mom a martini…she’s going to want a nice dinner to go with it.

~So, you’ll make her a reservation.

~When she hears about the reservation, she’ll want you to find a babysitter.

~You’ll take out the phone book and start making calls, which will remind her that she needs the newest iPhone.

~When she goes online to buy it, she’ll notice that she has several new followers on Twitter. So she’ll check to see who they are.

~At least 20 of them will be spammers offering sex and 400 followers a day, and they’ll feature a sultry photo of Jennifer Aniston which will remind her of Friends and how much she loved that show.

~She’ll go to iTunes to download every season and notice the premier dates of the series. This will make her smack her iMac really hard - because the first season of Friends couldn’t possibly have started in 1994…because that would make her, well, 36. And that’s not possible.

~She’ll insist that you buy her a new computer that doesn’t compute wrong.

~When you start to tell her that it’s actually true (because you were a senior in college and you remember where you were when it happened - it’s like the JFK assassination for Gen X’ers), she’ll be reminded that you’re kind of dense.

~She’ll ask you for a shoe horn to help you remove your foot from your mouth. You’ll give it to her - albeit slowly - and just before she clocks you in the head with it, she’ll see the box that you took it out of and catch a glimpse of a gorgeous sandal.

~So she’ll ask you, shoe horn still in ready position, ‘What are ,those?’

~You’ll nudge the box towards her with your toe and grab the shoe horn as she bends down to take a closer look. The black strappy sandals will remind her of a black strappy dress she hasn’t worn in months.

~Strappy sandals in hand, she’ll head to the closet to get the dress and announce that you have to go out for a nice dinner immediately.

~And chances are, if you take her out for a nice dinner, she’s going to want a martini to go with it.

Image credit: JazarellaMozarella

It’s time to plan a family vacation.  My kids have always found the front hall closet a fun and rewarding ‘adventure’ for a week or two.  Give them a flashlight and some Twinkies and they’re good to go.  To make it a ‘Wild Kingdom’ type of getaway, I just throw in the pet hamster and snake and watch nature take its course.

My husband thought the kids might enjoy a change of scenery this time around, however, and brought home several brochures of cave spelunking, helicopter skiing, bungee jumping and other “extreme” type of vacations.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to jump off a bridge?” he asked me.

“Every day,” I answered.

“Seriously, sweetheart, extreme vacations are a great way to bond the family and release stress at the same time,” my husband said.

I thought back to my husband’s Grammy playing naked water polo in the Marriott Courtyard pool last summer and wondered just how much more ‘extreme’ a vacation I could take.

“And extreme vacations don’t have to mean rustic.  Many are very upscale.  Look, here’s a trip to Antarctica complete with gourmet meals,” he said.

I interpreted ‘gourmet meal’ as being carried away by a polar bear that has sadly mistaken me for an oversized seal in my Louis Vuitton leather parka.

“And this one incorporates a social cause,” my husband continued pointing to a glossy picture of a family preparing fully equipped backpacks for the Emperor Penguins prior to their now famous march over hundreds of treacherous miles (couldn’t the family have given the birds a ride in their luxury all-terrain tour bus instead?).

“Or, if you can’t decide, just choose from this handy chart,” he persevered.

“I’ll take ‘Solitary Confinement’ for 100, Alec.”

“C’mon.  The kids will love it,” my determined husband said.

I looked into the backyard where the sun danced across the climbing rocks and the tall sugar maple held up the tire swing and tree house. Then I turned to the living room where our kids were staring mindlessly at the TV.

“Kids, would you like to go on an extreme vacation instead of the front hall closet this spring?” I asked.

No response.

“I can’t say they’re enthused by this, honey,” I said to my husband.

He walked over and shut off the TV (apparently embracing the extreme vacation tenet to risk life and limb).

“DAD! What are you doing?  We were watching THAT!” they cried.

“Tell me what show you were watching and I’ll give you fifty bucks,” he challenged.

“The Simpsons,” said one.

“American Idol,” said another.

“60 Minutes,” said the last, glaring at the others for forgetting their agreed-upon pat answer.

