Radio Heads

After listening to Take it Easy, Moonshadow and Ring of Fire almost every day for the past two years, I decided it's time my boys discovered The Radio. They needed variety and I needed something to keep me from driving into a telephone pole.

The concept of The Radio has been difficult for them to grasp. Not being able to listen to exactly what they want exactly when they want does not mesh with the iGeneration. Their faces scrunch up at every song they don't recognize, which is almost every song ever written aside from the three I've listed above.

The radio DJs also perplex them. They assume that "these people" are obviously within earshot and can hear us. "Mommy," they plead. "Tell those people to stop talking. Tell them you want The Eagles."

I am thankful "those people" in The Radio can't hear us. Because I don't want the Eagles. Ever again. I want Springsteen, Willie Nile and CCR. And admittedly some country.

And so through The Radio my guys have discovered a wealth of new music. Namely Taylor Swift. They've heard her songs a few times and now ask for her every morning when we get in the car, when we get on The Drive, when we pass Soldier Field and as we pull into the school lot. And every three seconds in between.

I was starting to think The Radio was a bad idea after all when I stumbled upon 100.3's Rewind. Of course I've listened to it before, but that was decades ago before I completely succumbed to my Bruce addiction.

Rewind 100.3 is all about the 80s, which as far as my boys know, happened a few million years before the Mesozic era. T-Rex roamed the earth in a Pet Shop Boys t-shirt.

Granted, I've heard these songs more times that I've heard myself exhale. And yes, some (most) of them might cause seizures. But a lot of them are still great. And all of them, good, bad and just irritating, take me straight back to my teens. It doesn't matter that I haven't heard these songs in 20 years. Music isn't like math – it actually sticks in your brain. (Especially the songs you want to forget.) And so without missing a beat I'm singing every single word to every single song as if it was only yesterday that I was sitting in my room with my cassette player positioned perfectly in front of my radio, impatiently waiting for Holding out for a Hero to come on so I could record it and then play it over and over until I knew ever single word by heart and my parents were considering putting me up for adoption.

Needless to say boys were impressed with my wealth of lyrical knowledge.

The Bangles. OMD. Bryan Adams. Journey. Rick Springfield. Even Corey Hart (sad, I know). And of course, REO Speedwagon. I remember it all. This week, Take it on the Run came on and I almost got into a wreck I was so excited. As the band from my hometown began singing "Heard it from a friend whoooo..." I cranked the volume way up – much louder than anyone should legally be allowed to play REO Speedwagon.

Next, in a stroke of luck, Toni Basil's Hey Mickey came on. I hadn't heard that song since 7th grade. (And to be honest I couldn't care less if I ever hear it again.) But the fact that my boys got to hear it....just that once....was fantastic.

Rewind played all the songs I'd loved. And the ones I hated (The Clash).

My boys were mesmerized by the synthesizers, the techo-beats and those distinctly 80-style drums that are solely responsible the success of Tylenol.

They listened silently, soaking up the songs from my past. Little heads bobbing rhythmically with approval.

Without saying a word they told me they liked these brand new songs that I grew up on decades ago. And I was thrilled. Because I realized this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I have no doubt that in another few years I won't be able to effectively sell them on how great Jack & Diane is...much less Meatloaf. So I'm enjoying their enthusiasm while it lasts.

And because it is all on The Radio, I simply can not play the same songs over and over and over and over and over and over again. No matter how much they beg or or scream at "those people" hidden in my dashboard.

The best part? They momentarily stopped harassing me about Taylor Swift and Don Henley.

And that really was music to my ears.

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Lions and tigers and terrorists, oh my.

Since I've turned into my mother I listen to a lot of talk radio. Actually, I have become an AM fanatic. Confused Springsteen CDs lay unused in cases on the floor of my car. (Unplayed yes, but not forgotten.)

