Laser Tag Birthday Party Survival Guide

Having an end of August and early September birthdays are hard on my middle kids. I feel bad for them because their birthdays are two weeks apart so inevitably their parties are combined because I don't have the energy to do it twice. Summer parties are difficult because Washingtonians flee the oppressive humidity of August. Even if they understand why their friends can't attend, it's still depressing when only a handful of those you invited actually show.

That's what I was thinking when I scheduled the party for Labor Day weekend. With a friend's tales of childhood disappointment in my ears, who never had sleepovers or parties on her birthday because her friends were out of town over the holiday weekend, I over-invited in anticipation of no-shows.

As luck would have it, everyone came. Several more neighborhood kids loitered in the street in front of the house, patiently waiting to be waved over. Including my own four, my yard contained 31 children between the ages of 5 and 12. Thankfully, my neighbors were out of town.

I had the good sense to hire someone to run the party. Earlier that summer, my friend Celeste hosted an outdoor laser tag party at her home run by a game master. He brought all of the equipment to her house and organized the kids into battalions. We had planned for 24 and were concerned the kids would be disappointed they'd have to wait but the kids willingly took breaks in between battles to escape inside where it was cool to play air hockey and foosball. On another table were army men, tanks and airplanes. The weapons bucket in the basement that contained an assortment of Nerf Guns, pistols and light sabers emptied in a flurry of skirmishes, good versus evil.

Final casualty count: one watermelon, two canteloupes, 2 lbs of grapes, 4 lbs of strawberries, 136 servings Country Time Lemonade, two Costco-sized bags of chips and pretzels, and one vanilla cake that served 45.  The rest was a sweaty, smelly success.

In Memory of Edward J Powers

This post is for friends and family who were unable to attend my father's funeral in Fort Gratiot, Michigan on January 21st, 2017. 

My dad had an great laugh and always had a story to tell. The one he told over and over was how his first day as a firefighter was the day I was born. When he introduced me I wasn’t just his daughter, I was “This is my daughter, Heather. She was born on my first day at the engine house. I was new and too nervous to ask the Captain if I could bust out. Someone else did it for me.”

The firehouse was a large part of our lives growing up. His 24 hour shifts (to this day I couldn’t explain to you what Kelly or Super Kelly mean). Or how he would reek of smoke when he returned home from work. He told me about the time he told someone he was a firefighter and she put her hand on the top of his head, pulled him toward her and sniffed a few times. She let go of his head and confirmed, “Why, yes, yes you are!” because showers don't get the smoke out of firefighters' scalps and hair. 

And there were lots of firefighter shenanigans. Once when I was little I saw dad in the bathroom leaning against the sink, shaving. I noticed he had the letter “P” in large, black sharpie on each butt cheek. When I asked “What’s that?” He said that he was the “PP” in ‘Happy’. Seeing I was still confused, he explained a bit more slowly, “I was the “PP” in “Happy Birthday”. So that’s how adults celebrate birthdays.

There were some perks to having a father in the Detroit Fire Department. My brother, Jim, and I would get to sit on top of Headquarters downtown to watch the International Freedom Festival Fireworks. If we wanted to go to Greektown we could usually park at the firestation there.

Dad knew a lot of people which meant he'd run into someone everywhere we went. Jim and I would get bored waiting for him to finish his conversations, “Com’on, Dad. Let’s gooo.” And this was before he went to Ireland – he didn’t need to kiss the Blarney stone. I carry on the tradition with my own kids who know that if I’m talking to a parent when I pick them up they have another 30 minutes to keep playing. Dad could carry on a conversation with anyone and often did.

Then there was the Fire Department Clown Team, a group of young guys on a red truck goofing around to make kids smile and raise money for the Burn Unit at Children's Hospital. One of my favorite pictures of Dad, aka the Chief of Fun, about to kiss a preschooler’s hand at the Fireman’s Field Day.  Jim and I were reminiscing about how we used to play on the truck when it was parked in our backyard.

I got to know the city fairly well because I would go with Dad when he ran errands. As a firefighter, he knew Detroit like the back of his hand. I loved time in the car with him because it usually meant we’d go exploring. Eastern Market. Zeb’s. Hirt Cheese Company. The Wine Shoppe where Tim McCarthy would fix Dad up with whatever he needed. Hamtramck. Donuts from Supreme Bakery. He was always checking out new places. Once when he came to visit me in Maryland he went to local shopping center and came back with onion rye bread, deli meats and marinated mushrooms just because. I was amazed because I’d been going to that shopping center for years and didn’t know that stuff was there.

Baseball would become a significant part of our lives when dad bought Casey’s Pub in 1983. I’ve enjoyed hearing everyone’s stories about what Casey’s meant to them – how it was a gathering place for police officers, fire fighters and others. He developed a real sense of community. Sometimes on Thanksgiving or Christmas Day Dad would open up the bar for anyone who didn’t have any place to go. He’d cook, Lord he’d cook, and there’d be a ton of food. Jim and I were recruited to help at the bar whether it was serving burgers on Opening Day or cleaning the urinal in the men’s room. Now that’s a character building experience!