Their father calmed them down and asked them to select a family vacation destination – front hall closet (exotic pet animals and junk food included) or Parachuting in Paraguay, perhaps.

“Can’t we just watch “Fear Factor” while washing dishes for mom?” they asked, recalling a particularly favorite moment when the brothers challenged each other to eat dinner remnants out of the garbage disposal.

Their discouraged father turned the TV back on and left the room, his shoulders hunched, his chin down.  My heart ached for the good and dedicated man.  It was at this moment I decided to help him achieve what he so desired.  I vowed to push him off a bridge the first chance I got.

What’s your parenting style?

T-Mobile says I’m a hard-ass. Well, actually they called me “Sgt. Strict.” But same diff. In either case, it surprised me, because while I’m not exactly a pushover, I’m sure not a drill sergeant, either.

For example: Your teenage son is dating a girl he met on summer vacation, who lives four hours away. You…

…think, “A girlfriend he never actually has to go out with? Perfect!”

…quickly up his cell phone minutes.

…have him figure out how much it will cost him in gas to visit her twice a month.

…keep him busy with extracurricular activities. He can see her over winter break.

Or:

…tell him if they pick a movie theater halfway between their two houses, you’ll drive him there.

What would you do? Discover your parenting style in this fun (and yes, a little silly!) quiz from T-Mobile:

Take the Mom to Mom Quiz here.

Dear Zen Mother,

Could you explain Karma to me?  I hear it thrown around a lot in conversation but I’m not sure I really understand it.

Mimi from Massachusetts

Dear Mimi,

Well, according to my Eastern Religion for Dummies handbook, Karma encompasses both cause and effect by looking at all your deeds from the past, present and future, including things you have done in previous lifetimes as someone or something else. In other words, Karma is the Sanskrit word for “you’re screwed.”

Before you dismiss this notion as a whole lot of hooey, here’s a recent experience I had with a psychic, or as he prefers, perpetual life coach.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.

“You tell me.  You’re the psychic,” I said, elbowing him and snorting at my own humor.

“Yeah, like I haven’t heard that before.  OK, Mrs. Z, if you want proof of my clairvoyance, here goes.  You left the house with kids in tow at 7:55 a.m. except one of your boys was still in the bathroom washing the dog with his toothbrush. Later you went grocery shopping only to realize in Checkout Lane #7 you were still in your pajamas, flannel with flying pigs – cute. You returned home to work on your next column, due yesterday, but instead turned on the TV hoping you hadn’t missed “Judge Judy.” Would you like me to go on?”

Humbled and embarrassed, I said no.  “Umm, could you tell me about my past lives instead?”

I expected him to burn sage, light a candle, and fall into a deep meditation, or deal a series of Tarot cards in front of me, but he simply stared.  His eyes became critical and his mouth revealed a disapproving sneer.  I straightened up, lifted my chin and crossed my ankles, hoping this would help release my past life as Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn. I waited.

“You were an avocado,” he said, finally.

“Pardon?”

“A-vo-ca-do.” The word dripped from his mouth like venom.

“What is that…a joke?  You think you’re some kind of comedian?”

“It’s not a joke, but don’t worry, you reincarnated as a flea in 504 B.C.”

“Oh, you’re a riot.  I suppose next you’ll tell me that I was once a goat.”

“Well, yes, but it took you a while to earn that life.  Some of the decisions you made as a flea were questionable.”

“What about my sister?” thinking at least I could get my money’s worth by wallowing in one of her past lowly existences.

“She was Audrey Hepburn.  That’ll be $175.  No personal checks.  I know what’s in your bank account.”

I couldn’t speak. I’d just spent $175 to be insulted and demeaned.  I rushed out of the psychic’s office and across the street, reeling from the experience. 

“Wait!” I heard him yell.  “You forgot your purse.”

He stepped out from the entranceway, tripped and stumbled into a pedestrian who pushed him to the curb where a bike messenger bounced him into the street.  The psychic then jumped to his left to avoid an oncoming Prius…only to be run over by a produce truck coming from the other direction.

Hmmm, I thought to myself, I guess there is something to this karma business after all.  I walked over to where he lay, picked up my purse and went home to watch “Judge Judy.”