I Remember...

I have not written in a while.

Okaaay, six months. (Seven???)

It's pathetic, considering how much better I feel when I do write. But I have a really good excuse, which is, that I've been lazy and unmotivated.

Actually, that's not entirely true, I actually have been writing a lot. At night. IN MY HEAD. I just haven't found the energy to put pen to paper (finger/keyboard) and get anything down. I sit in bed, unable to sleep, but more unable to get myself out of bed and in front of the computer and type. And so my thoughts swirl around inside my brain scrambling to get themselves into some order, while the other part of my brain promises me that I absolutely WILL NOT forget any of these great, amazing, life-changing thoughts I'm having...this time. (My brain is a LIAR.)

And so I drift off to sleep, relying stupidly on my totally unreliable mental "save" button, which of course.... as usual, fails to work. And by morning I've permanently deleted all my ideas. The turns-of-phrases that I just knew at 2 AM would revolutionize writing -- GONE.

But while I can't remember any of the half-assed eloquent ways in which I wanted to say anything, I do  sort of remember some of the things I wanted to write about.

I remember that I was going to write about the end of the school year because like most of life's big events, it almost killed me. My first baby was leaving first grade. And my baby baby was leaving nursery school. And of course I. Couldn't. Take. It. Despite the fact that every single day felt like it lasted for 14,000 hours, the year still, somehow, managed to FLY by. When did those seemingly endless days actually end? Where did the time, that was dragging on oh so slowly, GO? 

I was able to hold it together a smidgen more than I had when my first baby graduated from kindergarten the year before, but not by much. My little boys are growing up. It's my fault of course, because I do things like feed them and water them and love them and talk to them. I help them grow. I give them the tools they need to grow. Because some (most) days I really NEED them to finally grow the f!*@# up and stop needing me to do every single little thing for them -- like cook. And smile.

But when they actually start getting bigger and doing these things for themselves I start to wither a little (lot) bit because they are my babies and I don't want them to grow up. I want them to stay small and sweet and cuddly forever. I need them to need me because if they don't need me to do things for them then what do I do?

And so they graduated from yet another year of school and got bigger and smarter and more independent, and I loved it and hated it all at the same moment. It was almost enough to call off the vasectomy and try just one more time. (Calm down mom, I didn't.)

I remember that I was going to write about teaching my youngest son to ride his bike without training wheels. And how proud I was of him (and me) until I realized that he could fall and get hurt. And I remember that I was thankful that we lived within walking distance from a Menards and that I could literally run out and go buy some bubble wrap and just wrap him in it for a few years and keep him safe in our basement until his bones were harder and his skin thicker. And then I remember thinking, no.

I remember that I was going to write about my apparent brain freeze when it came to planning for summer. How I bravely (foolishly, wonderfully) shrugged off any and all ideas of (a structured!!, creative!!, engaging!!, entertaining!! TIME CONSUMING!!!!!) camp and decided that just joining a pool and doing nothing really, would be just what we needed. I somehow failed to realize that this plan was GOING TO ADD an extra 18,000 hours onto my days which were already, as I mentioned, 14,000 long.

I remember that I was going to write about the fear and the panic and the anxiety I had when I realized what I had done by not planning a summer. And about the small stroke I had when I realized that this wonderful pool that I had joined didn't actually open until 1 PM every day and so what were we going to do with our mornings???????????

I remember that I was going to write about how I decided that I'd use my mornings wisely. I'd home school my children until it was time to swim. Yes, that's it, we'd be productive! I'd turn off Facebook and the computer and close my book. I'd patiently and lovingly show my youngest son that to make a proper "G" you don't start at the bottom of the page and end up six inches above the paper on the wood table. We'd learn to stay between the lines. I'd work on my oldest sons' "out loud" reading. They'd be reading Shakespeare and writing soliloquies in Latin by end of summer. We'd fill up our notebooks and our minds. And we did. Well, one morning, anyway. (Please, I don't know Latin. I don't even know the French I spent a decade studying.)

I remember that I was going to write about our first day at the pool and how my youngest son CLUNG to my neck like a leaden albatross, while my oldest son yelled at me from the side that he wanted to go on the high dive RIGHT NOW!! And how I realized then that my little guy had to learn how to swim IMMEDIATELY or I'd be declared certifiable by July. And so, I taught my youngest how to swim on his own... on my own.  
*** Actually here I have to give most of the credit to Michael Phelps who mesmerized my boys for two weeks straight. Despite the fact that he wasn't actually in the water with my son, I know that it was he who really got him swimming. 