Dad was interested in everything. When I was little car rides could be unbearable because he was always listening to J.P. McCarthy and WJR talk radio. The bathroom was stocked with Readers Digest, Popular Science and the Bottom Line. He introduced my kids to Uncle John’s bathroom readers, full of stories, nuggets and trivia. Kim used to joke he’d read the label on a can of peas. He liked to watch Bill Maher. We talked about all sorts of things – Detroit politics, economic development, current events, you name it. As I grew older and brought the family to visit, these conversations took place in the kitchen while he and Kim cooked. In the morning, he would pull out the Jiffy Mix to whip up waffles and fry up bacon AND sausage links (such a luxury to have both). And the stories would come.

How Grandpa Powers earned medals for bravery in World War I; the night Grandpa died of a stroke when he was nine; how Grandpa was a motorman for the DSR and how he used to ride with him and ring the bell until a cranky rider complained; how, in the Navy, he’d buy American whiskey in the commissary and sell it to his landlady in Scotland to pay for petrol. The story of the nice lady in Ireland who looked up his family’s birth records in Waterford and mailed them to him.

Tales from the Engine house like when they responded to a fire and a woman cried, “My babies! My babies! are trapped upstairs!" to discover they were Beanie Babies; or the time a woman got stuck in her bathtub; or about the time a local dive bar caught fire. When the firefighters arrived the smoke was several layers thick and the regulars were still at a table drinking their beers - sideways. The fire chief said, “Hey, this building’s on fire!” and one of them replied without missing a sip, “We know. That’s why we called you.”

Dad used to say, “Fireman are the cheapest sons of bitches around. If you need something done cheap, hire a fireman.” He was frugal, too. He bought his cars used and paid cash. After the gasoline shortages in the 70s Dad bought a brand new VW Rabbit diesel.  We got a luggage carrier, aka the Bubble Burger, for the top and drove it to Washington DC, Boston, Pennsylvania and Cooperstown, NY (where, of course, Dad ran into someone he knew). It was cramped but we made fond memories.

My father and me November 2007

When I was ten, I had my first experience with the death of a relative, my dad’s Uncle Bill, the youngest of the Powers men who emigrated from Ireland. His wake was the first wake I'd ever attended. It was an Irish wake and It Was A Party. Food, alcohol, laughter - loud and plentiful. That was quite a standard to set and, as you can imagine, quite a contrast to all the subsequent funerals I attended that weren’t Irish (“Why is everyone whispering?”). 

Dad did not handle death well. He never went to funerals. But he was ready for his own and that should give us comfort. He’s with his mom and dad again and his best firemen buddies seen in the photos behind me.  I’d like to think Dad would want us to celebrate because he is at peace. And so long as we hold the stories we have of him have in our hearts, he will be with us.

- Heather Powers Sauter

Vacuum Cleaner Dissection

Vacuum dissection - broken fan

Our vacuum broke two months ago. Sweeping the carpet with a broom like Old Befana is fine when the mess is popcorn or cheerios but not so effective at removing ground in dirt. The thought of dirt festering, multiplying and colonizing in my house moved me to act. 

When the vacuum stopped sucking I checked the belt first. Next I looked for a blockage in the hose. It was then I knew, from surfing DIY repair sites, that I was dealing with a broken fan, a $10 part. 

Emboldened by grainy YouTube videos of arms without bodies refurbishing and showing off Hoovers, I dissected the machine. As I carefully set aside the components and cleaned dust off parts I commended myself on not participating in our throwaway culture, for resisting the ease of tossing the sucker and buying a new one. I could be MacGyver. Whoa, adrenaline rush!

Taking the machine apart was easy but when I opened the motor housing I knew the adventure was over. The fan blade was broken alright but I would have to take the motor apart to remove it. Disappointed that this was beyond the realm of duct tape and my capabilities, I called a local repair shop.

The guy on the phone was friendly and said that estimates were free. I took the vacuum there in pieces thinking that perhaps the fact that I dissembled it and diagnosed the problem the repairman, if he were dishonest, might think twice about conning me <insert Tim Allen Tool Time grunts>. 

At the shop, he agreed with my assessment and gently chastised me for not taking it in for regular maintenance. Really? People do that?  It took me 21 years to break the fan blade and crack the motor housing. He stepped over to the vacuum display and launched into a spiel about fabulous made-in-the-U-S-of-A vacuum cleaners with metal plates and wheels (not plastic!) that can suck up a 2lb bullet! with a 50 foot hose! without breaking the motor! And how beneficial purchasing one would be for American manufacturing. I listened politely, thought he must not get much traffic midday, and nodded at the appropriate times. Was I repairing a vacuum or buying a used car?

Instead, I opted for the deluxe repair - replace the fan blade, replace the motor bearings, agitator and lightbulb. I picked up the Hoover today. She's just as beautiful as they day we met at Woodward & Lothrops, the now-defunct department store. Here's hoping my $125 investment will keep her out of the landfill for another 10 years.

January, Life After Break

When I looked in the mirror my heart sank. I had grown my hair out for six months and it was the longest it had been ever been. I liked how it looked but the ends rustled like a bag of potato chips. The bangs could be trimmed ever so slightly but I did not want them school-girl-at-the-eyebrows length.