These past few weeks there's been a lot of talk on the radio about how to discuss - or more accurately avoid discussing - bin Laden's untimely demise (as in a decade late) with very young kids. Some people firmly believe you should shield kids from it. And on one level I get this concern. September 11th was horrific and not nearly as fun to talk about at dinner as say the ever-changing rules of Freeze Tag. And so we've sidestepped this topic in our house for now.

But when it comes to talking about the monster behind 9/11, or any other "bad guy" I don't see the point in shying away from it. I simply don't believe it's too much for little kids to grasp. In fact, I believe they inherently understand the concept of good vs. evil. They are exposed to it everywhere.

Some examples:

Batman = good. Joker = evil.

Superman = good. Lex Luthor = evil.

Dorothy = good. Wicked Witch = evil.

72 and sunny = good. Blizzard = evil.

The Eagles "Take it Easy" = good. The Eagles "Take it Easy" for the 50,000,000th time = evil.

The nurse who gently gave you your first bath after delivery = good. The mohel who circumcised you eight days later = necessary evil.

Mommy giving you fruit = good. Daddy giving you jelly beans which rip the sealants off your teeth even after the dentist made it perfectly clear umpteen thousand times that you absolutely cannot eat tacky, chewy foods and treats = well, you get my point.

And so do kids.

When public enemy #1 was killed last week it was the only topic on every station in the world – except maybe the BBC which was still busy debating the royal nail polish. Our kids got wind of this news and naturally had questions. Well, okay, just one question. But to be fair, they were in the middle of an intense game of some kind involving Matchbox cars and our couch cushions so they had a lot on their plate. Still, I think my husband handled it brilliantly.

Boys: "How bad was he (bin Laden)?"

Husband: "Well, you know Lex Luthor?"

Kids: "Uh huh."

Husband: "Well he was way worse than Lex Luthor."

(Silence as the kids tried to comprehend this. You could see the shock on their faces followed quickly by doubt. No way anyone could be worse than Lex Luthor. I mean, he wanted to knock part of California into the ocean so he could get more coastline property. And that's just mean.)

Kids: "For real?"

Husband: "For real."

That satisfied them for the time being and that's fine. But if they had wanted to know more, I would have told them.

When talking about these "bad guys" I opt for full disclosure. I tell them almost everything. Of course I tell our boys that most people are inherently good. But because of the bad ones out there, I want them to be ever vigilant. And to be vigilant they have to first be aware. And to be aware they must first listen. Which means I have to squeeze these conversations into the car rides to and from school when they are literally strapped down and I know they can hear me even if their tiny hands are pressed firmly over their ears.

I know some people will disagree with this tactic and that's fine. Still, this is one thing I simply don't struggle with. (And believe me I struggle with everything.) But here I have my reasons.

When I was seven I was thisclose (actually probably closer than that) to being snatched from my front yard by a dark-haired man with black mustache, black cap, black gloves, black leather jacket and blue convertible with a black top. I was waiting outside my house for my ride to a public session at the ice rink (because skating every morning before school, after school, weekends and summers apparently wasn't enough) when this Hannibal Lecter-type pulled up to our curb and asked if I wanted a ride. I firmly said no, which was, according to him, the wrong answer. So he got out of the car and chased me from the curb to my front door. He was literally about to grab my arm and whisk me away when my mom heard me screaming and pounding on the door and stepped outside. Hannibal turned and ran. The cops came. I never knew if he was caught or just found another victim. But I do know that a second later and I'd have been a goner. Because even though I didn't ask him, I'm pretty certain he never intended to drive me to the rink.

For those who can't stand the suspense, I never made it skating that day.

I remember every single detail about that moment. It left me with the most permanent scar I have from my childhood. (And I wiped out on the ice a lot.)

And so when I talk to my kids about safety, I don't have the most gentle approach.  I go beyond just drilling them to never talk to strangers. I make sure they realize that if they ever get into a car with anyone they will never, ever, ever see mommy or daddy again. I've talked explicitly about what has happened to me and to kids who weren't as lucky as I was. I describe evil.