I remember that I was going to write about my oldest son going off the diving boards for the first time. How he walked to the end of that nine-meter high board and stood there holding his nose and looking down in terror. How, after 10 minutes, he bravely stepped off and....let himself drop. How in my mind, his form looked just like Greg Lougainis'. (Yes, I know there is someone more current, but I didn't really watch Olympic diving, so I DON'T KNOW.) Then, how he poked his head out of the well and screamed, "IT'S AWESOME!" for everyone between here and Russia to hear. I'd show you the video but it might give you a seizure because I was jumping crazily up and down while holding the camera.

I remember that I was going to write about how he tried to coax me into doing it next. Um, NO.

I remember that I was going to write about my surprise and happiness when, as it turned out, just joining a pool ended up being the perfect thing for both me and my boys. I was thrilled (surprised) by how much fun it was and how much fun they had every day just swimming and how I loved it -- DESPITE the fact that I sometimes (daily) complained about the lack of structure and ultimately wanted to string us all up from the ceiling fans by 5 PM every night because when your pool doesn't open until 1 PM, that means you can't leave the pool until around 4 PM, if you actually want to have time to swim, and when you live in Chicago that means TRAFFIC. Mind-boggling, aneurysm-inducing TRAFFIC.

I remember how I woke up one day and realized out of the blue (okay, when my husband pointed it out to me) that the boys are getting older and this might be one of the last summers that we can actually spend doing nothing because soon they will want to be in a camp (or worse, overnight camp!) with their friends and I will not be one of these friends they'll want to spend their days with and so I better enjoy it now.

I remember that I was going to write about my youngest son learning to read. Reading is my absolute most favorite thing in the whole world, so for me this is like, The Best Thing Ever. I remember how thrilled and ecstatic and PROUD I was. Until. The day he picked up a (still-unread!) book up off the coffee table and asked loudly, "Mommy, what is Fifty-Shades of Grey?"

I remember that I was going to write about the fact that every other kid on this planet started going back to school in August, but we didn't start until, like, March (September 10th) and how unfair that was. I was panicking that this summer was NEVER GOING TO END and I bemoaned this fact to anyone and everyone who would listen...until the CPS strike happened and I shut up and realized that I was so very lucky that my kids were in school on September 10th. How I understand that my boys are ridiculously fortunate to be in the amazing, awesome, school that they are in. Even if it does have a six-month summer break.

I remember VERY, VERY RECENTLY wanting to write about some big news in my family (not MY "my family" but "my family") but being told that NO, this was NOT going to be a social-media event. That it was, in fact, being handled the way a wonderful and special thing SHOULD be handled, i.e, tastefully -- and not tweeted all over twitter. And so I've been literally sitting on my hands to respect these wishes and not write about it. Even here. But I don't know how long I can keep that promise.

I remember that there were about a million other things I wanted to write about. My youngest son getting glasses. (Adorable.) My oldest son showing me his three new wiggly teeth. (Sad.) My baby showing me HIS three loose teeth which is DEFINITELY going to make me call off the vasectomy.

And lastly, I remember laying in bed and swearing to myself that I wouldn't forget about all the things I wanted to write about...tomorrow...when I wasn't so tired. And I swore that I'd get it all down in the morning.

And of course I forgot.

And the next time I put off writing, I need to remember that.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

BFF

My youngest son has a best friend. I'll call him Sam.

Well, at least he and Sam were best friends on Thursday. Today is Monday, sooooo....it could have changed.

Their friendship has been an evolution, as they often are. It began last year, in Nursery 3. They hit it off immediately. Young male bonding over Magna-Tiles. They were sweet together. Holding hands on the way into school and sometimes in car line on the way out. They had in-depth discussions about the benefits and pitfalls being the class line leader or milk helper.

They had differences too. Sam was a healthy eater, devouring his fruit-and-veggie filled lunches while my son basically threw up in his mouth if you even mentioned the word "green."

Still, they were good together. At home, my son worked his friend's name into every conversation every two seconds. Mommy, do you know what Sam said today that was so funny? Mommy, can Sam and I have a play date? Mommy, Sam and I are going to go to high school/college/basketball school/work together. Mommy, I'm going to marry Sam.