The stylist listened, trimmed and blow dried gently to keep the curls. When she was done my eyes were drawn to the two puffy wings my bangs had become. Think Dilbert's boss with rectangles.  She hadn't cut that much off. How could they elevate like that? Before I went to the salon I asked myself, "what DO I want?" and still ended up with exactly what I didn't. It was an inauspicious start to my day but summed up my January so far.

I've been stressed these past two weeks. As a bookkeeper for my husband's, and two other, small businesses, January means preparing the books for the accountants to do year end taxes. I had been feeling good about the work I'd done through December until the spreadsheet whose formulas I had avoided all year needed to be updated. Yesterday. "When will the books be ready for the accountant?" "Can I get back to you on that?"

The client's emails arrive day and night. 'Would I prepare the 1099's?' Didn't know that was my job, but yes. 'Can you call Vendor today about this bill?' The business account is current-are you sure it's not personal? 'Can you cut an employee reimbursement check?' Yes, but I need supporting documentation. I cross one task off the list but add two more.

By late afternoon I'm ready to nap on the couch but the kids come home from school. "Mom! Mom!" they call and I can't make out what comes next because two, sometimes three, children talk to me at the same time, oblivious to each other, certain they, not their brothers, are being heard. I run to the optometrist's to replace the eyeglasses bent by an errant soccer ball. I field a phone call from the mom whose son was reduced to tears by mine and proceed to conduct an internal investigation. I make a note to set up conference with teacher about unfair consequences for child's missing homework. I fret that I'll lose all the progress I made in physical therapy because I haven't done my exercises in a week.

I tick things off my list, feel like I'm getting ahead, only to receive an email, phone call, or other reminder of something waiting to consume my precious time. I haven't folded laundry since last Thursday. The kids haven't had clean socks in three days. I hope they don't run out of underwear before Saturday.

I'm grateful to have a job. I work from home, set my own hours. I can avoid the weekend Costco crowds by going mid-day, mid-week to feed my four tapeworms. But man, I'm tired. The past few nights I am out when my head hits the pillow and don't recall dreaming.  At 10 o'clock tonight I programmed the coffee pot for the next morning and was thrilled to go to bed early but I never made it there. I spent the next hour composing a response to an email my son's science teacher sent about an incident at school.  Here it is midnight, my eyes burning like coals, and I'm typing a blog post because I'm annoyed at myself for not having written one in months (again).

Over winter break the entire family was sick with a virus. Fever, runny noses, fatigue. We stayed in our pajamas all day and didn't leave the house. In between naps, I learned how to use our Nexus 7 tablet and the kids taught me how to play Temple Run. By week's end I was thoroughly relaxed.

I rang in the New Year reluctantly because January has too many school holidays and unpredictable weather. My body resisted the quicker pace demanded of it but it wasn't long before my peace was left, like a hippie, to hitchhike on the side of the road. Winter Break's lack of obligations and appointments still tempts me like flannel sheets on a cold night. So much so that I want to riff from a popular jam commercial, "Could you please pass the virus?"

The Accidental Coach

In the now-cancelled TV series "Heroes" there was a character who could learn to do anything by watching it done once. I claim no such superpower, but I am a quick study, and I'd seen enough of my sons' soccer practices to know that my third son's weren't as efficient as the others. I made some suggestions. I had a pulse. I became a coach.

Takoma Park is the Ann Arbor of the Mid-Atlantic. A "No Nukes" city, irreverent floats and a lawn mower brigade appear in its Independence Day parades. The downtown boasts a food Coop and a store that sells Birkenstocks. The goal of the Takoma Park Soccer Club is to foster a love of the sport in children; everyone plays, regardless of ability. Once, when a parent complained about physical play in a more competitive neighborhood league, another parent shouted, "This ain't Takoma Park, you know!" So not only are we flower children, we're pansies.

I learned to play soccer after I turned 40, which isn't too many years ago. When I confided to Howard Kohn, the league's commissioner, that I felt like a fraud he replied, "The less you know the easier it is to coach young kids. You learn with them. If you can hold their attention, you've accomplished something." In other words, I wouldn't have to explain offsides.  

At the first practice I, along with two other parent coaches, rounded up 17 third grade boys and girls. We broke into small groups and rotated them through stations where they spent time on footwork, trapping and passing. Smaller groups meant less opportunity for their minds to wander and more time touching the ball.

Being a goalkeeper is tough; kids need good reflexes and can't be afraid of being in a scrum. Many kids don't like the position so those who volunteer play. Our first game made clear that enthusiasm is important but so is practice. From the sidelines the coaches shouted, "Use your hands!" "Run to the top of the box to punt the ball!" but the words dissipated before they could reach intended ears. We got scored on. A lot.

One goalkeeper tried to use his feet to knock the ball away allowing several goals in the last quarter. We lost the game and he was discouraged. At practice the following week I showed him how to field the ball with his hands then had him practice blocking shots from his teammates. He was catching on and seemed eager to do more. After practice I shared with his mother my belief that he would make an excellent keeper because wasn't afraid of the physical contact. I then demonstrated a drills she and her husband could practice with their son at home. 