And it affects them. They get quiet and they get scared. But despite the emotions this brings up, I can see them processing the information and storing it away for that "just-in-case" moment that we all hope never comes.

The result is that they know what to do should someone approach them on a playground and say they have a cute puppy, candy (yes, even cotton candy) or the real Batman hidden in their car. They know it's okay to be rude to strangers. To kick a man (no not your brother) in his groin if he grabbed their arm. They know they are not EVER allowed to get into a car with anyone, even a friend's parent who they know well, unless I have explicitly alerted them, their teachers, the entire Parent's Association, Obama, all higher-ups in the CIA and the UN about this change in pick-up and branded it onto their tiny foreheads just to be sure.

I've drilled this in so well that I worry the boys might put up a fight should my husband pick them up as a surprise one day.

Yes it's a fear tactic. No it's not for everyone. But it does work. Maybe a little too well, I admit. My kids are not wallflowers by any means. They are very outgoing and social. But there are times when I'm introducing them to someone new and I can tell they are struggling with whether or not it's okay to say hello. I don't know if it's shyness or fear.

I must admit, I hope it's fear. But I believe a healthy dose of fear and distrust can help keep your limbs intact. 

Before anyone calls DCFS on me, let me say that I'm conscious of what I'm doing and concerned about protecting their fragile psyches. I don't tell them these stories at bedtime or even weekly. I don't make them sit and watch horror stories on Dateline. In fact, just the opposite. I turn off the TV the minute one of these stories airs. Because while I want them to know the reality of these bad guys, I want them to hear it from me. Not Matt Lauer, who I am pretty sure won't be there to comfort them in the middle of the night when they wake up screaming from a bad dream. (Which, by the way, they've never had after one of our talks.)

Am I permanently scarring them by being so direct? One hundred percent, positively, absolutely NOT.

I hope.

I mean sure their necks may be a tad sore from looking over their shoulders so much but otherwise I fully expect they will go on to lead productive - and safe - lives. Although they are still in their single digits and I have no doubt I'll be blamed for this and a multitude of other sins once puberty hits.

So my point is, should they ask more questions about bin Laden, I'll tell them.

And years from now should they attack me for scaring them this way, I'll know exactly what to do; Run screaming from the room yelling, "fire!"

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What a putz

Me: "Come on boys. If you want to go to the zoo we have to leave right now."
R: "Okay mommy.  I'm almost done putzing around."

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Bond. Mom Bond.

One of my most valued possessions is my girlfriends. I consider myself lucky to have wonderful friends from so many facets of my life: school, college, work.

And I'm still very close to several from when I was in preschool and grade school. Distance and decades aside, they know me better than almost anyone.

These friendships were born of endless hours shared in a freezing cold ice rink at 5 AM, during recesses huddled in concrete tunnels on the playground discussing the cutest boys in fifth grade, (no, I'm not mentioning names) and countless hours sifting through gravel looking for "Indian Beads." The memories are indelibly etched in my brain and the people in them will always take up a huge space in my heart.

Then there are the friends you form through childbirth. The bond you instantly form with other new mothers is unlike anything else. It's not that the friendships are deeper or richer, just more intimate right off the bat.

Seriously, the discussions I've had with moms I've just met amazes me. I can't count the inappropriate topics I've covered with women before I've even gotten their name. But when you're operating on just three hours of sleep in eight weeks, pleasantries are a colossal waste of time and energy.

On some level I think mom friends are born out of desperation. After the first three hours of parenthood you realize that you need to find someone else who's new job description also includes sitting around the house half-naked and having milk squeezed from you by a machine. And unless you live on a diary farm, that means actually getting dressed and out of the house, which really, is no more difficult than defying gravity.