Forget Jesus or Elijah. There has never been a more powerful presence at a dinner table than Sam has been at ours.

Then, in the middle of Nursery 3 Sam's family went on a sabbatical for six months. When you are five-years-old, six months feels like an eternity. Our son was devastated by this and spent every second of the entire six months talking about Sam, dreaming about Sam, making plans for when Sam came back.

But when Sam returned, their friendship had shifted. They weren't as close as they had been. My son had made new friends.

And then a few weeks ago we learned that Sam is moving to the East Coast for good. I broke the news to him gently. And he was crushed. Sam's impending departure catapulted him to the top of my son's BFF list once again. Obviously in denial, he began to discuss Sam's presence at his future birthday parties, play dates and sleepovers.

Anyone who heard Sam was moving offered our son a little smile and said something like: "Oh that's too bad. But he's so young. He'll make new friends."

And he will. Of course. He already has.


But the insinuation is always there that it's okay that his friend is moving because somehow this young friendship is expected to dissolve at some point. You can't actually think two little five-year-olds would remain friends forever. That's insane. I mean, they're too immature, too young.

And that sentiment, although well-intended, really annoys me. (Add it too the list, I know.)

Trust me, I realize that my son is just five. I share bathrooms with him for God's sakes. But I don't think it's fair to dismiss or discount young friendships just because they are, well, young. And in this field I consider myself a Jedi Master Ninjago Expert.

I met my best friends when I was just three years old. Or two-and-a-half. The age changes depending on which one of us you ask. Either way, at 42, that makes this friendship a remarkable 39-years old, give or take a few months.

Thirty-nine years. 


We met in nursery school. We didn't have Magna-Tiles, true. But we did have the super soft, pink or blue napkins at lunchtime at Child Development, and let me tell you, NOTHING bonds little girls together (or tears them apart) like the great pink or blue napkin debate.  


My mom doesn't remember who asked for the first play date. But from that moment on we were inseparable. And by inseparable I mean I don't think we spent more than two minutes apart for the next TEN YEARS. 


It wasn't always easy. Friendships that begin that early have to endure a lot. Who sleeps next to who on sleepovers. Who is better friends with whom. Who collects more "beads" on the playground. Whose hair feathers better? (Well, clearly NOT mine.) If one of us started spending too much time at school with other people, it was war. 

We did everything together. Everything. I had other friends, yes, but throughout grade school my eggs were primarily in the twins' basket. We called each other every morning to discuss our outfits for the day. We compared our moms' mac and cheese preparations. We liked the same boys. The younger twin (by 5 minutes) and I skated together for years. We went to camp together. We planning our weddings together. (I'm pretty sure that at one point or another we all planned to marry the same boy, and all live in the same house happily together....presumably in the Utah dessert.)

They remember my brother being born, my mom's hair twirling and my dad. We played and learned and laughed and fought and forgave and trick-or-treated and watched who shot JR together. My childhood was inextricably tied to them. 

Until.

One night on the way home from yet another weekend away skating, they dropped the bomb on me.

"We have to tell you something," one of them said. "We're moving."

I didn't buy it. I mean, there's NO WAY they'd ever leave me. I blew it off. "Moving? Uh huh. Sure." 

"No really, we are."

I challenged them. "Oh yeah? Where?"

"To Cornell."

Cornell? What the hell was Cornell? I had never heard of Cornell.

I shook my head. Nope. I told them it wasn't true. t told them that it wasn't funny.

They insisted it was true.

I got upset. Then angry. I am pretty sure I called them liars. 

When we stopped for gas I did what I still do best when I'm upset. I called my mom. 

"Mom," I whined. "The twins are being mean. They are telling me that they are moving. Can I put them on and will you tell them to stop?"

There was a long pause. And then my mom's voice: "They wanted to tell you themselves."

The earth shifted. I don't know that anyone else felt it which was really odd considering it registered a 974 PLUS on my personal Richter Scale. The rest of the car ride home was miserable. I don't know that we spoke. I'm sure I cried. 

The following few weeks were rough too. (HUGE downplay.) I remember completely and utterly losing my cool and calling their house and berating them on the phone for what seemed like hours. I said our friendship had been lie. A farce. I screamed. I yelled. I cried. We all cried. And their mom got on the phone and told me that "that was enough." And she was right. It was. I hung up feeling even worse. My parents tried to comfort me, but come on. I mean, how do you make a 13-year-old feel better about losing a limb?