At the next game the boy asked if he could play goalie so I put him in the second quarter. He made several saves scooping the ball as instructed. Fairly athletic, he could punt the ball to midfield without running to the top of the box. Clearly he had practiced on his own. He left the field happy. Working with children it is rarely obvious if our how we make a difference; it was that afternoon and I accepted it for the gift it was.

Mirror, Mirror Blog

My blog is mirroring my life. I have four posts waiting for final edit, one I started in June. If my draft blog posts are anything like the light fixture on my porch they will languish in darkness for another four years.

If they're like broken windows, I may get to them sooner. Today the repairmen replaced the glass my son claimed to have broken while sleepwalking in May.

Others are like the mums I bought from the elementary school plant sale. I attend to them immediately so they won't dry out, turn brown and die.

Thankfully words are more flexible than flowers and here I am writing a post for the first time in weeks. I will silence my compulsive editor and hit the Publish button before going to bed. The electrician, whose number has been on my task list since August, just may get a call tomorrow.

I'm Still Here…And Back to School

I'm still here and have survived another Back to School.

Last night as I prepared their lunch boxes the boys ran laps around the house, chasing each other, their yells and laughter smacking my husband and I like cresting waves. The enforcer in me wanted to shout, "Stop running through the house!" but earlier that afternoon they had behaved beautifully at a very grown up wedding. They deserved a pass. It was their last day of vacation and they were having fun.

Today they went back to school.  Among us there were several milestones - the eldest started middle school, the youngest kindergarten and I started a full-time empty house during school hours. No more preschool pick up or drop off or days with the youngest at home. The boys all walk to the same bus stop in the morning and return from same in the afternoon. I no longer drive anyone to school and my day can start at 9am. The result is that I effectively gain an hour every weekday. And the silence!

You would think I would have celebrated this freedom but, after a trip to the dentist, I spent the day cleaning the house. I wiped their footprints, fingerprints and, yes, boogers(!!) off the walls, erasing proof of their existence while thinking about how I'll miss the relaxed interactions of summer. It is easy to lose touch with them during the school year when I'm barking "Finish your homework!" and "We leave for karate in 10 minutes!" instead of listening. This summer I saw who they are and who they may become. In their absence I thought that as I shape and guide them we are partners practicing a long dance of letting go.

An Imaginary Interview with a Pepco Executive

Welcome to Satirical Spectator's NanoView, where what's important isn't always apparent. I would like to thank today's guest, PepExec, for taking a moment to speak with me about power restoration efforts in Montgomery County, MD after the June 29th derecho.


SS: What do you say to residents who are still without power?
PepExec: Buy a generator! <snort> Sorry. <clears throat> This was an unusually strong storm. We're having difficulty getting to equipment due to the number of downed trees. Could take months.
SS: Months?
PepExec: Mumps. Excessive heat causes mumps! So find a cooling center, check on the elderly and whatnot.
SS: Would you comment on how, because out of state utility crews are called in so frequently, they now qualify for Maryland residency?

PepExec: Montgomery County has so much to offer, and when our schools have power, they're the best in the nation. Residents moving to the area increase our tax base and, wait for it, shareholder profit! <beams> That was my idea. 

SS: So you're not working on reliability issues?
PepExec: What's more important, reliability or the economy? What do people without power do? Go to the movies! Go out to eat! Why, at Potbelly this weekend, they were so busy they told me what was no longer available before I placed my order. There's sure to be a run on tomatoes and helping American farmers is great PR.
SS: Your website states that you're working with the Maryland Public Service Commission to help the state meet energy reduction goals.

PepExec: Yes, we're proud of our efforts. And when our customers don't have power it's easy to meet our goals. We'd save even more energy if they'd stop calling. They'd feel cooler, too.

SS: Pepco received $68 million in federal stimulus grants to install Smart Meters on homes. If Smart Meters detect and report outages why were the outage maps so inaccurate? 

PepExec: Our grant writers are top notch! Not sure what a Smart Meter is but we've never seen a dollar  we didn't like. Are we done? My jet is waiting. <points at SS> Word, energy reduction!

In Dad's Kitchen

Dad and Mitzie in the kitchen. 2007

If I hadn't known about the tumor, I would have thought he had just returned from the Bahamas. The mottled brown skin, a side effect of chemotherapy, belonged to a polo-wearing executive not my father.

Protruding collarbones and sagging skin under his jaw were evidence of the thirty pounds he had lost since surgery. A diminished sense of taste ruined his appetite so meals were various flavors of Boost, a highly caloric protein drink. His mouth was persistently dry and he spoke with a slight slur, as though his tongue were thick.

I looked forward to summer visits with Dad. I would sit on a stool in the kitchen while he and my stepmother rinsed, chopped, and sautéed vegetables in tandem, deftly avoiding each other as they changed stations in the small space. Meals would cover the 3’ by 3’ island and the kids could choose what to put on their plates. Afterwards, dirty dishes disappeared in a blink. I gave no thought to what we would eat at Dad’s; they enjoyed cooking, there was always plenty to eat and it was always good. I had a front row seat at a cooking show.