I wasn't able to do it alone. I joined a new mom's group through my hospital and six weeks after my oldest son was born had found a group of new moms to commiserate with. They each had the most important quality necessary in a great friend: they could spend days discussing nipple confusion. They were willing (happy even) to belabor this issue for hours on end and then go home and email about it for the rest of the night. My husband on the other hand, as wonderful as he is, felt that once in a blue moon I ought to be able to discuss something else. Like the high-pressure new job he had just started, our new home and the big city we'd just moved to.

Perhaps I was being a tad selfish. But in all honesty, I don't know that I was even aware we had moved or that he had started a new job. I only knew that my nipples hurt.

So these new mom friendships were lifesaving. When other people tried to get to me to focus my attention on something else for a split-second, these girls pulled me back down to earth and assured me that there was not, under any circumstance, anything more important going on in the world other than the fact that my son refused to nap unless he was strapped into his car seat, which was attached to the stroller, which was in our guest bathroom, which had the fan on, which emitted the perfect "white noise" to help him sleep while I endlessly rocked his stroller back and forth, making sure the front wheels bumped rhythmically over the bathmat...for 45 minutes...at which point I was convinced that he was FINALLY asleep and so I would stop – only to have his eyes pop wide open.

(I would like to point out that even after months of this insane behavior I decided not to leave my child on a street corner. This is how good mommy I am.)

But my point is this. Once you're actually out the house, connecting with other moms doesn't take much. These friendships don't require any dating, wooing or courtship. Actually, they don't even require a hello. All you need is to see another mom standing in a bathroom, holding her feces-covered baby in the air while trying to rip open a bag of wet wipes with her teeth, which also happen to be holding her cell phone and keys.

Instant attraction. 

It's a medical fact that when a new mom sees another new mom struggling a chemical is released in her brain that's technically called, "Thank God It's Not Just Me."  This chemical instantly bonds you to other moms who are wrestling with little people who leak massive amounts of excrement hourly.

Another great thing about meeting other new moms is that you don't measure each other up right away. (Unless the new mom is showered, her hair is styled better than Medusa's, and her shirt matches her pants, which somehow aren't sweatpants. Then a different chemical is released in the brain. It's called, "Get The Hell Away From Me Right Now.")

Actually, that's not entirely true. New moms absolutely do measure each other up. But that doesn't happen until MUCH later in the friendship. Say, after the first 90 seconds when they've already discussed leaky boobs, whether or not they had their private parts stitched up after delivery and the baby blues. (That's a nice term for "I'm seriously about to throw everyone out the window.")

Luckily this "mom-bond" doesn't end with your first baby. It continues on with moms you meet on the playground, in after-school activities, and at the grocery store as you both lunge for the last gallon of DHA approved, brain-enhancing organic milk to guarantee that your kid masters logarithms long before anyone else's kids do.

The other day in my son's martial arts class there was a mom sitting on the floor next to me holding her six-month-old baby. I smiled at them. She smiled back and introduced herself with, "He hasn't pooped in three days. I don't know what to do."

I nodded. I'd been there. I asked if she'd tried the Fleet Liquid Glycerin Suppositories. (My youngest son single-handedly kept that company afloat.)  She hadn't. We spent the next hour discussing her son's bowel movements, or lack thereof. On the way out of class we exchanged names and said we'd see each other next week in class. A friendship born out of a child's inability to bear down. Amazing, right? And while it's true we may never see each other again, for that one moment we had each other.

Now that my boys are older I'm not as needy. I can proudly say I go to the grocery store without trying to catch the eye of other new moms in the aisle - hoping to discuss rectal thermometers or diaper rashes. I don't troll the Internet at night looking for chat rooms on Roseola. I can make it through the day without emailing someone about night terrors.

But I still marvel at the immediacy of mommy friendships. And at how the friendships between me and my own friends from decades ago has deepened with the birth of our own kids.

And I know it's just the beginning. My boys are just four-and-a-half and five-and-three-quarters years old. I've got decades of insta-bonding to look forward to as I meet the parents of their classmates, teammates and girlfriends.

Wait...girlfriends?

On second thought, my best friend may end up being a licensed psychotherapist.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!