In the end, they didn't move to Cornell. They moved to Texas. Which also might as well have been somewhere off the coast of Australia.

On the day they moved, our parents took a gazillion pictures of us. On the couch. In the yard. In front of the (embarrassing reveal here) 1,700 posters of Michael Jackson that decorated every square inch of my room. "Smile!" they'd encourage as we sat there simply trying not to aspirate and die.

I found these pictures recently and they are THE MOST depressing pictures EVER TAKEN IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD. Or at least in Central Illinois. Or at least on our old street. They are also painfully honest and telling. Three sad teenage girls with bad haircuts trying to smile beyond the pain of a very lonely future. It sounds melodramatic now, but that day it was truly ALL THAT. At least it was for me.

That day I followed them to school where they said their last goodbyes at lunchtime. I trailed pathetically along behind them throughout the cafeteria feeling jealous that they were actually wasting time saying goodbye to all these other "friends" who couldn't possibly care as much as I did.

And then my family piled into our car and followed their family to the highway, where we all pulled off on the shoulder and had hugged one last time. We all cried. Again. And they drove off taking a piece of my soul with them.

Luckily my paralyzing fear of flying hadn't yet begun. And so my parents got me a plane ticket and put me on a plane to visit them -- probably BEFORE they'd even made it out of the state themselves.

Unbelievably, the friendship endured. Thrived even. Which is remarkable considering we had EVERYTHING working against us. First, it was the 80s. There was no iPhone. No email. No texting. No Facebook. No Skype. Long Distance calls were expensive and monitored and held over your head as a reward for not suffocating your sibling or passing math. But perhaps the biggest obstacle we faced wasn't the distance. It was the fact that we were teenage girls. You know, the species that delights in changing best friends every hour on the hour.

But we had pen and paper and a persistent will. And that trumps everything. Yes, even the iPhone.

And so, here we are, 39 years later. I've gotten over the devastation of the move. Sort of.

The younger twin and I still talk all at least once a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Sometimes three times a day. We've had periods where we didn't talk over the years, but it never mattered. We always picked up right where we left off. She was the first phone call I made when my dad died. I got one of the first gut-wrenching calls from her when she suffered the unthinkable. She introduced me to my husband. My boys know her. They know her boys. I can still taste their mom's mac and cheese.

The older twin and I don't talk on the phone nearly enough. But she is still an unremovable piece of me. After all, she was the one who told me in kindergarten that yes, I DID have to wear underwear to school, even if I was wearing a (oh so pretty) long, thick, quilted, patchwork dress.

Some bonds are simply unbreakable.

And so. My point is that often the youngest friendships can be the most enduring and most important. Because as you grow up you begin to create yourself. Your appearance. Your character. And there are fewer and fewer people out there, besides your family, who actually knew YOU before you became YOU. Those friends need to be treasured and saved and preserved.

I don't know what the future holds for my son and Sam. They've only had two years together. Maybe not a strong enough foundation to survive time and distance. But you never know. And so I will certainly not discount it.

I have told my son, that if they have the will, they will also find a way.

LYLAS.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!

A Positive Shot

The nurse stood at the glass partition that separated my son's room in the ER from the hallway and beckoned me outside.

"Mom," she said sweetly. "Can I talk to you?"

The panic that I had somehow kept from boiling over for the past two hours, when starting at 12:30 AM our son woke up us screaming hysterically about his throat, started to rise again. I couldn't breathe. I knew it.....the little lymph node that my husband had felt in my son's throat wasn't just a lymph node.

"Sure," I said. But I didn't move. I just sat there trying not to throw up. I mean, if she needed to talk to me behind the glass door, well, that just wasn't good.

I looked at my son who was clutching the iPad and in the process of converting to the religion that is Plants vs. Zombies. Well, he may have looked like he wasn't listening but I knew he was paying attention to everything. We'd been here before after all. All this dodging beheaded zombies was just a cover.

The nurse cocked her finger at me. Let's go mom. I hopped off the bed as lightly as I could, gave my son a quick peck and walked toward the door feigning a positive attitude that would make a D-list actress proud. I even managed what I thought was a pretty convincing smile in her direction as I approached her. Whatever the news, I was going to be strong. Resilient. I would be the poster-child of moms who pretend to hold it together in the face on impending doom.