This summer my stepmother was out of town on a previously scheduled trip. Dad spent most of his time in the living room watching MSNBC, drinking Boost and would retire early. The kids’ dirty drink glasses sat on the island where they’d left them hours earlier. As I loaded them into the dishwasher and searched for detergent I thought how unnatural it felt to clean up, as if my dad and stepmother didn’t exist.

Years earlier, after my parents’ divorce, visits with Dad meant eating homemade lasagna instead of Campbell's Bean with Bacon soup. As I rummaged through his refrigerator and cabinets it dawned on me that the preparation and enjoyment of food was how we connected; it was an expression of love.

Conversation came easily when he cooked. We talked politics and he shared stories from his firefighting days. When asked about his childhood and deceased parents he shared that his maternal grandfather operated a fishery in the early 20^th century. He told the story of how his father, as a member of the Canadian Expeditionary Force during WWI, earned medals for bravery and showed them to the boys. Dad was a natural storyteller.

My boys have come to expect things when they visit their grandpa- fireworks on the patio, playing baseball and soccer in the large yard and hitting golf balls off the neighbor’s tee onto the flats of the Black River. When Dad whipped up a batch of Jiffy Mix waffles, the boys cheered, and breakfast at Grandpa Eddie’s was confirmed as part of our summer visit tradition. For me, it was an appreciated sliver of normalcy.

Dad is on the mend and I’m grateful. His positive attitude enables him to take the cancer in stride. The tumor is gone but so is a cherished part of our relationship. My hope is that it is temporary.

The Sears Roebuck Diaries: Teen Employment Adventures in the Infants Department

Infants Department

Installment 2

The ubiquitous onesie was one of the most popular items in the infants department. At sixteen I had no experience with babies but I quickly learned that the bottom snaps on onesies were like an oxygen tank to a scuba diver.

Customers constantly opened the packages to see how big the products were. Didn’t matter if the same brand, same size was already on the floor under the rack. Upon seeing the shiny three pack, customers reached and ripped. Every night I would fold, roll and cram the onesies into what was left of their packaging. I replaced them on their hooks where they would hang for months, distressed like Courderoy, their chances of a Lisa taking them home slim-to-none.

The other most popular item was cribs. Sears had several on display and customers went down the row giving each a violent shake. Then, with the same false confidence displayed by tire kickers in a used car lot, they would pronounce the cribs too rickety.

I would think, ‘Wow! You're right. No one’s ever done that before!’ but I would roll up my sarcastic tongue, unfurl my graciousness and say, “A lot of customers come through here and shake the cribs. A new one out of the box would be sturdier.”

Though I assured customers I didn’t work on commission, I was still eyed with mistrust. That is until I demonstrated the foot release bar on the drop-side cribs. "Ooohhh!" They would nod, marvel at the convenience and then ask about other features.

Then there was the day I wore a Winnie the Pooh mascot costume as part of a store event. The costume was designed for a person six inches taller than me and, with its wool fabric, was a portable sauna. On my 5’4” frame Winnie's legs rippled like ribbon candy. The cavernous headpiece gave me tunnel vision so the assistant manager led Stumpy the Pooh through the store and discreetly indicated the direction in which I was to kindly gesture to customers because I wasn’t allowed to speak. If you know me then you can imagine just how difficult it was to keep my mouth shut for seven hours. The only other times I’ve accomplished this I was asleep.

The Sears Roebuck Diaries: Teen Employment Adventures

The Boys Department

Installment 1

For the past several years I've read in the news that teenagers are finding it hard to compete for summer jobs (I'd cite sources but have yet to read an article in the Washington Post and then find it online). This got me thinking, in a David Sedaris sort of way, about my work experiences as a teen. Did tending french fry baskets at McDonald's and wiping facial oil off telephone earpieces in office buildings render me employable?

Like most teenagers I knew I left babysitting behind to work at the mall.  Using stringent selection criteria I chose Livonia Mall because it contained the soft pretzel stand I loved to visit when shopping with my mom as a little girl. Sears was an anchor store there and I landed a job working between nine and 12 hours a week in the children's department. I met people from all walks of life, some of whom I was relieved to see keep on walking.

In the 80’s Back to School sales started in August, not June, so customers arrived in a blitz. The navy blue pants popular with parochial school boys sold out in a flash. Sears never ordered more so the shelves remained barren for weeks. It was the moms who worked out to Jane Fonda who emerged from the racks victoriously clutching the last pairs of Toughskins. 

One mommy-come-lately was apoplectic. She accused me of hiding inventory in the stock room for the benefit of friends and family. Yes, lady, my minimum wage job at Sears was a front for a more lucrative black market parochial school uniform business. Why else would I tolerate a job where little boys use the fitting room as a urinal?

I spent most of my time on the floor rehanging and refolding clothes, but I also worked the CAC, or Central Aisle Cashier, station.  As the name suggests, we stood corralled in the middle of the department, a beacon for customers in need of therapists. Working the register was easy, so long as merchandise had tags and customers didn’t pay with Mastercard or Visa. 

“What? You only accept cash, Discover and American Express? Are you serious?”
“Sears owns Discover. It’s the only card to give you cash back. And my name’s not Serious.”

I tried to be sympathetic but the lines could get long, especially at Christmas.  Some nights I wouldn’t get home until 10pm with homework still looming. Like a member of the proletariat, I regurgitated the Roebuck line and daydreamed about easier ways to earn spending money. May I help the next customer in line?

Next installment – Infants Department

A Child's Gift

I prefer the signs of affection my family shows throughout the year to Hallmark holidays like Valentine's and Mother's Day.  The sentiments are given freely and more meaningful than cards.  This Mother's Day, though, was different.

My third son woke me up Saturday morning to give me his gift.  Whether he didn't know the holiday was Sunday or couldn't wait that long, it didn't matter.  He was ready to share his hand painted tile.  It came wrapped in tissue paper with the inscription, 'You're the best mommy ever'.

"I used every color available," he said proudly.  It was a nice way to wake up.

When Sunday came it didn't seem like a holiday.  It was business as usual - Sunday school, a birthday party and a baseball game.  I was exhausted and limped along, barely functioning.  So it was Monday when I returned to my desk and saw the pile of unopened affection the boys had given to me after school on Friday with the admonition I had to wait until Mother's Day.

I opened the cards one by one.  When I came to my second son's I stopped.  He had written a poem:

Untitled

My mom is like a highlighter

Who highlights all the good things on a bad day

Her marker never runs out of ink

And she listens to every thing I say!

My mom is like a bird

Who soars above the clouds

She lets me stay outside 'til six

Then go back inside the house.

My mom is like a flower

Whose petals never drop

Then another flower blooms

Now her love for me won't stop!

I was moved by the genuine expression of love, impressed by his use of metaphor and proud of a propensity for writing I didn't know he had.  He had given me the best gift of all - the recognition that children and their affection are gifts in their own right. 

A Chuck E Cheesey Mother's Day

Just last week I told a friend how fortunate I'd been to have attended only two birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese these past 11 years.  I jinxed myself.


The envelope was sitting in my son's cubby at preschool.  Pleased that one of his classmates thought to invite him, I opened the envelope containing a one-two punch.  A party.  On Mother's Day.  At Chuck E. Cheese.  


Tinkerbell looked up at me from her glittery purple flower perch.  "You wouldn't decline, would you?"  Ugh.  Fairies are supposed to make wishes come true not deliver guilt trips. 
  
My son will be thrilled to go, I thought.  Arcade games, pizza, cake and neon colored candy are a kid's dream.  In a moment of insanity, or because I had recently read stories about kids birthday parties where no one showed up, I replied "yes."  I got punked by Tinkerbell.


Chuck E. Cheese parties are as much fun as going to the dentist.  They even offer the same cheap plastic toy prizes.  While I can't stand the place, I conceded the mom was smart to host the party outside of her home.  Who wants fossilized cheesestick nubs under their couch or to sweep up pulverized goldfish?  That soda spill?  The syrup will make the carpet fibers more durable because it's not your carpet.  The noise? With any luck your ears will ring long enough to mute the sounds of the guaranteed overstimulation-and-too-much-sugar meltdown.


After 45 minutes of Skee-ball and basketball I was ready to go but the pizza and cake had yet to be served.  Cursing myself for being punctual, I meandered over to the table where a couple parents sat.  Conversation, which normally comes easily for me, was stilted because I was tired and irritated.  They were lovely people, and meeting them was the best part of the afternoon.  I wish I could have been fully present.


At last the program began.  Our teenaged party hostess tried, but was unable, to look cool while leading a "Happy Birthday!" cheer competition between tables.  We were then greeted by the life-sized mouse, waving, high-fiving and thumbs-upping his way around wary four year olds. Videos of saccharine preteen actors riffing guitars blinked on the screen behind him.  Had Dante lived in the 21st century, this forced cheer would have been one of his seven levels of hell.


Two hours and cake later, we were sprung.  I am glad that my son had a good time with his friends but I will never again sacrifice Mother's Day.  And the next time the kids are invited to Chuck E. Cheese their father will have to take them because I'm now lactose intolerant.

End-of-School-o-Coaster

The end of the school year is a roller coaster.  In April I step into a car that cranks to the top of a steep hill.  I am overwhelmed by what lies ahead.

May starts the plunge.  I hurtle through field trips, final projects, volunteer duties, teacher appreciation week, school carnival, international night, choral concert, field day and thank you gifts.

As I accelerate, I grip the bar, plant my feet, and close my eyes.  The bottom of each drop is a chance to regroup, a few second respite to focus on the next hill.  Enjoy this, I think.  I do, a little, but the activities, scheduled so close together, have a concussive effect.  Oops, I missed the deadline for [insert sale/event here] and did I already write a check for that?  The coaster zips along, the wheels threatening derailment as they undulate on the track.

The effort required to keep up with four kids' school lives is titanic.  The amount of paper to process - reading logs, permission slips, and flyers for special events - is daunting.  Our elementary school has a terrific community in which the kids want to participate and for that, I'm grateful.  If we're in the amusement park, we may as well ride all the rides.