Easy enough to say. The three-step walk to the door almost killed me. I was sure I was going to cry. Or scream. Or collapse. At best. A monstrous tidal wave of panic was sweeping through me and I felt like I was drowning. Again.

When I reached the nurse she put her hand on my arm, bracing me. I moved my face into some unattractive shape, trying unsuccessfully, to keep the tears in check.

"It's strep," she said.

I paused.

Wait...what?

"Strep?" I repeated.

She nodded. "Yes, I'm sorry to say but it's definite. The strip turned pink immediately. He'll need antibiotics."

A huge, inappropriate smile began to spread over my face.

Strep! YEEEEESSSS! Oh. Thank. GOD.

At that moment she couldn't have said anything that would have made me happier. I almost did a fist-pump.

She frowned at me.

"You're familiar with strep," she repeated emphasizing the word to remind me that what we were discussing was a highly contagious bacteria, which didn't warrant a smile, much less the circus act I was about to perform.

I nodded, still smiling. Yes. I was familiar.

I had strep as a teenager. Once. And it was awful. Kind of. I mean, I was physically miserable, BUT it got me out of a huge geometry test, which in my mind made it a MUCH bigger blessing than a curse.  But my best friend growing up seemed to contract strep throat every other Tuesday, and so, yes, I do know that it's not fun.

Yet I was thrilled for my son.

The disapproving look the nurse was giving me was well-deserved. I mean, what mom in their right mind is happy at hearing this news?

Well...me.

Because upon entering a hospital, there is nothing better than hearing: "We did a test. We found the problem. And now, we can fix it. No problemo! We'll just give you this medicine real quick and off you go! Problem solved." 

And that is because as a parent there is nothing worse than being told: "We have done every test there is. We can't find anything. (Or, God forbid, we've found the worst possible thing.) And despite our best efforts, we don't know what it is or how to make him better."

THAT was the answer we received last year, around this same time, when our same son began complaining of throat pain. He had stopped eating. He had been clutching his throat and saying it felt like something was stuck in there. He was saying he couldn't breathe. We had rushed him into the ER and had him x-rayed and probed and examined. I was sure there was a fish bone there. No. Maybe a hair? No. Okay, a piece of chicken then? Still no. Okay, how about a scratch or wound from his sledding accident the week before? NO???? Despite his obvious discomfort, he checked out fine, and we were sent home with no diagnoses or treatment.

And then he got worse. 

Another throat-clutching incident 24-hours later and he was back in the OR sedated and being scoped repeatedly. Then admitted to the hospital where for three days he endured a battery of tests, X-rays, swallowing tests, IVs, shots, morphine. And pain. He had lain in the hospital bed in complete distress begging for us, the doctors, someone, to help him get this "object" out of this throat. This object that the doctors couldn't find. They were three of the scariest days of my life, (matched only by the three weeks my youngest son spent in the hospital when he was born with two life-threatening illnesses, but that's another story.)

The doctors didn't doubt that my son was in agony. That much was clear to everyone within a three-mile radius with ears. But they couldn't find any cause or do anything to fix it. And these were some of the best pediatric doctors on planet earth. They tried. Diligently. But still, nothing.

And so we waited. And tested. And waited more. And it was unbearable. My husband held it together as only someone who has spent his life training how to handle this exact thing can do. I crumbled. To say I was a complete disaster would be putting a very positive spin on it. I don't handle stress well in general. My body absorbs it like a dehydrated sponge and then goes off looking for yet another hit.

There were moments where I didn't think I could survive this not knowing. Not knowing what was causing him so much pain. Not knowing when it would get better. Not knowing IF it would ever get better.

After three days we still knew nothing. The doctors, who had been so kind and so devoted to his care, said there was nothing else they could do at this point. They surmised that he must have suffered some minor throat trauma during his sledding accident the he could feel, but that they just couldn't see. And so my son was sent home. Still no diagnoses. And no improvement. Take him home and watch him. And wait. Those were our instructions. "Panic" was not listed on the discharge sheet, but I certainly would do that in spades as well. Waiting and Panicking are a package deal with me. An agonizing two-fer.

Thankfully, he did get better. Albiet slowly. He stopped eating. And talking. At five years old we reverted to an all liquid diet and baby foods just to get some nutrition in him. We communicated in nods and notes. It took at least a month before he started getting back to his normal, happy, playful self. We all exhaled the first time he lunged at his younger brother and started screaming at him with without having to manipulate his voice box to do so.  