At the end of the week I say TGIF knowing that weekends with soccer, baseball and birthday parties require more scheduling than weekdays.  Without Outlook Calendar and carpools I would be a vampire in daylight.  


So I hang on until the second week of June when the school year ends as gently as it began.  I'll get off the coaster, catch my breath, and think that wasn't so bad.  Released from schedules, the kids and I will welcome summer vacation and its unscripted adventures.  

Getting Out the Door

There must be a Law of Physics that states the larger the family, the harder it is to get out the door.  Its corollary is that, no matter how early the family wakes up, it'll still run late.

My son had to be to church by 9:30am to make his First Holy Communion.  No sweat, I thought, we leave earlier than that on school days.  Besides, I had prepared for Saturday a little bit every day that week.  I bought sandwiches and potato salad at Costco, ordered the cake, and assembled the boys' dress clothes.  Everything was under control.

The first sign that they weren't came Friday evening.  "When is the cake going to be ready?" my husband wondered aloud.  Cake?  Oh, the one I was supposed to have picked up earlier that morning? I raced to the the bakery five minutes before it closed.  Crisis averted.

On Saturday I was up before the alarm.  Relishing the productive quiet that comes with being the first one awake, I ground coffee beans to start the life support machine.  Dishes that had dried overnight on the counter found cabinets and then I arranged sandwiches and strawberries on trays for lunch.

Party prep complete, I set a plate of breakfast pastries on the table.  The icing glistened in the sun, each glimmer a message.  Eat almond claw.  Drink coffee.  Read paper.  I was Dorothy in a field of poppies.

When I looked up the wall clock said 8:30.  Yikes!  I ran upstair to shower.  As I put on makeup, the youngest boy barged into the bathroom.

"Mom, where are my dress clothes?"
"Hanging in your closet."

"But that's too high for me," he whined.

He was right.  Why hadn't I put them on his dresser?  

The second oldest barged in along with his other younger brother.
"Mom, where are my clothes?" they asked.

"In your closet!" Didn't anyone get the memo?

"Mom, this coat's too small!" the oldest called out from his bedroom.  

Please, no, I thought to myself, I can't do anything about it now.  I finished getting dressed and went to assess the situation.  The coat was a bit tight but he didn't look like a dork. 

"Why don't you try on your brother's?" I offered.
"No!  I like this one," his brother refused.
 The coat would have to do.

"Mom, I can't find my dress shoes," called the second child.
"In your closet!" I sang.
"Where's my suit?" my husband asked.
"In the other closet," I responded through clenched teeth.

The bedroom clock said 9:05.  My heart sank.  We had 15 minutes to get there and I had yet to dry my hair.  In my head I saw a flight attendant demonstrating how to use an oxygen mask.  I had to finish getting ready.

A few minutes later I checked on the youngest.  My husband was helping him with his pants.  "Did you see these have stains?" he said.
"Here, wear these," I handed him a pair of khakis from the closet and ran downstairs to see about the others.

In the living room the boys were putting on socks and belts.  One of them wasn't wearing a tie.
"Doesn't one of you have another tie in a drawer somewhere?"  I asked as I ran back upstairs, bedroom to bedroom, dresser to dresser, shifting socks and underwear hoping to get lucky.  Nope.

Back in the living room the oldest was sitting on the couch, ready to go, with his belt cinched around his sport coat.
"The belt goes through the loops on your pants!"

The second oldest complained how uncomfortable it was to have his shirt tucked into his pants.  I could see that his pants were so tight that the pockets gaped. 

"Tuck in your shirt, not your sport coat."

Wow, these kids need to dress up more often.

Before we loaded into the van, I took pictures of the boys.  None of them had combed their hair, one was wearing sneakers and another was minus a tie, but they looked handsome.  We arrived at the church ten minutes behind schedule but in time for the First Communicant to take pictures with friends.

The boys were well behaved during Mass and the party was lovely.  I couldn't have asked for better.  Getting out the door was the hardest part.

The Tiger in My Basement

Meeting the Washington Capitals players reminded me of the first time I asked a professional athlete for an autograph.  My dad tended bar at Porter Street Station during the late '70s and early '80s, a club known for Disco Night Fridays.  Located a few blocks from Tiger Stadium in downtown Detroit, Porter Street was popular with Tiger players, who would sneak in the back door to avoid the crowds.


One afternoon while running errands, Dad and I stopped in.  "Come with me," he beckoned and we approached a table where two men were eating lunch.  "This is my daughter, Heather."  I sucked the room's oxygen into my lungs with a gasp.  It was pitcher Dave Rozema and right fielder Kirk Gibson!  "Can I have your autograph?" I squeaked, unable to exhale.  Amused by my embarrassment, Gibson and Rozema signed drink coasters.  I felt both victorious and idiotic.


I had been playing softball for close to 10 years.  Other than pitcher and first base, I could play any position, but my favorite was catcher because I had an enormous crush on Lance Parrish. 