As a parent, those moments never leave your mind. Yet, you somehow move forward, which we did.

Until this weekend, when the throat-clutching began again. 

But this time, when we walked in that same ER, with my son almost as hysterical as he had been a year ago, they quickly identified the problem. They told us they could fix it. No problemo! And given our recent history this made me happy on a level I couldn't really put into words. So I just smiled stupidly and tried not to fist-pump. 

We were given two options. A shot of Penicillin and then treatment was over and done. Or a 10-day course of antibiotics. Option two would spare him the needle, but require me to be on top of his antibiotics. Being pathologically Type A you'd think this would be a suitable job for me -- but no. I am very organized and meticulous unless it requires medicating and then I am hopeless. At least for myself. My house is filled with near-empty bottles of my own antibiotics. I routinely leave the last 2 or 3 pills in every bottle. And I believe this is okay, despite the fact that I know it's really not. 

We opted for the one-and-done option. 

When he heard about the shot, my son went berserk and I don't blame him. My husband and I had STUPIDLY promised him that he wouldn't need a shot before we left the house. WHY we said that I don't know. But I will never make that mistake again. In fact, just to be safe, from this moment on I will cover my butt by telling him the he may need a shot wherever he is going... the hospital, the dentist, the aquarium...

The needle was huge and my son was a mess. But I did my job. I sat on his bed, I comforted him. I held him (which was NOT easy as he was doing his best impression of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.) I  told him over and over that it would all be okay. Everything would be okay.

The whole time hiding my face from him as I smiled deliriously to myself because this time I actually knew it would be. 

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook

Best Reference Letter. Ever.

And then there are those moments when there is no fighting over the iPhone or who is the fastest runner. And being a mom is  the most heart-warming job in the whole entire world.
Yes, even better than being asked to join the E Street Band.

"I love you mommy so much you are the best mommy ever I love you infinity and beyond."

Surviving the Happiest Place on Earth

This year my husband had a conference in Orlando during spring break. We jumped at the chance to turn this into a special Disney trip that the boys would cherish forever.

Almost 7, my oldest is onto the fact that there is some poor soul sweating unhappily inside that Mouse costume. But my five-year-old still believes. Or at least, he wants to believe. Ask him if that oversized, awkward-moving Winnie The Pooh is real and he will give you a definitive "yes" with a sad, wistful look in his eyes.

And so we made our plan. (And when I say "we made our plan" I mean, my husband and I agreed we needed a plan. Then he went off to work and I  alone sat down and made a plan.) I tackled Disney the way I did any assignment from Ogilvy back in the day. I stockpiled pens and papers and folders and sat around with my feet on a coffee table, computer on my lap, and panicked.

I had forgotten how big Disney was. Or maybe it wasn't that big back then. We didn't have Buzz Lightyear and Monsters Inc. or a thousand of the other rides and parks and places that are there now. Legoland didn't exist three decades ago and therefore didn't present parents with a massive problem: To go to Legoland or not to go and have the boys hear about it at school and forever remind you that their first trip to the Happiest Place on Earth was marred by this blatant oversight. 

(We chose not to go. I'm still waiting for that shoe to drop.)

And so. I talked to countless people about the parks, the rides and these fast passes, which also didn't exist the last time I was there. I read books, reviews and websites. I downloaded touring plans and made reservations. I researched. I prepped. I asked pertinent questions. (Should I bring a stroller since my son starts to whine after walking five steps, or will he be so filled with shock and awe by the magical surroundings that he'll just suck it up and joyfully skip through the park?) I whittled my stomach lining down to nothing with anxiety.

And when the day came, I was ready. I had a folder filled with the best rides for kids and the must-eat-at restaurants. My iPhone was loaded with apps that would tell me at any given time exactly how long the line was for the Mad Tea Party.

We were going to take on The Happiest Place On Earth and we were going to have FUN dammit. Easy, relaxed, well-planned and militant-organized FUN.

And we did. Kind of. Actually it depends on who you ask. If you ask my husband, he'll say it went great. Yes, it was busy and non-stop and hectic, (he was after all, there to work). But we did a lot and saw a lot and somehow managed to cram almost everything in. Sure, we had to adjust and adapt our expectations and schedules at the last minute and more or less go with the flow, but it worked.