Autographed poster of
Detroit Tigers Catcher Lance Parrish

I came close to pummeling a teammate when she grabbed the #13 jersey before I could.  Head and shoulders sagging over the loss of an intangible source of strength, I reached for the next shirt on the pile, #9.  My coach leaned in and remarked, "You know, that was Al Kaline's number."  Ha!  Did you hear that, Number Stealer?  I got a Hall-of-Famer!  I wore nine the remainder of my softball days.  Lance would understand.


In the end I got my man.  For my 13th birthday Dad gave me a framed autographed poster of Lance standing next to a Bengal Tiger, the words "Tigerrr Catcher" along the bottom.  My heart fluttered when I read the inscription.   He signed it To Heather, My very best wishes!


Decades later Lance resides in my basement laundry room because I don't know where to hang him.  And because my husband hates it.  Whenever I considered moving him along (the poster, not my husband) I would remember why I loved baseball.  Ernie Harwell on the radio.  George Kell drawling to Al Kaline on TV, "Eeewwww, look out, Al!" when a ball would sail foul.  The Boys of Summer.  Sparky Anderson.  The 1984 World Series.


Those were good years with great memories.  Lance, will you please pass the detergent?

Hooky for the Home Team

For some it's the college bowl games in January or the Superbowl in February.  For others, it's March Madness.   I look forward to late April, the end of hockey's regular season and the start of the Stanley Cup Playoffs.

Playoff hockey is intense.  The play is so fast that I don't dare look away from the TV because I could miss a critical play.  The split-second shifts in momentum leave my heart racing long after the last siren sounds.  It's a rush.


This time of year my husband resigns himself to eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and ramen noodles for dinner.  Our bathrooms may be dirtier than a truck stop's, but I do fold the laundry, and then only because I can do it in front of the TV.  He learned the game to watch it with me otherwise he'd be a lonely man.

So, there we were last night, the entire family watching the Capitals play the NY Rangers.  Bedtime had come and gone.  The youngest child lie on the floor, fighting to stay awake.  When the Caps won in regulation, everyone cheered, and I hatched a plan I called the Red Surprise.

The next morning I said, "Wear red today."
"Why?" they asked in unison.
"If I told you it wouldn't be a surprise."

Later that morning I collected the kids from school and we drove to Kettler Capitals Iceplex to watch the Washington Capitals practice skate.

There was a respectable fan turnout but the rink was not as crowded as I had feared.  Having never purposely sought autographs, I spoke with several veteran "stalkers" who offered tips on where to approach players.  We found our post and waited.  Our patience was rewarded.

When the first player, Nick Backstrom, left the iceplex, the kids hung back.  Feeling their eyes on me, I approached him and asked if he would sign their Capitals hats.  He politely obliged.  They watched a tired Michael Neuvirth and John Erskine sign and became excited.  Then came Karl Alzner.  

It's difficult to recognize players without their uniforms, even more so when they sport traditional playoff beards and don't look like official photos.  After three trial runs the boys approached Karl on their own.  When one of them asked if he was John Carlson, he laughed and said, "No, I'm not that Carl," and then graciously posed for a photo.

The boys talked about it all the way back to school, where they shared their spontaneous adventure and autographs with classmates.  When we watch Game 3 tonight they'll look for their new heroes and cheer loudly.  Skipping school for a few hours was worth the memories made.

Ugly Winners, Ugly Parents

They're easy to spot.  Against league rules, they coach from the sidelines.  On the pitch they excoriate young referees until they're afraid to blow the whistle.  At Little League games they overrule the umpire's calls.  The whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of their rotors is a dissonant background noise.

  

Helicopter parents at two recent sporting events prompted a discussion about sportsmanship with my children.  When my son's soccer team lost 11-0 to a highly skilled team, they were demoralized.  I felt compelled to explain how poorly this reflected on the other team's coach and parents.  Humiliating others demonstrates a lack of integrity.

On the diamond helicopter parents called their players safe at first then proceeded to call out an opposing player because he ran out of the base path.  "Those are the rules!" an HP grandparent shouted.  If you're a stickler for rules then how about abiding by league's guidelines for spectator behavior?

When parents expect their children to win at all cost, they imbue them with a sense of entitlement and lack of empathy.  It's outrageous not to give an eight year old a break when his opponents are ahead by more than six runs.

I'm not raising crybabies.  Losing fosters the desire to win and makes kids more resilient.  When their best effort isn't good enough they focus on what to do to improve.  Failure helps them appreciate success.  Losing is hard but doesn't have to be ugly. 

Helicopter parents will continue to be an unsavory part of my children's athletic life but, going forward, when my kids see them I want them to think, "When I grow up, I'll be better than that."


I dig teachable moments.

I Remember Freedom

In the car

at the US-Canadian border.

Three questions: 

What’s your citizenship?

What’s your business?

Do you have anything to declare?

Three answers:

US.

Going out to dinner.

No.

I cross the Ambassador Bridge.

At the airport gate

my husband presents the attendant

with tickets for the unused legs 

of his brother’s two round trip fares.

No questions.

He flies to Iowa.

  

Anachronistic airport metal detectors.

Nail clippers are personal hygiene implements.

Passengers with hard-to-pronounce names 

receive sincere apologies

not indefinite detention

and interrogation.