Sadly, that's where things begin to fall apart for me. Unfortunately, "go with the flow" is something I don't know how to do whatsoever. I was born a planner. I pretty sure I came into the world clutching a to-do list of the things I needed to accomplish on Day 1. My body physically rebels against any attempt to "play things by ear."

Let me be more clear about this. Deviating from plans at all throws me into a tailspin. In public places when this happens, I try and maintain a modicum of composure for appearance's sake, but inside, I actually start to suffer a series of small strokes. What are we going to DO if we're not sticking to The Plan? How will we get everything DONE? How will we have FUN? Because as you can clearly see, FUN is scheduled, right here, in the right-hand margin, between 10-11 AM. I've even highlighted it to emphasize its importance. If we skip that, we're screwed!

Still, thanks to my husband, I am often dragged, kicking and screaming toward a more chill approach to things. I may shrug my shoulders and appear to the outside world to be the poster-child for adaptability, but rest-assured I am internally shutting down and mentally clinging to the lists I've meticulously hand-written on flash cards and then retyped in Word. I simply don't know how to let go of the schedule I've mapped out in my head or the notes I've made and highlighted in the margins of my mind.

But I digress.

If you ask ME how the trip went I'll also say "great." But we've been home for a few weeks now. I have a fantastic prescription for hindsight which usually helps me see that, yes, everything in fact DID go really well. Despite.

In fact, I have completely forgotten how upset I was that we ended up canceling all of our super important Character Dinners that I agonized over FOR WEEKS. What? We're NOT going to stay at the park until midnight and instead come back to the hotel at 2 PM for some fun pool time? I forgot about that seconds ago. I barely remember that we didn't go on Peter Pan on Day One at Magic Kingdom when we were ALREADY ON that side of the park and therefore had to make a mad dash there on Day Two so that we could get it out of the way and return back to the other side of the park and get on Splash Mountain.

See? Under the bridge.

And the boys? Well, they loved it. Especially the unscheduled pool time. And I don't know for sure, but I'm not sure they even realized that the Starbucks bagel we shoved down their throats Friday morning so we could get to The Magic Kindgom before the rest of America was NOT even on my PhDisney schedule.

Still. Despite the trip's success, I don't know that we'll be racing back next year. Or the year after.

It's not that I don't get Disney, because I do. Much to my embarrassment, I actually stood in line alone to ride It's A Small World because I had to relive the memory. My three boys bailed on me and so I, for nostalgia's sake, sat through what felt like three hours of spinning dolls and that song. (I actually do like the song, it would be inhumane not to like it, BUT perhaps a short 25-second snipped on iTunes would have sufficed.) I also insisted on the Peter Pan and Snow White rides. Simply because somewhere deep down inside of me I have never forgotten how exhilarating it felt to lift off over London Bridge or how scared I was of the Evil Queen and her botched manicure.

But the next time I go, (down the road, with my grandchildren) I'm going to plan a little differently. In fact, I've already started my list:

BRING THE STROLLER: Unless your child is pushing 80 and wheelchair bound, bring the damn stroller. In fact, make it a double.

PLAN AHEAD: There is A LOT of ground to cover there and the park charges about $10,000 per step. If you want to get your money's worth, you're going to want to do a fair number of things each day. Go online. Research. Talk to people. Make a plan. Then be prepared to have all these plans unmaliciously yet, most definitely, tossed out the window by the people you loving created them for.

PUT A CHIP IN YOUR CHILD: I realize this isn't legal, or maybe even humane, and I really don't understand why the hell not. We ID our pets. We don't want to risk losing our pets.  But our children? We'll take the chance. And the parks are SO crowded. Miserably crowded. Especially around 2 PM. If your child is too old for one of those kiddie leashes, (i.e., over 30) then I recommend writing their names, hotel info and you and your spouses' cell phone numbers on a piece of paper and putting it in their shoe. Don't forget to tell your kids it's in there. Make sure they know that if they get lost, they need to take out this piece of paper and to give it to an adult, preferably someone holding a magic wand, who has been screened and found to NOT be a known child molester. I'm assuming that somewhere in all those layers of tulle they have a pocket with a cell-phone in case of emergency.

TALK ABOUT SEX: If you plan to have more than one child, make sure that they are the same sex. Otherwise you will be forced to separate from your spouse and their same-sex child most of the time you are at the park. You will not see them again until you are checking in at the airport gate. Because one will want to go plunging down the five-story vertical Splash Mountain drop while the other will want to spend THREE HOURS IN LINE waiting to meet Rapunzel.

RAPUNZEL: I so badly wanted to talk to the poor girl beneath the hair and make-up and just ask her how she was really doing. But I wasn't willing to stand in that damn line.

FAST PASSES: Besides your health, these are the most important things on earth. Be aware that they can sell-out by mid-day and then you are really and truly screwed.

GO ON THE RIDES WITH YOUR KIDS: Don't wimp out. Even if you know they will make you sick. Remarkably, there will be a grown-up in the bathroom who handled the Star Tours simulator ride worse than you. I promise.

COMMUNICATE: Talk to your spouse about WHICH of the six million nearby stroller parking lots you're parking your stroller in. Or make a note in your iPhone. This helps if you have an iPhone.

DON'T LOSE YOUR iPHONE: God, whatever you do -- do not let it out of your sight when your plane touches down in Orlando, OR when you're using the restroom after the flight OR in the rental car line. Chain it to your body, glue it to the palm of your hand, but just DO NOT LOSE IT.

HAVE FUN AND ENJOY THE RIDE: Don't worry if it doesn't all go according to plan. Because it won't. And it will still be fine - and fun. And if you figure out how to do this, please let me know.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Party time

My youngest son is having a party. Yes, he's turning five in a few weeks, but that's not the party he's focused on right now. He's thinking ahead about a HUGE party he's planning. He announced this last week on the way home from school. And I'm psyched. Granted I'll be in my 70s when it happens but from what I hear, it's going to be a blast.

First, he's going to invite his four best friends from school. And these guys are weally, weally funny. Think about the funniest people you know. Then multiply that by infinity billion. That's how funny these guys are. Oh, and I'm invited too. And daddy. He's not sure about his six-year old brother yet but he's thinking about it. It hinges largely on whether or not his brother helps him find his missing Lego Star Wars Droid before then. Right now it's not looking so good.

His last birthday party was at Pump-it-Up. But that was so 2010. For this party they are going to THE BEST PLACE ON EARTH. Which, according to my son, is New York. Or California. Or Utah. Or Santa Fe. Or Central Illinois.  But most likely it'll be New York. Or California. Or Utah. Or Santa Fe. Or Central Illinois.

And even though he's not quite five yet, my son realizes that in life, it's all about the journey. And so he's decided he and his friends are going to this party in style. No cross-country road trip for them. No, they are going to get a plane. (Legally I assume, but he wasn't clear on that.) And they are going to have so much fun on the plane. Everyone gets a window seat. Unless you don't want one, then you don't have to sit in a window seat. But you should because it's super cool to see out the window. There are going to be snacks. Lots of snacks and not just those stupid twisty pretzels. There's going to be Pirate Booty. The white kind with the cheese. And chocolate. And juice boxes. I know this because I am responsible for packing and holding it all.

But that's just the beginning. When they get to New York, or California, or Utah, or Santa Fe, or Central Illinois, they are going to go into a hotel...and....this is the best part according to my son....drink beer. Lots of beer. Probably six whole beers.

And of course there will be cake. White and chocolate.

But perhaps the most enticing part is that (and I know you're going to be envious now) everyone is going to share a room.

AND a bathroom.

Can't wait? Well, you have to. This party is for his  41st birthday. Which is in 36 years and 20 days.

Still, it doesn't hurt to plan ahead and so I asked if I could bring a few friends of my own. I got an emphatic no. Followed by a yes. I was told I could bring Lucy, our cat. Now, math isn't my strong suit but by my basic calculations, I am pretty sure that Lucy, who is 10 now, will be the ripe old age of dead by then, so I'm not going to turn in her RSVP just yet.

When I pointed out that my plus-one may not be in great travel form in three decades, I was told I could invite our close friends Matt and Cheryl. I was then told that aside from myself and his grandmas, no girls are allowed. (So my apologies Cheryl, but I now have to revoke your invite.)

Four guys sharing six beers and one bathroom in New York. Or California. Or Utah. Or Santa Fe. Or Central Illinois. With their aging parents. It's clearly going to be the party of the century.

I hope you all get an invite.

But don't hold your breath.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Brain freeze

How is it possible that my four-year-old can correctly, and without pause, remember the score of the Capitals/Blackhawks game from last March, but cannot recollect what happened in school three minutes after dismissal?

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.